Seven Nights to Forever (6 page)

But there was nothing he could do to change his fate. The best he could do was bear it, and try not to allow the loneliness to get the better of him again.

Frowning at the clouds, he turned on his heel and left his bedchamber. Hopefully the rain would hold off. He didn’t relish the thought of arriving at his office soaked to the bone.

A bit of coffee and he could be on his way. Decker was likely fretting over his absence about now. James was usually seated behind his desk before eight, and it was already half past ten.

He tipped his head to the maid bustling toward the room at the other end of the corridor. The pale pink cambric morning dress in her arms did not escape his notice. He quickened his pace as he went down the stairs. He found the formal dining room empty save for an ivory pot and a matching cup and saucer at the head of the long mahogany table. The sideboard along the wall was bare except for the two silver candelabras stationed on each end. He never bothered the kitchen with breakfast. Just because he was eager to vacate the house did not mean Cook had to be sentenced to drag herself out of bed well before dawn to prepare a meal for him. It took little to see to a pot of coffee. Any servant could handle the task, and one need not even be fully awake.

He sat down and reached for the pot of coffee.

“I’ve alerted the kitchen to bring a fresh pot, Mr. Archer.”

Somehow he kept from giving a start. Damnation, his staff could move about without making a sound. He had thought himself alone.

A footman clad in dark green livery had materialized at his elbow. Hands clasped behind his back, the servant shifted his weight, worry etched in his features, as if bracing for a reprimand.

James couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the poor souls who labored under his roof. “There’s no need for such concern, Hiller. You are not to blame for my tardy appearance this morning. The fault lies with myself, therefore I am willing to bear the consequences.”

The worry eased a bit from the servant’s features, but it didn’t disappear completely. “The morning post has arrived. Would you care to take it now, or would you prefer to have it delivered to your office?”

“Might as well take it now and save you the ride to the docks.”

Hiller practically scurried from the room. The man reappeared a moment later bearing a silver tray.

James murmured his thanks and flicked through the stack, ignoring those addressed to Mr. and Mrs. James Archer. Judging by the crisp, white parchment, they were all invitations of some sort. Mixed in with the unwelcome reminders of the upcoming Season that was only two weeks away were a couple of obvious bills and a letter for him.

Miss Rebecca Archer was written in precise script in the upper left-hand corner above the address of his father’s Somerset country estate. He tucked the bills in his coat pocket and opened the letter.

A smile curved his mouth. He might be dreading the Season, but Rebecca certainly was not. Her excitement leapt from the page. If she showed up on his doorstep before the sixth, he would not be surprised. His father had spent years planning his only daughter’s debut into Society, but James did not doubt that his sweet, biddable sister could convince the old man that a slight alteration to his plan would be for the best. Nor did he doubt that her trunks, filled with the wardrobe she had commissioned two months ago when she had last been to Town, were already packed, just waiting to be loaded into the traveling carriage.

A young lady with her sights set on her first Season in London would be a force impossible to resist. A letter from him would be entirely unnecessary, but he would pen it all the same.

Hiller appeared once again at his elbow. “Your coffee, Mr. Archer.” Little wisps of steam rose from the rich, dark liquid as he poured a cup from the freshly brewed pot of coffee.

“Thank you, Hiller.” James took a sip. Hot, but not so hot as to render it undrinkable.
Perfect.
“And please alert the household that Miss Archer may be joining us before Tuesday.”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” he replied, tucking Rebecca’s letter in with the bills in his coat pocket.

With a short bow, Hiller left the dining room. James took a couple of moments to finish his coffee and then pushed from the table. Giving his coat a sharp tug to straighten it, he made his way to the front door.

He enjoyed spending time with his only sibling. He adored her and would do anything to see her happy. To place in her small hands the opportunity she longed to have. Even the sacrifice of his own happiness had not been too great a price. But having her as a guest meant he would need to maintain the façade of domestic tranquility not only at various ton functions, but in his own home as well. The thought wiped all semblance of a smile from his face.

His aging butler, Markus, shut the front door and set a vase of flowers on the narrow console table just inside the door. A beautiful riot of reds, yellows, and pinks that livened the austere entrance hall.

Markus gave him a nod and turned from the table, his footsteps a faint
click
on the pristine white marble floors. James couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the card nestled in with the blooms. It was addressed not to Mrs. James Archer but to Amelia Archer. An obvious gift from her latest lover.

His shoulders slumped. He was well aware the majority of aristocratic marriages involved infidelity. He and Amelia were two completely different people, forced together by the machinations of their fathers. Well, more accurately, his father’s machinations and her father’s need for funds to settle his massive debts. She certainly had not chosen him. He could not, in good conscience, begrudge her wish to find a spot of happiness, but hell, did she have to flaunt it so? It felt as though every lover was some sort of new victory over him. Yet another reminder he was completely at her whims.

Letting out a sigh, he tucked the card back into the flowers.

