The Bride Insists by Jane Ashford

this moment, he was simply overwhelmed by the extent of the disorder. It was too bad he hadn’t put a flask in his pocket. He could really use a fortifying draught or two right now.
    No one was about when he reached home, damp and cold from a mist that had risen from the wet earth. The Pendennises had gone to bed, for which he couldn’t blame them. They rose early and worked hard, had for many more years than he’d been alive. And so, despite his fatigue, Jamie had to tend his horse himself. He found a covered dish of cold meat in the kitchen, and picked at it without much appetite. The knowledge that he must speak to Clare oppressed him. She’d fled in a huff this afternoon. She was probably still fuming, goaded by his lateness, primed to point out his shortcomings as a brother and host… no, husband. Husband. Jamie remembered a play he’d seen a few years ago in London, with a ranting wife whose voice cut like a razor. His bones ached. He longed to leave the confrontation till tomorrow. But he wouldn’t. There would be no more evasions of responsibility.
    Quietly he entered his bedchamber—the room that had been his since his father’s death. The huge four-poster loomed in the light of his single taper, flanked by the massive wardrobe. He lit more candles, then went to the cabinet in the corner near his shaving stand. Pouring a drink from a bottle of brandy he kept there, he took a generous swallow, and then another. The liquor hit his nearly empty stomach and spread welcome warmth through his veins. The tension in his neck and shoulders relaxed somewhat.
    Jamie shed his mud-spattered boots and coat, and washed with cold water left from the morning. He started to build up the fire, then admitted he was only delaying the inevitable. In shirtsleeves and breeches, he went to the connecting door and listened. There was no sound from the other side. Perhaps Clare was already asleep, and he was reprieved. He tapped lightly, heard nothing, and gently opened the door.
    On the far side of the room, Clare sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair with long, smooth strokes. In the dancing light of the fire and a pair of candles, the pale strands glowed like summer sunshine. A creamy nightgown foamed around her, nearly slipping off one white shoulder. Her illuminated figure, so bright against the darkness of the rest of the bedchamber, was delicate and lovely as a renaissance masterpiece. Jamie was struck speechless for a moment. He stood in the dim doorway and gazed at her as if she were a celestial vision that had materialized in his rundown house.
    Clare enjoyed the feel of the brush running through her clean hair. Together, she and Selina and Anna Pendennis had set up the tin tub before the big kitchen hearth and filled it with steaming water. She had had as luxurious a bath as the household could currently provide, and she felt vastly better for it.
    He was here to speak to his wife, not gawk like a schoolboy, Jamie told himself. He stepped forward. “Clare?” She jumped and turned, causing the gown to slip farther down her satiny shoulder. Jamie swallowed. “I’m sorry I was not at dinner. I rode farther than I meant to and got caught up with some tenant problems.” He congratulated himself on how reasonable that had sounded—only a little stilted.
    It was startling to discover a man in her bedroom at such a late hour. No, not a “man,” Clare amended, her husband. A spark of excitement followed the thought. She’d been concerned, and yes, annoyed, when he didn’t return for the evening meal. Beyond mere courtesy, she was full of plans for the house that she’d wanted to share with him. But just now, he looked very tired, and nervous for some reason. “It’s all right.”
    â€œIt isn’t. I shall do better in future.” Now that sounded pompous, he thought. The beautiful sight of her was scrambling his senses. “Also, I jumped