Free A Perfect Secret by Donna Hatch

played another cruel game, like the time he’d chopped down her favorite tree, or killed her canary, or each time he flew into a rage ....
    Genevieve shuddered and focused on Ann’s face. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll simply remain in my room.”
    “No trouble. I’ll try again.”
    After a foray into the servants’ quarters, Ann returned with a pair of shoes Genevieve could keep on as she walked. Ann still looked unhappy. “Those aren’t good ’nuff fer a lady.”
    “They hardly show underneath the gown, and they’ll stay on when I walk. For now, it’s enough.” If only she had something to give or do for Ann in return.
    After donning a bonnet and a pair of gloves Alicia had provided, Genevieve went in search of temporary freedom. She wandered through the corridor, treading on plush carpet running the length of the corridor, marveling at the beauty of Tarrington Castle. The intricate woodwork in rich mahogany shone with constant care. Genevieve traced the elegant paper in gold and red fleur de lis on the walls. She admired portraits of distinguished ladies and gentlemen of by-gone eras hanging on the walls. The first Lord Tarrington greatly resembled Christian. Crystal wall sconces shimmered in the sunlight from nearby windows, sending rainbows on the walls and floors. The décor outshone even the splendor of Lord Wickburgh’s county seat. She’d always thought of Wickburgh’s houses as his homes. Never theirs. Of course, he’d never made any pretense about loving her. Their wedding night was proof of that. Losing the baby—the one pure thing to have come of their marriage—had been the killing blow.
    Dark grief threatened to overcome her again but she swallowed back her sorrow. She’d been given a chance for escape and she must seize it. 
    Squaring her shoulders, she descended the stairs. After entering several rooms, she found a large room at the back of the house. One wall completely lined by French doors opened to a paved terrace. Outside the house, she paused and breathed in the crisp morning air. Her tension eased and she let herself enjoy the beauty around her. She’d heard of Tarrington Gardens, but had failed to conjure the image that now met her eyes. Tendrils of mist clung to the trees, giving them a magical shimmer. Entranced, she wandered along the winding gravel paths, stopping now and then to admire flowers blooming in unearthly beauty amid ponds, fountains, marble statues. At the entrance to the next garden, she halted.
    Christian Amesbury sat bareheaded, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, a notepad balanced on one knee. Wearing a snowy cravat, grey and blue striped waistcoat, sky blue frock coat and grey breeches tucked into gleaming boots, he emulated the perfect nobleman, fit for entrance into the most exclusive clubs in London. Yet the haughtiness of his class remained absent. He’d completely lacked the urbane boredom Londoners deemed appealing.
    Apparently he’d found that cool reserve during their separation. But now, so engrossed in his art, he looked so much like the Christian from her past that tears stung her eyes.
    With a pencil in his left hand, he rapidly sketched. She glanced around the garden but failed to discover what had attracted his attention. Christian glanced in her direction with a ready smile. The instant he saw it was she, his smile faded.
    He leaped to his feet. She’d forgotten how tall he was. His commanding presence and that new underlying tension seemed to add to his size.
    He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Lady Wickburgh. I didn’t see you there.”
    She winced. “I don’t really think we need resume our formality, after everything that passed between us in Bath, do we?”
    He stiffened. “That is exactly why we should.”
    Rather than explain how much she hated her title, and everything it meant, she gestured at the bench. “Pray, continue. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
    His gaze passed over her with such