“What did you say?” Scarlett whispered.

“Owen is in London,” Felicity repeated. “I saw him yesterday. In Hyde Park. It was from a distance, but I am sure it was him.”

“That… that is impossible.” Despite the chilled air a thin line of perspiration formed at the nape of her neck and began to trickle down between her shoulder blades. Inside her chest her heart had gone frantic at the mere mention of Owen’s name and was pounding against her ribcage so hard she could hear the echo of it in her ears like a drum. “Owen despises London. He would never come here.”

“Well he did.”

“You must have been mistaken.” A short blonde curl whipped across Scarlett’s cheek as she shook her head from side to side. “It has been seven years. People change. They look different.”

Felicity hesitated. “I… I saw him two years ago. We met for tea.”

“You did what?” Scarlett’s yelp startled a pair of mourning doves who had been roosting. With an angry coo they flew out of the bushes and over the stone fence into the neighboring courtyard. “How could you not tell me?”

“We were not exactly on speaking terms,” Felicity pointed out.

“But it’s Owen. You know how much he meant” – means – “to me.”

“I thought I did.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “Then again, I also thought I meant something to you as well.”

Scarlett’s hand rose to her throat, the pad of her thumb brushing against her pulse. It was racing, which was only to be expected. Owen had always had a physical effect on her. The first time they’d kissed she had been surprised real sparks hadn’t filled the air.

“You have to tell me everything. Everything,” she elaborated. “But we cannot speak here. I can call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why?”

Scarlett would have thought it was obvious. After all, Felicity was the only person on earth who knew the full extent of her relationship with Owen. She had been there for every part of it. Mayhap not in person, but she’d certainly heard every detail down to the color of the buttons on Owen’s jacket. And when Scarlett had been wavering on whether to follow her head or her heart, it had been Felicity who had urged her to follow her heart.

If only she had listened…

“Because I need to know precisely what he told you two years ago and exactly where you saw him yesterday.”

“No,” Felicity said in a calm, measured tone. “I meant why should I tell you anything? We are no longer friends, Scarlett. We have not been for quite some time.”

Scarlett’s nostrils flared. “You say that as if I am the one at fault.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Unless I am mistaken, you were the one who was having an affair with my husband!”

Felicity did not flinch when Scarlett yelled. She had always been the calmer one between the two of them. The one more likely to consider her words she spoke. The one who was always thoughtful and kind. Which had only made her betrayal all the more hurtful.

“I told you about Owen because I thought you should know.” A cloud shifted overhead, releasing a stream of moonlight that illuminated the somber set of Felicity’s jaw. “I always thought… never mind.”

“You always thought what?” Scarlett demanded when she fell silent.

“I always thought you would have been happier with him.” Felicity’s gaze flicked down the length of Scarlett’s gown, lingering on the ruby bracelet wrapped around her wrist before returning to her face. “But I suppose other things were more important than true love.”

Scarlett sucked in a breath. Felicity may not have yelled or lost her temper, but her words – and the implication behind them – cut all the same. They sliced even deeper because they held a kernel of truth. She had picked Rodger over Owen because of the all the things he could give her that Owen could not. It wasn’t the only reason, but it was the one she was the least proud of.

“Rodger and I are very happy together.”

Felicity’s expression was vaguely pitying. “You may have fooled everyone else, but you cannot fool me, Scarlett. I know you too well for that.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Ezra will be looking for me. I should return inside.”

There were so many questions Scarlett wanted to ask her. What Owen had looked like. What he had been doing. If he had been with anyone else. But then it would have seemed as if she still cared about a boy she should have forgotten ages ago, and after having gone to such great lengths to pretend her life was precisely what she’d always wanted she couldn’t admit the truth, especially not to Felicity.

A sudden burst of wind swept through the courtyard, catching Scarlett off guard and sending her stumbling back into the tree. When she combed her hair out of her eyes and looked up, Felicity was gone.

 

The next evening found Scarlett curled up in her favorite spot: an oversized leather chair in front of the library fireplace. She had a glass of sherry within arm’s reach and a slender book of poetry open on her lap.

She had never been a voracious reader – she was far too impatient to sit still for the long periods of time a long book required – but nothing helped settle her mind quite like a well-written poem. There was just something about the way the words flowed together that soothed her soul. And after how difficult yesterday had been – the fight with Rodger, Eleanor’s underhandedness, seeing Felicity again – she needed a bit of soothing.

It was not often she was caught off guard, but Felicity’s revelation that Owen was in London had managed to do just that. Of course she did not know if he was really in town. Felicity could have easily been lying. But for what purpose? Scarlett drew the inside of her cheek between her teeth as she thought it over. There really was no reason for Felicity to lie. Not now. Not after so many years. But that raised the question of just what the devil Owen had been doing in Hyde Park.

