Mary didn’t feel as if she’d slept at all. Yet the sound of the maid making up the fire and drawing back the curtains the next morning definitely woke her up, so she must have done.
She almost groaned at the thought of facing the day. If only she could pull the covers over her head and hide. Actually, she supposed she could. She could have a tray brought up here, to her room, rather than going downstairs and facing a deserted breakfast table.
While she waited for it to arrive, she heard the sound of hooves trotting past her window. Two sets of hooves. Just as usual. She clenched her fists. While she felt as if her world was coming to an end, her husband and his sister were going out riding. Without a care in the world.
Lord Havelock had exactly what he wanted. Julia was safely ensconced under his roof. Nobody would think it necessary to investigate her hasty removal from Lady Peverell’s care. He’d quashed the potential for rumours by marrying.
Yes, he’d got what he wanted, all right. And now she, his wife, was surplus to requirements. In every single way. He’d even made it plain she wouldn’t be of any help whatsoever when it came round to Julia’s Season.
And very well, it was true that Mary had never had a Season. Didn’t know anyone in society. And had no idea how to handle the bevy of suitors that Julia, with her wealth and vivacity, was bound to attract.
She supposed Julia would need someone like Lady Peverell, who had at least mingled with the kind of people Lord Havelock would consider eligible, to steer her through that rite of passage. But had it really been necessary for him to rub her nose in all her shortcomings like that?
She was already dealing with the knowledge she wasn’t of any practical use around the house any longer. Mrs Brownlow and her team had everything running like clockwork. Even when she consulted Mary about menus it only served to emphasise that Mrs Brownlow knew what were his lordship’s favourite dishes, and what was available locally, and who the best suppliers were. While Mary didn’t.
Making Mary fully aware how useless she really was.
He’d scarcely notice when she’d gone.
By the time a knock on the door heralded the arrival of a couple of maids bearing her breakfast, her insides were so churned up that the last thing she wanted to do was eat. Throw something, yes, that might have made her feel better. But since the man she wanted to aim the teapot at was probably halfway across the county by now, she couldn’t have the satisfaction.
Besides, it hadn’t been that long ago when she hadn’t known where the next meal might come from. She couldn’t squander perfectly good food without suffering a terrible backlash of guilt.
So she accepted the tray, let the maid pour her tea and set a slice of toast on her plate.
And in a cold, leaden voice, instructed one of them to pack her clothes.
‘Of course, my lady,’ said Susan cheerfully, going to the armoire and lifting down the shabby portmanteau. ‘His lordship has said as how you’d be going up to town to buy some new clothes for the Season.’
Oh, had he? Mary took a vicious bite of toast and chewed it thoroughly.
‘And I’m to go with you,’ she said, setting the portmanteau on the floor in front of the open cupboard. ‘Gilbey is preparing the coach,’ she added, reaching up for a gown and taking it off its hanger.
Mary’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. Gilbey was preparing the coach? ‘I’m that excited,’ babbled Susan as she draped the gown over the back of a chair. ‘I’ve never been further than Stoney Bottom in my life.’
Mary threw the toast back on to its plate, her stomach roiling. Her husband had given orders to all the servants to hasten her departure, had he? Couldn’t wait to get her out of his house and out of his life, in fact.
It felt like a blow to the gut. So real was her pain that she had to fling back the covers and hurry over to the washbasin, over which she heaved for a moment or two before sinking back on to the dressing-table stool, her face clammy with sweat.
‘Oh, my lady, are you ill? Shall I cancel the coach? You surely don’t want to go anywhere today, if you’re poorly.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I shall be fine in a moment.’ She wasn’t ill. Or at least it was only her husband’s rejection of her that was making her sick to her stomach. The nights spent weeping quietly into her pillow. The days spent sitting alone, feeling thoroughly useless.
And she wasn’t going to get any better by carrying on in the same way. No—the only way she was likely to find a cure was to get as far away from him as she could and lick her wounds in private.
‘Carry on with the packing, Susan.’
‘Yes, my lady, if you’re sure.’
Rather more soberly now, Susan folded and stowed Mary’s new clothes into her old portmanteau while Mary got washed and dressed. Rather shakily.
Her whole body hurt, not just her heart. How could she have let him reduce her to this shivering, quivering wreck of a woman?
Without even trying, that was the most galling thing. He hadn’t made any pretty speeches, or given her flowers, or anything. He’d just brusquely told her his requirements, more or less snapped his fingers, and she’d gone trotting after him, all eager to please. Had kept on trying to please him, day after day.
Even though she knew it was pointless.
Because she’d read that horrid list.
A list, she recalled on a mounting wave of bitterness, she’d had to fit, to pass muster. When she’d had to accept him exactly as he was.
Which was completely and totally unfair.
She came to a dead halt in the middle of the floor, pain and resentment surging through her.
If he could measure out her worth according to some stupid list, then why shouldn’t she treat him to a dose of his own medicine?
Uttering a growl of frustration, she stormed over to the table under the window where she’d taken to sitting to write her correspondence, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, trimmed her pen and stabbed it into the inkwell.
What I want from a husband, she wrote at the top of the page, underlining the I twice.
Need not have a penny to his name, she wrote first, recalling his stipulation that his bride need not have a dowry.
Can be plug-ugly, she wrote next, recalling how hurt she’d been by his stipulation she need not be pretty, so long as he will love his wife and treat her like a queen, not a scullery maid.
Said love will include respecting his wife, being kind to her and listening to her opinions.
Not only will he listen to her opinions, she wrote, underlining the word listen, he will consider them before he pitches her into a situation she would naturally shrink from.
Won’t deny his wife the right to feel like a bride on her wedding day.
Will appreciate having any living relatives—underlining the word any twice.
Need not have a title. But if he has one, it ought to be one he earned. One lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy, she explained, remembering her own brother’s heroic deeds and his death fighting the enemies of her country, is worth a dozen viscounts.
By that time, she’d reached the bottom of the page. And splattered as much ink over the writing desk as she’d scored into the paper.
And had realised what a futile exercise it was.
She wasn’t married to a plug-ugly man who treated her like a queen. She was married to a handsome, wealthy lord, who thought it was enough to let her spend his money however she wanted.
She flung the quill aside, got to her feet