It was too coincidental; the fact that this terrifying situation occurred, and that was when he had abandoned me. Some truly crazy part of my mind sometimes wondered if he somehow had something to do with it, but there was no evidence for that, and he would never do something like that anyway.
In fact, the old Malachi… if he knew… he would have been the first person to come to my aid in the aftermath of it. And that was something I had needed more than anything else.
But that’s not the man I married.
If the man I married knew what happened in the time preceding the old Malachi’s disappearance, he’d probably yawn and scroll on his tablet some more.
The man I married doesn’t just hate me. He doesn’t care at all.
The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference. And that’s what he feels now.
He feels nothing.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Maisely has a point. I’m in his world for the rest of my life, and nobody’s going to take care of me but me.
“Now,” Mrs. Maisely says, patting my leg as she stands up and clasps her hands at her waist. “You haven’t eaten much since you arrived, Madam. I’ll make you whatever you like for breakfast.”
I smile up at her. “How about French toast?”
She gives an assertive nod. “With extra powdered sugar for you.”
AT 6:15 THAT EVENING, Malachi and I are in the backseat of a swanky limousine, dressed to the nines like a couple of Hollywood movie stars. He’s wearing a sleek, black tux; pretty standard attire for a man in his position, but he still looks muy guapo—to the point that I would lick him like a lollipop if he were still the old Malachi. But he’s not, so instead I fully intend to fuck with him right in front of all of his cohorts tonight.
My outfit totally smacks of Mrs. Maisely trying to give him the finger. She pulled no punches when putting together my look for this evening. The scarlet gown she selected is long, sumptuous, and clings to my body in a way that it accentuates my figure without having to show too much skin. It’s floor-length and strapless, but the sweetheart neckline sits at an appropriate height to not reveal too much cleavage, while at the same time, the back scoops low to the center of my spine. She brought in a hair stylist and a make-up artist, and my thick, black hair is half-swept away from my face, but falls in a long cascade of fat curls down my back. Malachi issued me jewelry for the evening—a different ruby-and-diamond tiara than the one I wore for the wedding, and a matching collar-style statement necklace. As he insisted, my make-up conceals the bruising well enough, and it features smouldering smokey eyes, ruby red lipstick, and flawless contouring on my cheeks.
And it looks so pretty that I really hate that I’m going to have to ruin it before we get out of this limousine.
Malachi didn’t want anyone at this party-ball-dinner-whatever-the-hell-it-is to see my battered face, so I left the house with a mask of make-up just like he asked—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to keep it on for the rest of the night. I have the antidote hidden in my clutch purse, and I’m waiting for an appropriate time during the phone call he’s taking to break it out.
“Well, where did you last hear they were and when?” he snaps at the person on the other end. As he pauses to listen, I reach into the clutch hidden on the opposite side of my lap from him, clasp the small, single-packaged, make-up remover towelette, and then quickly, but quietly rip it open. I hold my hands low behind my hip and placidly stare forward as I unfold it, and then cut a glance at him.
Malachi has one elbow propped on the edge of the door, clutching his forehead with one hand while he holds the phone to his ear with the other. “That was four weeks ago. They could be anywhere at this point, so how do you know they didn’t get on a fucking plane to Europe already?”
I don’t know what he’s so tied up in knots about, but he’s really pissed off and distracted, and it’s the perfect opportunity to turn my face directly toward the window so I can start wiping off the make-up.
“I can’t issue a public announcement because I can’t risk causing a stir with my parents over this,” he snaps as I turn my face farther away from him, scrubbing the sore skin on my cheek. “If I did that, they would force me to annul this marriage, and I’d have to send her back to the States without me, and I can’t have that.”
My hand stills just as I’m wiping my forehead.
He’s talking about me.
What in the hell does all of this have to do with me, and who are the they he was just talking about?
Whatever it is, I still have to get this make-up off before we arrive, so I continue to wipe. I clean all of it off except for the lipstick and eye make-up, and then hide the towelette in my clutch before slipping out a small mirror to check how messed up it looks now. It’s dim in the car, but with the passing street lamps, I can see that it actually looks okay. I don’t look as glowing and sculpted as I did with the contouring, but my skin is in pretty good shape on its own—other than the horrific bruising, that is—and having the eye make-up and lipstick alone doesn’t look too out of place.
“Well, find out,” Malachi snaps just as I put everything away and clasp the small purse in my lap, staring out the window. “With as much money as I’m paying you, you should be able to sniff out better information than this.”
With that, he ends the call and shoves the phone in his inside jacket pocket.
“Something wrong?” I query, not looking at him.
“None of your goddamn business, Duchess,” he growls. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s facing his window, and good. He won’t see my now-clean face until it’s too late for him to do anything about it.
“Well, it sounds like you just said something about me, so that seems like it should be at least partially my business,” I retort, absently smoothing my hands over the bodice of my dress to ensure that my breasts are still perfectly in place. And as though he’s got some kind of hands-on-breasts radar, Malachi glances at me.
Well, not at me, at my chest.
He stares for a second before coughing and crossing his leg over his knee away from me. “What was that?”
I cut my eyes sideways at him. “I said, if you’re talking about me, it seems like it’s at least partially—”
“It’s not,” he clips, shifting in his seat again like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “If you need to be aware of something, I will inform you. Until then, do your best to remain deaf during my phone calls.”
I scoff. “You know, it’s a good thing you have no intention of consummating this marriage because that way you’ll have plenty of stamina to go fuck yourself.”
He sucks in a breath as if preparing to unleash a tirade of sharp words, but at that moment, the limo pulls up to the curb in front of a looming, stately, old building in the center of Gallarney, Corwick’s second largest city. A man approaches the door from the outside, and Malachi takes another breath, this time like he’s attempting to center himself.
He reaches for my hand and grips it. “Anything you do at this dinner will reflect equally upon you as it does on me. And the Corwick press is just as bad as it is in Britain, if not worse. Please behave yourself.”