He had always preferred the rolling hills of the countryside to the bustling streets of the city. It was but one of the many things they’d disagreed upon… and one of the reasons she’d doubted their future together. How could she run away with a man – although back then he’d been little more than a boy – who would deny her the social life she so desperately craved? If only she’d known how quickly she would grow weary of all the balls and the parties and the plays.

Oh, they were enjoyable for a time. And there was no denying how much she adored dressing up and going out and being seen. But she would have traded it all in a heartbeat if it meant she could see Owen again.

Maybe you can…

Her hand stilled on the page. Hyde Park was a short carriage ride from Grosvenor Square. If she went there tomorrow… but she was being silly. There was no reason Owen would still be there. No proof that he had ever been there at all. And on the exceptionally rare chance that he were, what on earth would she say to him?

‘Hello again, Owen. Terribly sorry I married someone else. Would you care for a walk around the pond?’

Her lips twitched. What a fine sight that would be. She did not even want to imagine his reaction. He wouldn’t yell – Owen never yelled – but he would give her that long, cool stare. The one that let her know he was furiously angry. Or maybe he wouldn’t look at her at all. Maybe he would simply walk away… and her heart would break all over again.

Better she stay away from the park for the foreseeable future. What good could come from dredging up the past? Especially when it would have no effect on her future. For even if she did see Owen again and by some miracle he actually forgave her, there was still the little matter of her being married to Rodger. 

“There you are. I’ve been searching the entire house for you.” 

As if magically summoned by the mere thought of his name, Rodger suddenly appeared in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder against it, firelight reflecting off the snifter of brandy he held in his right hand. He’d changed into a white nightshirt. The green silk banyan he wore over it gaped open at the chest to reveal a smattering of dusky gold hair. “What are you doing in here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said with a pointed glance down at her lap.

“I would have thought you’d be at the Havisham’s. Their ball is tonight, is it not?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell in an elegant shrug. Like Rodger she, too, had changed into her nighttime apparel and wore a sumptuous red velvet robe over a simple white nightdress. Her hair was pinned loosely back from her face and her cheeks were pink from sitting so close to the fire.  

“I decided to spend the evening at home. Alone,” she emphasized. Unfortunately Rodger was either too dense to take the hint, or he simply did not care. She was willing to bet her favorite pair of sapphire earrings it was the latter. “What do you want?” she sighed when he remained standing in the doorway. He tipped the snifter to his mouth and took a swig of brandy.

“Can a man not talk to his wife?”

Scarlett eyed her own glass of liquor, wishing she had possessed the foresight to fill it all the way to the top. “It depends on what you wish to discuss.”

“I came to apologize,” he said simply.

She bit back a sigh. “What have you gambled away this time?”

“You cannot make anything easy, can you? I came to apologize for the affair.”

Scarlett merely lifted a brow. “Which one?”

He cursed under his breath, and then out loud. “Has anyone ever told you what a bitch you can be?”

“Only my dear, darling husband. Are you foxed?” she asked suspiciously. “Is that why you’re here? Lest you’ve forgotten, this is the library. Your study is down the hall and to the left.”

“I know where my bloody study is!” he snapped, a vein bulging in his temple. He took a deep breath and another swallow of brandy. “It struck me last night when I saw her again that I never apologized for the affair with your friend.”

Scarlett’s mouth opened. Closed. She was so shocked that she couldn’t speak. To the best of her knowledge Rodger had never apologized for anything. To do so now, and to do so with a sliver of sincerity… it was nothing short of astonishing.

“You – you mean Felicity?” she managed to stutter.

“Yes.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I know I am not a perfect man, but that… what I did… it was beneath me. And I apologize for it.”

“I… Thank you?” she ventured, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing what else there was to say. Six years was a bloody long time to wait for an apology, but she supposed it was better late than never at all.

 “You’re welcome,” he muttered into his snifter.

“Is there anything else?” she asked when he remained in the doorway.

His head lifted. “Whatever you may think of me I am not a monster, Scarlett.”

“No,” she agreed, for it was true. Rodger was not a good man. That much was clear. But he also wasn’t a horrible one and truth be told she wasn’t exactly a saint herself. Even when they tried not to they managed to bring out the worst in one another. They always had and, she feared, they always would. “But let us not pretend your indiscretion with Felicity is the only wrong you have ever committed.”

“You’re right,” he said.

Carefully marking her page with a satin ribbon, Scarlett set the book of poems aside and leaned against the arm of the chair. “What are you doing here, Rodger?” she said earnestly. “What do you really want?”

He started to step towards her but changed his mind and remained in the doorway, one foot in the library and one foot out. It was a fitting analogy to how he was as a husband: sometimes committed, and sometimes not. Sometimes faithful, and sometimes not. Sometimes kind… and sometimes not.