A soft rustle of fabric caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder to see his wife descending the grand staircase. Her gaze was on her lace fichu as she adjusted it above her bodice. The pale pink must not have met with her satisfaction, for she wore a green and white striped morning dress. The daughter of a viscount, her aristocratic blood was stamped in every feature from her narrow nose to her high cheekbones to the fine arch of her brows. Petite and slight of frame with guinea gold hair and large, light blue eyes, her beauty and breeding were to have garnered her a husband with a title and blood as pure as hers flowing through his veins. Instead, she had been forced to accept him. And she never passed up an opportunity to remind him of that unfortunate fact.

A delicate-slippered foot touched the marble floor when she looked up and stopped in her tracks. “You haven’t left yet?”

He ignored the hard bite in her tone, ignored her question. He pasted a pleasant expression on his face, the one he would soon be wearing to cover the truth of his marriage, and took a step back from the flowers. “Good morning, Amelia.”

She lifted a haughty brow and swept across the entrance hall.

She reached out an arm, her fingertips brushing a pink bloom. A smile of pure joy lit her face. Chin tipping down, her other hand fluttered up to cover the expanse of bare skin above the bodice of her dress. A slight flush warmed her pale cheeks. In that brief moment, she actually looked like the young woman of one and twenty that she was. Carefree. Happy. Without a single concern in her pretty little head.

Guilt stabbed into him. He could not change who he was or where he had come from, but he did wish matters had been different between them. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have tried harder with her to breach the damn chasm between them. He had not gone into this marriage with high hopes, but he at least had wanted some sort of amiable relationship. Surely that had not been asking for too much. Someone to spend an evening with in pleasant conversation. Someone to share his life with. Someone to give him a child he could call his own.

Those hopes had been dashed on his wedding night. Well, at their wedding breakfast, more accurately. With a polite smile on her face for all the guests to see, she had hissed at him under her breath,
You are not welcome in my bed.

“Langholm is such a dear fellow,” she said on a wistful sigh.

“Lord Albert Langholm, a son of the Marquis of Hallbrook.” As if she would invite a man into her bed who wasn’t like her. “So very generous with his affections.” She looked up to James, her features hardening, etched with the harsh, cruel edge of disdain. Her eyes were the exact same shade as Rose’s, a clear, pure light blue, but so very different. “You could take a lesson from him.”

He could not keep his brows from rising in shock. She now wanted flowers from him? He had tried that years ago, when they were first wed. Flowers, pretty baubles, jewelry. The flowers had promptly gone into the waste bin, the baubles chucked across the room and broken, the jewelry . . . that she had kept. If anything, the gifts had only made her loathe him all the more. And he was certainly more than generous with her—the woman didn’t have need of pin money like many other married women. She had full access to two of his bank accounts.

Refusing to be drawn into an argument, he tipped his head to the flowers. “Best have them put in the drawing room so your afternoon callers can be sufficiently impressed. Good day, Amelia.” He turned on his heel.

But the door did not close fast enough.

“Why won’t you die?”

Her vile words smacked his back. He couldn’t help but flinch. One would think he would be immune by now. The sting didn’t linger as it once had, but the initial smack still hurt. Radiating across his back and seeping into his chest. And after last night, the smack hurt much more than usual.

Those few hours with Rose had been a treasured respite. He would not trade them for anything. And he had not realized at the time just how much he had needed them. But they were also a blunt reminder he had indeed willingly condemned himself to a loveless marriage.

If not for Rebecca, he would never have agreed. Duty to one’s family held a certain responsibility, but simply his father’s ambitions to have a title in the family would not have been enough to convince him to tie himself to a woman who would never look upon him with anything but pure and unadulterated loathing.

It had been so difficult to relinquish that last bit of hope. To fully accept that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried or the kindness he showed her, she would never change her opinion of him. He was a commoner. Not a drop of aristocratic blood flowed in his veins. His wealth and his family’s wealth not born from the land but from trade.

A fact she would not and could not ever overlook.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and started up the street, doing his best to ignore the tug on his chest that begged him for something more.

ROSE
set the plate of raspberry tarts on the side table and settled on the settee. Bringing the ivory cup to her lips, she blew lightly over the surface and then took a sip. Rich and smooth, the hot chocolate flowed like velvet down her throat. Tarts and chocolate for breakfast. An indulgence indeed. But if she had to be here for a week, then she might as well avail herself of the amenities.

Rubicon certainly did not force her employees to reside in squalor. Far from it. The house belonged in the West End with its neat rows of stately town homes dotted with the occasional mansion. But the luxurious surroundings just made her feel like a pet in a gilded cage, waiting to perform for the evening’s guest.

But last night’s guest had not wanted a performance. A smile stole across her lips. She took a moment, just a moment, to savor the memory. Of James, so solid and strong, yet so . . . achingly lonely. And the way he had held her . . . never before had a man made her feel so safe and so needed. Not needed for the pleasure she could offer him, but simply needed for herself.

To have such a man, to be able to call him her own . . .

An ache pulsed to life, one she had thought dead and buried long ago. Sharp and acute, it flared across her chest. Startled by the intensity, she squeezed her eyes shut, a wince crossing her brow.