But she couldn’t resist any longer.
Her touch brought him back to her. Augustine gazed into her eyes, then closed his, leaning his forehead against hers. His skin was warm.
“I should go see Mrs. Luthbright about the menu,” he murmured.
He was right, but the thought of him leaving again conjured up anger in her breast. Just another few minutes, alone. Couldn’t they have that? Long enough for them to sort out where they stood now that she wore his ring, long enough for her to untangle the snarl of emotions and desires that writhed inside her.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
“Jane?” He pulled back, eyes open once more. He searched her face for some explanation.
She was too embarrassed to put it into words. “There is one last part to today’s wedding,” she blurted instead. “That is … if you’re not going to come back with me to the surgery—”
“I can’t,” he said.
“If you’re not,” she continued, “then perhaps we should take the opportunity now to consummate the marriage.”
Silence. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze.
“Consummate the marriage,” he repeated at last, and she expected frustration, perhaps even anger. And then he laughed, a breathy little thing. He folded his arms around her. His embrace was light, easy to escape from. Tentative.
She stepped closer, heart stuttering. Her hands settled against his chest.
His next exhale ghosted over her lips. “So romantic, Mrs. Lawrence.”
“I’m a businesswoman above all else, Dr. Lawrence,” she countered, unsure if he was teasing or not. “What was it you said? Consummated on mutually beneficial terms?”
Augustine pulled back a fraction of an inch, a stunned but pleased expression on his face. “You memorized that?”
“It was hard not to.” She cringed, fingers curling lightly into her waistcoat. “I’ve thought of it—often.”
“As have I,” he confessed, voice dropping to a husky note. His throat worked, and his thumb stroked her cheek.
Her toes curled in her shoes, unbidden, and the urge to kiss him returned, nearly overwhelming her. But she still resisted. She had pushed them too far ahead once more. They should discuss this properly, at a safe distance—if they both were comfortable, truly comfortable, with this change to their plans.
And yet she could only resist so much. She did not kiss him, no, but she whispered, “Will you have me?”
A knock cut off any response.
He pulled away, smoothing out the rumpled front of his waistcoat. “Yes?” His cheeks were stained as red as hers felt.
“Pardon the interruption, Doctor, but Mrs. Luthbright has asked for you downstairs.”
Augustine shot Jane an apologetic look. She shrugged. What excuse could they offer?
None at all. Augustine touched her hand briefly, then went to the door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JANE LINGERED IN the study for over half an hour, hoping Augustine would return to her, but it was the maid who came to fetch her.
She followed Mrs. Purl down to the dining room, where Augustine greeted her with a faint smile. He pulled her seat out for her, and she sat, gazing up at him. But shutters had closed across his features. The openness from before was gone, and she realized, when Mrs. Luthbright entered with the first course, that they had an audience. When he commented on the weather, and the likelihood of an autumn storm that night, she picked up the thread.
Mrs. Luthbright set out roasted river eels and fennel soup and a host of other dishes, made small for only the two of them but no less sumptuous for it. They spoke of nothing of substance as Mrs. Luthbright bustled in and out, and as they heard murmurs behind the door, Mrs. Purl commenting on their comportment.
“I hope dinner was to your liking?” Augustine said, when the dishes had been cleared. “I should have asked what you preferred.”
“No, it was delicious,” she said. She searched his face, waiting, hoping for an invitation to repair upstairs, or to another sitting room. An excuse for them to be alone again.
“It’s been a long day,” he said instead.
“It has,” she agreed. She thought to say more, to be more forward, then caught sight of her reflection in the window. The sun sank low on the horizon, and the growing darkness outside, combined with the bright gas lighting, made the polished glass nearly impenetrable.
They’d run out of time.
Augustine rose and came around the table, offering his arm to her. She took it, reluctant and eager all at once, unsure of when she’d get to touch him again. Together, they went out into the main hall. The carriage was waiting outside, and Jane could see her traveling case safely loaded onto the back already.
He paused at the door, then looked at her, a myriad of emotions dancing over his face. What happened now? Did they shake hands? Did they kiss like amorous newlyweds? She wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to beg him to let her remain just one night.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said instead.
Augustine nodded, summoning up a small smile. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “You’d best get going.”
* * *
AS JANE WATCHED Lindridge Hall recede behind her, its unkempt grounds and lowering gables fading into shadow, an acute loneliness settled around her. For the first time since her early childhood, she wouldn’t be sleeping under the Cunninghams’ roof, and though she liked Mr. Lowell well enough, she hardly knew him. She hardly knew Augustine, either—but he was her husband, and without him, and without her guardians, she was a woman under her own power, and at her own mercy.
She would have to get used to it. It was, after all, exactly what she’d asked for.
Jane rested her forehead against the window as her carriage rattled along, hoping its movements would jar the sentimental, almost fearful thoughts from her head. This was not the first time she had been left alone, she reminded herself. Her parents had joined the volunteer forces when the war had reached Camhurst, and then they had left her. They had sent her far away, to the home of one of her father’s old friends, Mr. Cunningham. For those long hours in that crowded carriage into the heartland, still trembling from the shelling that had stopped only a few days before in a temporary cease-fire, she had been without a single person in the world.
She had survived then, and she could certainly survive a wedding night on her own.
They were only a half mile along the dirt road back to Larrenton when the rains started. At first, it was only a few scattered taps along the top of the carriage, but within minutes it was pouring, hammering on the roof and sheeting down the small glass windows. The water blotted out the hills they traveled through.
The carriage lurched, slowed abruptly, and listed to the left.
Jane reflexively pressed herself against the opposite wall of the carriage, but her weight wasn’t enough to stop it from tipping, wavering on two of its wheels, and finally crashing over.
Outside, the horse screamed.
The impact threw her against the seat, and she curled up, trying to protect her head. Even on its side, the coach continued to move, sliding. Were they on a relatively flat portion of the road, or on one of the many ridges that wound their way through the hills?