Page 41

Inside was a stack of papers. The stack was so thick, and so wrinkled with the ink of many crossed out and rewritten lines of writing, that it sprang upward the moment he lifted the lid. The top page escaped. He bent to the floor to retrieve it. And as he straightened there was a noise behind him.

He turned—and found himself facing Pomona.

She was standing just a little inside the library door, wearing a pale muslin morning gown. Her hair looked damp, as though she’d put it up herself before it was completely dry. Her eyes were wide and her face was white.

“Darling,” he began—and then couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You—you promised.”

He was already sweating. “I… was looking for you.”

She took one step into the library. “You promised me. You promised me that you would give me privacy. You promised me that you would not interfere with my writing.” She took a shaky breath. “You—you said that a gentleman would never look at anyone’s private papers.”

He couldn't bear to see the expression on her face—the betrayal, the hurt… the sadness. He must think of something to tell her. Only there wasn’t anything. At least, there wasn’t anything that wasn’t a lie.

“You were snooping. You are looking at my work. It is right there in your hand. I can see it.”

“No, I…” His brain seemed frozen. “All I meant to do was… It was merest chance. I did not mean…”

“Chance?” She stared at him. “What can you mean by that?”

“Well, I…” He cleared his throat. “I came to find you. To ask you if you had given any thought to traveling onward from Venice. And then…”

She waited. “And then?”

And then he made a mistake. He decided to behave as though he was the wronged party. “I must say, Pomona, that you are being very dramatic over a… a mere nothing. It was an idle gesture! But since you seem determined to make a scene, I must say that I find it odd and… and inappropriate that you are so protective over a writing desk.”

“Dramatic?” She stared at him. “Inappropriate?”

“It is not normal, surely, for a wife to have so many secrets from her husband! I have been forbearing. But now, with…” He didn’t want to admit that it was what Townley had said that had driven him to snoop. “Well, you must admit that the amount of time you spend alone in here is… odd.”

“Oh.” She nodded slowly, as though she were humoring a child, but her eyes were blazing. “I see. Well, I ought to have known that if there is one thing that you are good at, Gabriel West, it is making promises that you have no intention of keeping.”

Her words seemed to strike him in the center of his chest like a blow. “Pomona, I did not…”

“I asked you for one promise. One. And now you are looking for excuses as to why you need not honor it. You have decided, apparently, that I spend too much time working on my own. And that a wife should have no secrets from her husband. You are even congratulating yourself on how—what was the word you used? —forbearing you have managed to be thus far.”

She stepped past him, picked up the heavy writing desk and cradled it protectively in her arms. “Thank you for this conversation. It has been most enlightening. Please.” She held out her hand.

He glanced down and realized that he was still holding the stray page that had fallen to the floor. Silently, he held it out. She took it.

And yet, somehow he still couldn’t seem to admit that he’d been wrong. “I am well within my rights to be concerned about what you are doing. Particularly when people have commented on it.”

“‘People?’ What people? Who could possibly know or care that I am working quietly and minding my own business?”

“That is not important.”

“I see.” She was clasping the writing desk so tightly that her knuckles were white. “So the opinions of these anonymous people are worth more than keeping your word to your wife.”

Strands of her hair had come unpinned and were waving about the nape of her neck. He had the desperate thought that if only he could kiss her he could patch this up. He could pull her to him and unpin the rest of her hair… and show her how he really felt.

“All I am saying is that…” What was he saying, anyway? “Will you give me your word that you are not doing anything that could cause scandal?”

“Scandal! I can cause a scandal merely by existing. Ask Mr. Townley.”

Something in his face must have given him away. She stared at him. “Oh. I see. Of course. Townley. Now it begins to make sense. You met with Townley. And you listened to him. You know what he is. And yet you still believed him, and not me.”

“No, I… I merely became concerned because I… He implied that you are doing something that…”