She had begun last night wanting only to gain his trust. But then, quite unexpectedly, they’d had perhaps the most honest conversation about their marriage they’d ever had, and a window had opened in Margot. Feelings she’d not expected had come in through that window, and she’d meant it when she’d said it could never be too late for them. She’d wanted to forget the strife between them and rebuild what she had torn down when she’d left. She wanted to believe that there was a path for them, that they could be happy.

And still, a tiny doubt crept into her thoughts. What if her father was right about him? What if he was right and she was wrong?

Margot pretended to be asleep when Arran rose. She lay on her side and listened to the sounds of him dressing and gathering his things. She kept her eyes closed when he leaned over the bed and kissed her shoulder.

“Good morning,” he murmured, and quit the room.

When he’d gone, she rolled onto her back and sighed to the canopy above the bed. What he’d said to her last night—that she was his first love—had pirouetted into her dreams, and she had awakened more than once in the night to assure herself that he was still there, that he had spoken those words to her. She thought about how he held her, as if she were his only love. She thought about what Mrs. Gowan had said of his demeanor after she’d left. She thought about all of this, and with a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye, she thought about how he said he didn’t feel the same any longer because he could not trust her.

For God’s sake, why would he?

He wasn’t wrong about her. He had every reason to be suspicious of her. She had been condescending when she’d first come to Balhaire; she could see that now with the clarity the past few years had given her. She hadn’t shown him much affection, in spite of having felt some for him. She’d been so determined to be wounded and indignant about the injustice her family had done to her that she’d never been able to nurture her feelings for him properly. And God knew she’d been damnably blind to his affection for her.

Her confusion about what to do was only growing. She’d never dreamed that her feelings and desire for him could be rekindled.

She didn’t want to know if he conspired with the French. She wanted to prove to her father that it was a lie.

Margot got up, wrapped the coverlet around her and walked into his study. She stared at the cabinet. She could still see the handle of the knife that she’d shoved beneath it when she heard him approach.