Zachary slid down sideways onto the pillow. “You didn’t know that, huh?”
She was on her knees next to the sofa and slapped his cheek. “Zach.”
A bad premonition crawled up her spine. She smacked him again.
Zachary’s eyes slitted open, their depths unfocused. “At half price,” he said. “Half. Price. I don’t trust that fellow … too calculating. Mark me, he planned this through and through.”
Her gut clenched as his words began to make sense. A lonely roar filled her ears, like the howl of a storm over an empty plain, as the pieces of her life were pelting down around her all over again.
Chapter 15
Outside her bedchamber windows at Lucian’s house, the black silhouettes of London’s chimneys pointed at the crimson sky, emitting curls of smoke like pistols that had just been fired. Nightfall was close. He would be here soon, and the churning, nauseous pressure in her belly increased with every heavy tick of the clock. But it had been impossible to stay in her childhood home, the place where her own father had betrayed her.
After sending Bailey away, she had switched on every lamp in the vast room and begun brushing out her hair in a futile attempt to soothe herself. The gaslight gave her reflection in the vanity table mirror a sickly yellow pallor, and she regarded herself with wretched amazement as she worked the brush. Had her face always looked so girlish, so soft? Was it any wonder people believed they could do with her as they pleased—such as pawning her off like a prize calf? This was still a common enough fate for women of her age and standing, but perhaps she had fancied herself exempt. Fatal vanity on her part. Her family deemed her entirely expendable. Well, not entirely—she was worth half price of a railroad investment. She gripped the brush handle tight enough to strain her bones. The wedding ring broke the light and winked at her, evilly, derisively. The white-gold symbol of her childhood dream was to be degraded to a permanent reminder of her stupidity, then. Her hair crackled and rose, and the coil of violent emotions in her stomach twisted and thickened. She gathered her locks over one shoulder and saw that her fingers were shaking.
The rap on the door slammed her heart against her ribs.
In the mirror, her eyes were huge.
She was still wearing her day dress, high-necked and thickly ruffled down the front. Better protection than a delicate nightgown, considering the confrontation to come. She forced a deep breath, and another. The knock had sounded on the door to the hallway, not the one to Lucian’s bedchamber.
“Enter.” It came out hoarse.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her husband, looking unfamiliarly polished in proper black-and-white dinner attire. A dinner invitation obtained courtesy of the Greenfield name? Acid welled from her stomach, nearly making her choke.
She had meant to face him on her feet, but she couldn’t rise from her chair; she sat staring straight ahead with her pulse racing away in her neck as he approached. He halted behind her. His hand hovered briefly, as if to caress her left shoulder, and she glimpsed the heavy gold band of his wedding ring. Unlike most men of her acquaintance, Lucian had decided to wear it beyond the wedding day. To gloat? She wondered if he saw a ticket to power whenever it caught his eye.
“Harriet, I—” She peeked at his reflection and found his dark brows pulled together in a frown. “I spoke harshly to you this morning.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and procured an ornate, oblong box. A case for a bracelet or necklace. He leaned over her to place it next to the collection of perfume flasks.
“Thank you.” Her hands remained tightly clasped in her lap.
He was too close, muddling her senses with his scent and the heat of his body. And untried as she was, she still recognized the look on his face in the mirror: a muted version of his expression when she had been naked and under him on the bed. Want. He was here because he wanted his wife, perhaps later tonight—and the pretty box on her table fulfilled his side of the bargain. She felt at once tense and soft, hot and cold. Had this day never happened, she might have wanted him back. She had felt an attraction whether she wished it or not. She had become familiar with the strong planes and angles of his face, and had secretly begun to find him handsome, which possibly sprung from the possessive notion that as her husband, he was hers in a unique way, and hers alone. Now the thought of his touch made her shiver with cold revulsion.
He noticed, and straightened, watching her intently now. “You went out today.”
“I did, yes.” She was breathing too fast.
“Without Carson.” His tone was calm, not unfriendly.