Her first week of marriage passed uneventfully. Each morning, Aurelia arrived ahead of Max to the dining table. She was usually sipping from a cup of steaming tea by the time he entered the room. Polite greetings were exchanged followed with intermittent conversation of only the most banal, meaningless subjects. Of course there was an undercurrent of tension that hummed as tight as a drawn bowstring. The eighth morning of her marriage began in much the same manner.
“Good morning,” he greeted.
“Good morning,” she returned, watching him over the rim of her cup as he seated himself. A servant stepped up and placed a plate before him as though by magic. She eyed his eggs and kippers. The same breakfast every day. He reached for the blackberry jam and began to liberally slather it on his toast. The same habit there as well. She was learning all his quirks.
It felt intimate, watching him go about his breakfast. This was his regimen, and now she was a part of it, eating her porridge with honey and sipping her tea across from him, trading pleasantries. Almost like husband and wife. Almost. But not quite.
They weren’t truly husband and wife. They were more like . . . housemates.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked into the silence of the room.
“Very,” she lied.
“The chamber . . . it is to your liking?”
“Quite so.”
“Because there are other chambers.”
Chambers that did not adjoin his. “It is fine.”
He nodded, sipping from his drink and meeting her eyes again.
“However . . .” Her voice faded.
“However?” he prodded, cocking one dark eyebrow.
“Would it be permissible if I made a few changes . . . minor renovations—”
It stuck in her throat to ask anything of him, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she could just take upon herself without first consulting him. There would be workmen and expenses. Mama would likely be in and out, voicing her considerable opinions.
“Of course. It’s your home now,” he replied quickly. “Do as you see fit. Whatever you want.” Almost too quickly. She narrowed her gaze on him. Was that relief in his voice?
He averted his eyes, and it dawned on her that he was glad she had asked this of him. A task to occupy herself and forget how less than satisfactory this marriage was for both of them.
A footman arrived holding a tray of correspondence. Max quickly went through them, plucking out one missive and then offering her the tray to browse through the remainder.
“What are these?” she asked.
“Invitations. I have no desire to attend any of them, but by all means, feel free to do so.”
Without him.
He really didn’t care if she went about Town without him. Heat slowly crept up her neck. She could just imagine the whispers and titters of those girls who had been so hateful toward her if her first appearance in Society as Lady Camden was without Max. The speculation would be vicious and as fast-moving as wildfire.
She swallowed against the thickness of her throat. They truly were going to lead separate lives. She attempted to look on the bright side. She would go where she wanted. She should have reveled in this freedom. Countless other wives would envy her situation.
So why did she feel so bleak? So alone?
She slid the tray closer and began flipping through the mail as a hollow sensation spread throughout her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured, focusing her tear-blurred eyes on the neatly penned script, keeping her head carefully bowed so he would not see she was affected. “I believe I will.”
The pattern was established.
A routine of actions and behavior that flowed in a comfortable rhythm. Inane chatter over breakfast, and then Max would depart, leaving Aurelia to her own devices.
He busied himself throughout the day—in his office, meeting with his man of affairs or investors, riding, walking, visiting his club. Essentially anything and everything that took him out of Aurelia’s sphere.
He rarely dined at home. His club was good enough for a tasty meal. Mornings, however, were the worst. He couldn’t run away entirely. Pride demanded he take his breakfast as he usually did. He insisted on sleeping in the comforting familiarity of his own bed, too.
Fleeing his home completely, eschewing his favored breakfast at his very own table, smacked of fear. Or cruel indifference to his wife. He could not have done any of those either.
The mornings were a torment. Seeing her, knowing she was his and yet not . . . that he could never think of her as belonging to him.
She watched him eat as she nibbled on her porridge and browsed his discarded invitations for any that might strike her interest.
She asked little of him aside from her request to redecorate. She didn’t know what he did with himself during the day or where he took himself to at night. She never once asked or seemed to care, and he never volunteered the information. To do so would establish one’s claim on the other, and they were quite careful never to cross that invisible line.
It was almost annoying. He’d been with other females who staked more of a claim on him—or attempted to, at any rate. Aurelia did not bother even making the attempt.
He sliced a kipper in half and considered her beneath his lashes. She paused over one invitation, biting her plump bottom lip. The action had him holding back a groan. Even without trying, she managed to entice him.
Max made quick work of finishing his breakfast. Wiping his mouth, he rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment.”
She looked up at him with those wide eyes of hers, watching him but said nothing as he turned away and strode from the room. He did not return again until the house was shrouded in shadowed silence. Even when he approached the door to her adjoining chamber later that night and pressed his ear to the heavy solidness, he heard nothing.