Page 86 of Cold November Rake

Temperance flitted from guest to guest, pausing to exchange a few words with each, ensuring everyone was comfortable and everything was perfect. A footman passed with a tray of champagne, and she signaled him toward the Ashtons, who had been left without.

She smiled until her cheeks ached. Half the faces in the room she knew only from the scandal sheets; the other half watched her with bright, assessing interest, as if waiting for her to fall into a fit of vapors.

Needing a moment among people who would not judge her, she sought out Emily, who stood by the hearth, close to her husband, her head tilted toward his. Temperance didn't want to disturb her, but as if sensing her gaze, Emily glanced up, her expression softening.

She held out a hand. "Temperance, come. Join us."

Temperance went gratefully.

"You look as though you have been under siege," Emily said, squeezing her fingers. "Stand with us a while. You may rest, and you need not say a word if you do not wish to."

The knot between Temperance's shoulders eased. She stepped into the warmth of the fire and let out a deep breath. "Thank you. I don't think I have ever felt this judged in my own home."

"I am sure you will persevere. Besides, you are managing splendidly." Emily's eyes danced. She swept a hand toward the long wall opposite. "The renovations you made to this townhouse are extraordinary. The paper-hangings in this room alone are exquisite. I have been admiring them all evening."

Temperance followed her gaze. The panels she had ordered from France rolled across the plaster in a sweep of waves and sails and pale, endless water, and for the first time that evening, she felt a flicker of pride.

"They are," Tyrone agreed. He studied the wall with his head tilted, a glass of lemonade in his hand. "They put me in mind of our failed journey to the North Pole."

Temperance brightened so suddenly that she had to press her fan against her skirts to keep from clapping. "That is exactly the story that inspired this room."

Tyrone's brows rose. "Oh? He told you about that?"

"He did." She turned back to the painted water, and the warmth in her chest spread. It was the first time Sutton had shared something about himself willingly and teasingly; how could she forget? "The wager to sail a yacht to the North Pole was quite daring, might I add. It's a pity a brawl stopped your travels."

"A brawl," Tyrone repeated, his lips pursed. "That's what he told you?"

Temperance blinked. "Was that not true?"

Did he lie to her? Was their first moment of truce built upon a lie?

"No, no, that's correct. I got into a brawl with the drunken watchman—not that I was myself sober—but did he tell you why we got into a fight?"

She shook her head. "He didn't."

"Because the watchman insinuated that Sutton's wife was bedding everyone she met while he was crying about her leaving Norway before he could arrive."

"What?"

Temperance froze. In Norway? He was in Norway?

"Alec," Emily reprimanded quietly, but Tyrone continued.

"I hope you know how much it hurt him to travel all that way, only for you to have sailed off without so much as a note. The only reason he joined me on that mad wager was to see you."

"That's impossible," Temperance finally found her voice.

"Oh?" Tyrone raised a brow.

"I wrote to him, asking him to come for me if he wished to have a wife again." The words tumbled out of her in a rapid flow. "I gave him the dates of my journey; I asked him to confirm he could arrive in time, or I would have postponed my plans. I even extended my stay there for weeks until my aunt could not bear to see me suffer any longer. He never replied. If he had so much as written me a note telling me to wait longer, I would have."

Tyrone frowned. "He did write to you. I am certain he did."

"Well, I did not receive a word!" she cried, not caring if anyone was looking. Her breaths came in quick gulps, her chest heaving.

Emily took her hand and squeezed.

"When did you leave?" Tyrone asked quietly.