Free Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) by Jaima Fixsen Page A

done. Chances were she wouldn’t let him, but he wanted to try.  
    It wasn’t far from the club to his townhouse, a swift drive in his curricle. He let himself inside and quietly made his way upstairs, thinking. He and Georgiana weren’t close, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know each other. You could afford to be careless among friends; enemies you needed to know better than your own self. Perhaps that was why his wife’s inexplicable behavior lately was so unnerving. For all he knew, she was preparing to deliver the coup de grace.  
    He snorted, stripping off his gloves with unnecessary emphasis. This wasn’t a blind; Georgiana was helpless and adrift. He had never seen her like this, not when he took Sophy into their home (cold compliance, but she took her pound of flesh), not even when Julius died (paralyzing grief, then attacks, swift and sharp-clawed). He owed her something. She and Sophy had grown close. She had been better to his bastard than he had any right to expect. But Sophy had fled and married her merchant, thumbing her nose at them.  
    He was still angry, but guilt was reasserting itself. If he studied this sad mess long enough he knew where to lay the blame: he was a devil of a father and a worse husband. Given their history, Georgiana was unlikely to accept any help he offered, but he felt he must try, if only to ease his conscience. So instead of disappearing into his library and the comforting world of the racing form book, he trudged into the drawing room. She was alone, with her embroidery.  
    “Yes?” she said, looking up, her needle poised in the air like a fencer’s sword.  
    He sat before he spoke, knowing he’d persist longer if it was harder to retreat. “How are you?” he asked, looking at her over his steepled fingers.  
    The question should have disconcerted her. He never made inquiries like this. “My days are a little flat,” she admitted. “There is not much to do.”  
    “You have your sewing,” he said, glancing at her embroidery.  
    “Yes. I always do.” She frowned at the piece in her lap. If he troubled himself to discover how many cushions and seat covers and whatever-the-hell things she’d stitched over the years, he expected the total would be prodigious. He knew she was skilled—there was a frightening perfection in most things she did. But she never smiled, never paused to admire her work.  
    “Do you enjoy it?”  
    “Not even a little,” she said. Her needle pierced the silk with a barely audible puff, then her wrist, fingers and arm floated up, trailing a coral-colored thread that pulled through the cloth with a sound like a long, deep breath. He watched her make two more stitches. She had a way of moving that made the work seem calming, almost meditative, but a sharp furrow stood between her brows.  
    “Why do it then?”  
    A muscle in her cheek twitched. She opened her mouth, started to speak, but couldn’t finish the word. Whatever she had been about to say died on her tongue. She tilted her head, tried again, but he’d had enough. She had no reason.  
    “You should stop.” Before she could counter his demand with a caustic reply, he pushed himself out of his chair. She flinched as he leaned over her, but made no move to resist when he plucked the embroidery frame from her nerveless fingers. Without noticing the design, he raised it, then cracked it over his knee. The frame splintered.  
    “Have you lost your senses?” she demanded.  
    “Probably.” Three strides brought him to the fireplace, but his hand halted above the screen. It was too warm a day for a fire. No matter. He would tear up the thing.  
    His first tug failed. He tried again. A third time. Swore.  
    A nervous giggle escaped her before she could clap her fingers to her mouth.  
    “Just what is this?” he grunted, failing again. The square of cloth was too strong to tear, reinforced as it was by her stitching.  
    “A footstool cover.”  
    “Not any