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toward the house. "Where else would I go?"
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Chapter 4

     
    "Gone? She can't be gone!" But, of course, she was.
    "I have searched the house and grounds, my lord," Cadwell answered.
    "Search again," Martin ordered. He knew it was futile, though he tried to tell himself that it couldn't be.
    It had taken no more than five minutes to go into his study, write out an answer, seal it, and entrust it to the messenger he found waiting in the front hall. When he rushed back out to the garden, she was not there. He'd searched the grounds and every room in the house, then called for Cadwell.
They'd made separate sweeps of every nook and cranny before meeting back in the study. Cadwell hurried to carry out the useless order to search yet again, and Martin found himself staring at the top of his desk, his heart clutched in a grip of iron.
    Five minutes, possibly less, and Abigail used that small space of time to walk out of the garden, out of the house, and out of his life. Or so she no doubt thought. He smiled mirthlessly. He hadn't thought she'd make it easy for him, but he had hoped—
    That all he had to do was walk in and proclaim his undying devotion and she'd swoon with love and, yes, gratitude, at the offer of his hand. His smirk was a bit less mirthless as he admitted that deep down—barely under the surface, actually—he'd believed such arrogant tripe. When he'd awakened to the revelation of how he felt and what he must do, the vision of lifelong happiness with Abigail as his wife had been crystal clear. That clarity was a bit faded now, obscured by Abigail's arguments and actions. No, it was blocked by her stubborn adherence to class differences and the conventions of society!
    "Maybe I should have tried seducing her, then talking to her," he muttered. No, that would have been unworthy—pleasurable, but unworthy. He was going to do right by this woman. He pounded his fist on the desktop. "Whether she wants to be done right by or not."
    Martin climbed the stairs to the second floor, to the rooms that were Abigail's domain. There was the schoolroom, a cozy place with pale green walls, a deep window seat surrounded by lace curtains, cupboards and shelves, and a worktable and chairs set in front of a white-tiled fireplace. He had spent much happy time there with his daughter and her governess, and in similar rooms wherever his diplomatic assignments took them. Evenings spent reading to each other before the fire had been the best, with Patricia on his lap and Abigail nearby. They had made the most domestic of trios. There was no reason in the world that they could not go on, with the added blessing that he and Abigail would no longer go their separate ways once Patricia was tucked in her bed. And soon there would be other children filling the nursery and playing in the schoolroom.
    He crossed his arms and slowly turned full circle around the room, made even more cheerful and bright by the rays of afternoon sunlight streaming in the wide window.
Oh, no, my dear
    Miss Perry. There is no way I'm letting you cheat us out of a richly deserved happily-ever-after.
    He had no right to be angry with her—at least very little right. The truth was, the evenings the three of them spent together ended early. More often than not he was out of the house soon after Patricia's bedtime, off to balls, parties, gaming halls, the opera, or some other frivolous entertainment. Always there was an assignation with the mistress of the moment, or a new conquest to be made. He was rarely home before dawn. He understood how Abigail might be wary of him as husband material.
    But what about all the times we have spent together? The laughter and conversations shared on shipboard and in coaches and trains, during all our travels? What about all the conversations over quiet meals and chess matches? What about the time we were stranded at the inn in Switzerland during the week-long blizzard and we passed the time learning the local outdoor sports? What