A Woman of Good Reputation

            Abby did not leave her room. She sat at her desk and wrote letters to Lucy and Meg. She tried to make the letters pleasant and upbeat. She did not want to write in the letters that she had given up on her marriage, that her husband no longer desired her now that she had given him permission to look elsewhere, and that he had never been interested in knowing her in any other capacity.

            There was a brief knock on the door. “Yes?” she asked, absently, without looking up from the flow of her pen.

            “They said you have not left your room today.”

            She looked up at Stephen. He was dressed casually, and looked so handsome that she felt it like a pang. “I have not.”

            “Are you sure you’re well?”

            “Am I pale, my lord?”

            “No.”

            “Ah. Am I freckled?”

            He walked into the room, frowned as he peered down at her. “A bit,” he said, and then he grinned and kissed the bridge of her nose. “If you’re feeling up to it, I have a surprise for you.”

            She looked confused. “A surprise, my lord?”

            He looked as delighted as a little boy in his eagerness. “Yes. I have been all morning procuring it. Can you leave your letter-writing for a bit?”

            She was curious, so she pushed the letter away. “Yes.”

            “Excellent.” He took her hands and pulled her to standing. His mood was exuberant, which intrigued her. “Your hands are cold,” he noted.

            “It is drafty in the room.”

            He glanced toward the fireplace. “You should have had the fire relit.”

            She shrugged a bit.

            “Well, it is beautiful day outside. It will warm you immediately.”

            “Are we going outside? Shall I fetch a hat?” He had already pulled her out of her bedchamber.

            “A hat? You act as if I care about a silly thing like decorum,” he grinned at her.

            “What has inspired this mood, my lord?” she asked, responding to it even as the glum thought occurred to her that it had been provoked by her providing him his freedom the night before.

            “My wife is the most beautiful woman in Britain,” he said. “Always puts a man in a good mood to boast that.”

            “You are being flippant.”

            “I am paying you court. Paying court is all about flippancy. Do you know what we have not done?” he asked, as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

            “What?”

            “Do not say ‘what,’” he said, mocking his father, and then suddenly whirled her closer, literally taking her breath away. “We have not danced together.” He took her into a brisk, swirling waltz step around the front hall.

            “You are a very good waltzer,” she gasped, a bit dizzy from the pace of his turns.

            “For a man who doesn’t attend balls, yes,” he agreed, walking her out of the front door. “This way.”

            She followed him around the house, wondering what could possibly have gotten into him. This jubilant mood seemed very unlike him. And yet she liked him like this. He was so much better like this. How could she keep him like this? Merely by allowing him a mistress?

            “Well?” he asked. “What do you think? I don’t know much about setting one up but I tried to copy yours.”

            “Stephen,” she said, in delight. Because he’d set up a croquet set on the lawn where they had sat together the day before. “This is wonderful.”

            It was the first time she had called him Stephen in a while. Stephen decided all the bloody effort of finding the croquet set and setting it up had been worth it for that one moment. He smiled, watching her. “Do you like it?”

            “Like it? Yes.” She turned to him, dazzling in her happiness. How simple, he thought. Why had he not done this earlier? “Will you play with me?”