London, June 1822

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she looks at her reflection in the mirror and she doesn’t quite recognize herself. For Hannah Ludlum, Lady Beeston, that day was the day her husband shot her.

She clutched the cold heavy silvered mirror in her hand and stared into her tawny eyes. They were so different than they used to be. They’d once sparkled with youth and hope, but all she saw now was ten years of misery. Ten years of waiting, wanting, and hoping. She saw defeat. It stung far more than the bullet wound in her leg.

A tear eked out, and the fluttering of a sob accosted her lungs. She placed the mirror on her bedside table and lolled her head back against the pillows. What had she been thinking? Not just today. Of course it was foolish to run pell-mell across the field as her brother and husband were about to fire their pistols at one another. She'd been foolish long before then. One might have forgiven her after a year, but ten. Ten. How dare she hope for so long? What a waste of her precious time to spend it thinking one day, somehow, she might make her husband love her.

A bitter laugh bubbled up at the thought. Love. The only thing Beeston loved was an endless bottle of brandy and a lightskirt who would do…

Oh, blazes! She didn’t even know what it was he would want the doxy to do, for heaven’s sake. How about that? His own wife knew nothing about his preferences in the bedroom. After ten blasted years.

Her head began to swim, partly from her musings, but mostly from the heavy dose of laudanum the doctor had just administered. The pain in her leg had subsided quite a bit, but she grew sleepier by the moment. Which was why she was certain she was dreaming when Beeston himself walked through the door of her bedchamber. She was certain he’d disappear for a while after this morning’s events. But the fact he had the bollocks to show up here sent just a tiny ray of hope to her heart.

No. She wouldn’t dare. Not after last night, or this morning. She’d given him ten long years to prove that he wasn’t the cruelest of men, but he’d proved to her, in no uncertain terms, he was beyond redemption. As soon as she could keep her eyes open and form a coherent sentence she would tell him so.

Her eyes were so very heavy. His form swam toward her as if the entire room had filled with water.

“Hannah,” he whispered. She held her silence. “Hannah, are you sleeping, my darling?”

My darling?

“Dreaming,” she mumbled. There was no other explanation for his endearment.

“The doctor said you would sleep,” he continued. “But I had to see you. I had to make certain you were all right.”

His voice sounded far away, and so gentle. She thought of the night they’d met. She’d spotted him across the Holifields’ ballroom, but promptly lost him in the crowd, since he wasn’t terribly tall, and neither was she. Her romantic younger self held onto the vision of that handsome gentleman all evening, waiting to see his face again. Wondering why she’d never seen him before, and all manner of other thoughts that flit through a young woman’s head.

Warm sunlight kissed Hannah’s cheeks. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were so heavy, as if rocks lay upon them. Her mouth was dry. So dry. She shifted and a searing pain shot through her body.

“Hannah.” It was Beeston. She could feel him at her side. He must have moved over her, eclipsing the sunlight, stealing the warmth, as he’d done since the day they’d said I do. “Can I get you something? Water? More laudanum?”

“No,” she rasped. “No more.”

“Water, then?”

She nodded—or at least, she thought she had. She couldn’t be certain. Not until a moment later when Beeston lifted her head and pressed the edge of a glass against her lips. She drank, grateful for the cool wetness that filled her mouth and relieved her dry throat.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Beeston placed the glass on the bedside table and then took her hand in his. “What are you doing here?” Hannah couldn’t help but ask. It wasn’t like him to be so attentive. Or to be around at all, really.

“Helping you recover.” His voice wavered. “Are you in very much pain?”

Hannah managed a puff of laughter. “It feels as if Satan himself is stabbing his trident into my leg.” She finally pried her eyes open to see Beeston sitting beside her, his face contorted in a mixture of horror and despair.

When had he turned so very hideous? Ten years ago, he’d been the very picture of a dashing gentleman. Light brown hair sat in gentle waves above a strong brow. Clean shaven skin. Eyes that danced with light and amusement. He’d stood with confidence, and his clothing had hugged his muscular form just so, causing every woman in the ballroom to swoon over him, in spite of his reduced stature.

“Will you ever forgive me?” he asked. It was obvious he was choking back tears.

Hannah might have felt sorry for him if she didn’t find him so very pathetic. It wasn’t her most charitable thought, but she was done being charitable and forgiving toward him.

“For what?” she asked, feeling stronger now, thanks to the rush of anger that surged through her. “For shooting me? Or for bedding every woman in Town? Or for forcing me into a miserable existence for the last ten years? I ought to be clear on what I’m to forgive you for.”

If only an artist were there to capture the look upon Beeston’s face, his jaw slack, his eyes filled with shock that his meek little wife had finally spoken up for herself.

“I-I—”

“The answer is no,” she said, cutting him off before he attempted to come up with a pitiful excuse for his entire existence. “To everything. I do not forgive you. Not anymore.”

“But you’re my wife.” A bit of the Beeston she knew started to creep back in—tight jaw, flaring nostrils. But she’d not be afraid of him anymore.

“Exactly. And I’ve been more than wifely all these ten years. You, however, have gone about your life as if I don’t even exist.”

Beeston only stared at her, clearly at a loss for words. She’d run out of words, herself. What was left to say? He’d treated her poorly their entire marriage, and then he’d shot her. Whether by accident or not, he’d shot her nonetheless.

“I want a divorce,” she finally said, knowing full well that decision was not in her hands, nor would it ever be. If she were to obtain a divorce, it would have to be at Beeston’s request. He didn’t look terribly amenable to the idea.

“A divorce?” he practically roared. “How dare you? You carry my child.”

Oh, right. There was that. Not that she actually carried his child, but that she’d told him she did. Bugger. She’d have to come clean, which would further enrage him, but at least they were in her brother’s house. If Beeston attempted any bodily harm to her, someone would come rushing to her aid.

She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat. “I lied.” Best to state it as simply as possible.

Beeston’s eyes knit together in a frown. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was quiet, dangerous. It made Hannah’s hands tremble.

But she wouldn’t let him get the best of her. If she was ever going to stand up to him, this was the time to do it, while she was already injured and in a great deal of pain. How much more damage could he inflict? He could murder her, but part of Hannah wondered if that wouldn’t be preferable to a lifetime spent as his wife.

Hannah lolled her head back against the fluffy pillows, growing ever more weary. “I said, I lied. I was never enceinte. I only said that because…because…”

“Because why?” he roared, clearly impatient to know why she would do such a thing.

“Because I thought it would make you love me.” The words were out before she could stop them. They sounded so foolish when she spoke them aloud. What a silly fool she was. Beeston loved no one but himself, and an unborn child wouldn’t change that.

Tears tried to push their way from behind her eyelids, but she wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Not in front of him. She would suffer in silence, as she always had.

When she’d gained her composure, she dared to meet his eyes. He sat stone still, staring at her, his jaw set, his brow furrowed. Was he angry? Sad? She couldn’t tell. This man she’d been married to for ten long years was impossible for her to read. She knew nothing about him, save the rumors she’d heard of his dalliances and drunken nights at the seediest of London’s establishments. She knew the money she’d brought to the marriage was long gone, and there was little left in their coffers.

After an excruciatingly long moment, Beeston rose from his chair and walked silently to the door. Without another word, he quit the room.