This was not the first time he had shown a glimmer of decency, and Scarlett would not allow her hopes to rise. Rodger was who he was, just as she was who she was. They were two complete opposites who had allowed themselves to be fooled into thinking that if they did what they should then they would get what they wanted. For at the heart of it, wasn’t that why she had married him?

Not because she loved him. She never did. Not really. Not in the ways that counted.

Oh, she had loved the way he flirted with her and the extravagant gifts he bought her and how wise and worldly he had seemed. But that wasn’t love.

Yet another lesson she’d learned after it was already too late to do anything about it.

Ultimately, she and Rodger had gotten married for one reason: because it was expected of them.

It was as simple – and complicated – as that.

If only she had been less selfish and more self-aware! But at only sixteen the threat of being cut off from her family and the hardship of leaving everything and everyone she’d ever known behind had just been too overwhelming.

So she had chosen Rodger. She had chosen Rodger in the vain hope that what she felt for Owen would fade in time and she would be happy with the grand houses and the fancy carriages and the exciting social life that being married to a peer would provide her. And for a time she was happy. Until the disillusionment set in and she realized that no money on earth could purchase the only thing that really mattered.

Love.

“Rodger, what do you want?” she repeated when he continued to hover silently in the doorway, his shadow flickering across the bookcase on the far wall.

“Not this.” His brows drew together to form a deep V and for the first time Scarlett noticed just how many lines he’d accumulated.

Lines from scowling. Lines from throwing tantrums when he didn’t get his way. Lines from not enough sleep. Lines from living a life of dissatisfaction. For no matter how much wealth he accumulated or how many beautiful mistresses he lured into his bed he wasn’t happy. Neither one of them were. And for all of the sins they’d committed neither one of them deserved to be.

“This hatred. This vitriol between us.” He gestured towards her with his snifter before lifting it to his mouth and draining what little remained. “It serves no one.”

“You are right. It doesn’t.” Her fingers sank into the arm of her chair, nails making tiny crescent shaped indentations in the soft buttery leather. “But I see no other way. We made our bed a long time ago. There is nothing left to do but sleep in it.”

“We could always divorce.”

Scarlett smiled wryly. “And become social pariahs? I think not.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we? I suppose I could try not to lose my temper so often.”

It was a promise Rodger had made before. Sometimes he actually kept it for more than a day, sometimes not. Scarlett had learned a long time ago not to hold her breath. “That would be one place to start.” And because she was not completely blameless nor without a temper of her own she said, rather sheepishly, “I could try to do the same.”

“Are you going to bed soon?” For the first time he seemed to take note of her nightdress and satin robe. His gaze drifted to one slender calf she’d inadvertently exposed when she’d twisted in the chair. When he looked back up there was a dark gleam of lust in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in quite some time. It lifted the hairs on the nape of her neck, and not in a way that was pleasant. Fighting the urge to squirm she quickly pulled her nightdress down, tucking it beneath her heels to hold it in place.

“I am not certain,” she said evasively.

“We could go together,” he said with a suggestive lift of his brow.

Scarlett barely managed to contain her snort.

Did he truly think she was so easily manipulated? It would take more than apologizing for an old affair to make her forget about his current one. Scarlett knew she could not avoid her wifely duties forever, but she’d be damned if she would be relegated to the second act. A rather fitting analogy given his current mistress was a well-known actress with the Groenewald Theater Group.

“That depends,” she said with a coy tilt of her head.

“On what?” Rodger breathed.

“On if you are still a friend of Miss Deveraux’s.”

“And if I am?” he said, a note of belligerent challenge creeping into his tone.

Scarlett sat back in the leather chair and looked into the fireplace where the flames had died down to smoldering embers. A bit of soot had spilled out of the hearth and onto the rug, forming an ugly black stain not unlike the stain Scarlett felt on her heart. “Then I believe I will remain in the library a little longer.”

“Of course you will,” he sneered. “But a man cannot be faulted for his natural urges. If you do not meet them, then you force me to find someone who will.”

That was a quick truce, she thought bleakly. Bringing her knees up to her chest she continued to stare into the fire as a flicker of self-doubt crept into the back of her mind. Was Rodger right? Was his endless parade of mistresses somehow her fault?

Scarlett would be the first to admit that she’d never found the act of sleeping with her husband particularly pleasurable. The grunting and the sweat and the heavy weight of Rodger’s body pushing her down into the mattress while he panted into her ear had been something to endure rather than enjoy. But she had never complained. Never voiced her dissatisfaction. Never done much of anything, really, except lay there with her eyes closed and let him do what he wanted.

“Good night, Rodger.”

He left without replying, his angry footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Desperately craving the comfort of love from somewhere, even if it was trapped within the verses of a poem, Scarlett picked up her book, flipped to where she had placed the silk ribbon, and let herself imagine Tennyson’s beautiful words had been written just for her.