Free A Christmas Promise by Mary Balogh

incomprehension and even with contempt?
    “Are you all right?” he asked her.
    “All right?” Her eyes widened. “I am tired. He was a long time going. Far longer than I expected.”
    He remained where he was. “On your way, then,” he said, “without further delay.”
    She stared at him silently for a long moment and then turned and left the room without another word.
    He stood looking after her. Would she have behaved differently if he had been someone else? he wondered. Could she possibly be as cold and unfeeling as she seemed? Was it hatred of him that caused her to hold her feelings in check? Or were there no feelings?
    It chilled him to know that he was married to such a woman. And to know that his marriage weighed more heavily on his mind than he had expected it to do. He had done nothing in the past two days except move between his own house and Transome’s. There had been no visits to White’s or any of the other clubs. And it was not until this very moment that he remembered telling Alice that he would be with her the night before. His spirits had been oppressed by the dying of a man who was a stranger to him. A stranger he had good reason to dislike. And by the girl who was losing a father and who had every reason to believe that she was being transferred to the care of a man who would treat her far more cruelly.
    It shamed him to know that he was that man. And yet how could he show kindness to a marble statue? To a woman who was a social climber and nothing else? How could he be kind to a woman who hated him? A woman who spoke of her father’s death as if it meant nothing at all to her, as if spending his last hours with him had been nothing but an exhausting nuisance to her?
    And did he want to show kindness to her anyway? She was the daughter of a cit. He had been forced into marrying her. And he would always feel some shame, knowing that he had agreed to the marriage for the sake of money. He had never thought of himself as a mercenary man.
    But it was not the time for such thoughts, he realized suddenly. There were things to be done. Although it was already late evening, there was a man upstairs who had just died, and doubtless the servants would be seeking direction on what to do. He drew a deep breath and opened the door into the hallway.
    S HE HELD HERSELF STIFF and her mind blank until she was finally alone in her bedchamber on Grosvenor Square. She had waved away her maid and undressed herself. She sank into the chair where she had waited for her husband to come to her on their wedding night—how many nights ago? She did not know. And she prepared to cry her heart out.
    She stared into the crackling flames of the fire and thought of her father. Thought of the way she had been the focus of his life all through her childhood and girlhood, although he had always worked long hours. Thought of how he had always lavished love and gifts on her. And of how her world had revolved about him. Thought of him sick and in pain for the last months, though he had never complained, had refused to let his brothers and sisters know how gravely ill he was, and had forbidden her to inform them. They had their own lives and worries, he said, and did not need to be burdened with his. She thought of him dying, slowly fading from her and from life through the long hours when she had sat by his side. Thought of his still, quiet body when she had finally released his hand and turned from him.
    She thought of the fact that she would never see him again. He was gone from her. Forever, just as her mother had been abruptly and permanently gone from her childhood. She was alone. Her father was dead. The dearest person in all the world to her, including Wilfred—oh, yes, even including him—was dead.
    And she waited for the tears, for the release of grief and the relief from the unbearable pain of loss. But there was only the pain, the pain of knowing at last that she could not grieve. She was too tired to grieve. She had