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Temperance tilted her head, a small, maddening smile playing at the corner of her lips, though a fierce fire burned in her eyes.

"Yes, I do," she corrected him, her voice smooth and steady. "Or have you forgotten? I am still your wife."

Chapter Two

Iwish," Sutton scoffed, his long fingers running through his flaming red hair.

Temperance flinched at the harshness in his voice.

He wished he had forgotten her? That thought hurt more than she cared to admit, especially when she herself had spent every waking moment thinking of him.

And he had made it abundantly clear over the past three years, happily ignoring her existence.

Of course, their initial rift had been her fault.

Temperance understood that. She took responsibility for her actions; she had explained herself on their wedding night, and later in her letters, not that it had mattered. He seemed as furious with her today as on the day of her foolish, intemperate, impulsive action that had cost her a happy marriage.

There was a time she thought he'd forgiven her. But it seemed he had been playing with her all along, just to leave her feeling foolish and completely alone.

She supposed that was what he had felt the night of that cursed ball. She remembered it like it was yesterday, her hands in Daniel's—her childhood love—her words, "I will never love anyone the way I love you."

Temperance swallowed hard.

And Sutton had overheard it. That was the night before their wedding. Seven years ago.

And seven years ago today, she had become his wife.

Did Sutton even remember? Or did he prefer to forget?

Surely it was time to let go.

Not that she had control over her husband's actions or feelings.

The only thing she could control was her own conduct from now on.

She was tired of exile and determined to shape this marriage into a semblance of the family she had never had and once wished she could have.

"What are you doing here?" Sutton asked. "I assumed that when you grew bored of Sutton Hall you would go back to gallivanting through the Continent, announcing to the world that Lord Sutton could not keep his wife in his home for more than a fortnight."

She looked at her husband's harsh features, searching for the bright-eyed, carefree, and easygoing young man she had married.

He was in there somewhere. The flame-red hair was the same, and the eyes, that summer-sky blue, had not changed. But the boy who had laughed so easily, who had made her feel like the only person in a crowded room, had been replaced by a stranger with a hard mouth, a close-cropped beard, sharp, chiseled cheekbones, and a clenched jaw.

He was still handsome. The beard made him look years older than the boy she had married and, quite unfairly, that much more handsome.

Though if he smiled, and showed that little dimple in his left cheek that she adored, he would look even more appealing.

She craved to hear him laugh. He used to have an infectious laugh.

She doubted she'd hear it anytime soon. The dimple, most likely, would remain hidden as well.

She'd have to settle for hearing his velvety-smooth voice that had only deepened over the years.

"I understand that you're upset—" she started softly.

"Oh, do you now?" He sneered.

"I do. I've made mistakes; I am not denying that. But so have you."