Not that it mattered. Everything reminded her of him. Not just in this house but in the country as well. She’d meant to escape him and the memories of their life together. Instead, she’d only managed to go to a place that was even more like him. Edgefield Hall was grand but efficient. Impressive but understated, just like him. She hadn’t been able to resist entering the bedchamber next to hers there. The one that he would stay in when he was in residence. He’d left some things there, clothing and some odds and ends like handkerchiefs. She’d taken one from the drawer and put it under her pillow so she could sniff it and be reminded of him on the nights that seemed to drag interminably without him.

She’d gone into the nursery there, too. Even though it made her throat ache and her eyes sting with unshed tears. Mrs. Leggett had come upon her, a tender smile on her face. She’d placed a hand over Veronica’s, where it rested atop the cradle’s edge. The two women had stood there silently for minutes while Veronica mourned for a child who never existed. When she’d left that room, she’d never returned.

But now she was back in London. In a house that held only wonderful memories. Memories of the many places she and Sebastian had made love. Memories of the flowers he’d given her from the gardens in the back. Of the time he’d scooped her into his arms and carried her up to his bedchamber without breaking a sweat, kissing her the entire way before they’d made love in the center of his bed. She’d felt so close to him then, hopelessly in love. Even though she’d never had the courage to tell him.

Veronica scratched at her arms, feeling as if she wanted her own skin to come off, to be anywhere but in the predicament she was in now. She’d agreed to his terms. She’d agreed to spend the nights in bed with him, and she wanted him. But he hadn’t touched her since the day she’d written him that thoughtless note. It was her fault she was in here alone now, unable even to look forward to a baby. The chances were slight that she was already with child. They were wasting precious time. She would just stalk to his room and tell him so. He had no right to withhold a child from her. Not when he’d promised her the chance. Demanded it, actually.

Her hand was nearly on the door handle when she let it fall to her side. She was being ridiculous. She hadn’t been the one to demand her marital rights. He had. She’d pretended as if she didn’t even want them. She’d made it seem as if she was giving in to his conditions when really, all along, the thought of him taking her to bed and possibly giving her a child had been her greatest dream come true. She laughed at herself cruelly and shook her head. What would she possibly say to him if she opened that door? Would she tell him she’d been lying when she wrote that note? Would she tell him she wanted him and give him the chance to throw her vulnerability back in her face? It was nothing more than she deserved. She was a hypocrite. A hypocrite and a terrible wife.