Free With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees Page A

hiding the frisson of doubt I felt at that reference to the scope of the new life upon which I was embarking. I rose to my feet, and he followed—again with the aid of his ebony walking stick, which I gathered was his constant companion. I led the way to the vestibule, where he retrieved his hat and gloves, whistling, and again I felt a strange irritation at his obviously buoyant mood, because I did not understand it.
    “You are doing me a great kindness,” I began, returning to the question he had not answered.
    “And am overjoyed to do so.”
    Clearly—but why? “And you are doing your father an even greater kindness. I cannot imagine that you would go to such extreme means—shackling yourself to an inappropriate wife, lavishing money on her—without there being any benefit to yourself.”
    He looked at me quizzically. “Do I seem that selfish, Clara, or are you attributing to me qualities of other gentlemen you have known?”
    “I am merely trying to understand your motives. Marriage is a tremendous step unless you’re gaining something by it.”
    “Do not expect to fathom all of my mysteries at once, my dear Clara.” Then he seemed to think better of his levity. “Since it troubles you, yes, I do act partly out of my own interests. It will give me peace of mind to know that I can make my father’s last days better. I’d like to know that I did all that was in my power to ease his going and give him the assurance that he need not consume himself with anxiety over what will happen to the estate after his death.”
    I felt rebuked; but still, there was something else he was not saying. “And nothing else?” I asked, not trying to hide my skepticism.
    “I have my reasons,” he said only, before bringing my hand to his lips for a brief kiss. Something about his expression then, as he bent over my hand but kept his eyes on me, was so enigmatic that I felt a chill of sudden doubt whether our life together was truly going to be as idyllic as he portrayed it. There was much that Atticus was not telling me, and I wondered uneasily what might lie ahead.

Chapter Five
    I confess that the first dressmaking establishment to which I directed the carriage was Mrs. Hill’s. It gave me a mean-spirited satisfaction to inform her of my engagement—and consequent need for fine new clothes—and send her scurrying about in an effort to satisfy my whims.
    “I have such a passion for bottle-green peau de soie,” I confided, glimpsing a bolt of this fabric at the very bottom of a stack, and watching in satisfaction as she struggled to unearth it. “It would go so nicely with that figured velvet… earmarked for Lady Carstone, you say? Such a pity. I suppose I must go to another establishment for something similar… oh, it’s truly no trouble for me to have it? How charming. See that you don’t try to fob me off with some cheap velveteen in its place, mind! Now, on this bonnet, can you take all the trimmings off and change them?”
    I ordered her about until I wearied of the game and departed for the next modiste on my list, where I would order the bulk of my new wardrobe. My conscience could not reproach me very severely, though, since I had ordered a gown from Mrs. Hill, and one that I was paying her all the more generously for due to the haste with which my order would be filled. I would be recompensing the woman quite well for my small revenge—or, rather, my husband would be.
    My husband. This, like the title to which I would eventually succeed, had such a strange sound in my mind that I stopped to examine it further, in as gingerly a fashion as one might approach a spider whose bite might or might not prove poisonous.
    Not for many years had I considered that I might marry. As a lovestruck girl I had spun farfetched dreams around Richard, but at this remove it was difficult to believe that I had ever been so naive as to think they might come true. After the cruel blow of losing him twice, I had felt for a long