Free Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella] by The Spy Wore Blue

over the edge.

Six
    Helena lay in Blue’s arms, her head turned away. She knew he was not sleeping. His arm was draped over her, and she liked its safe, solid weight. She liked everything about the last half hour far too much. Lovemaking between them had never been the problem. He was an attentive lover. He knew what she liked, what she wanted—physically, at least. When they were together she could not get enough of him. The problem was that during their marriage they were so infrequently together. She wanted to be first in his life, but in the Barbican group she faced a demanding mistress with charms she could never match.
    Especially when she had her own demons to fight. When she woke each morning wondering when and how she would get her first drink. When she spent the little money she had for food on gin and went without bread and coal to satisfy her cravings.
    And perhaps that was why she’d done it. Perhaps that was why she’d invited Alexi back to her room. The tenor singing with her at Drury Lane had been pursuing her for months. She’d resisted him, not really even tempted by his good looks and charming manners. But then Blue had shown up, unexpectedly. After a brief reunion, he’d told her he was leaving again.
    They’d argued. She pointed out that this was no way to conduct a marriage. He told her she’d known he was an agent before she’d married him. And then he’d stormed out, and she’d had to go to the theater to perform. She’d been drunk, as she usually was. She could perform drunk. Sometimes she thought she performed better drunk. And afterward, when Alexi joked, as he always did, about seeing her home, she agreed. He all but carried her home and had wasted no time divesting her of her clothing once inside the small flat she’d rented. Blue had returned to find her half naked, and Alexi leading her to the bed.
    She’d thought the incident with Alexi would make Blue jealous, but all he’d shown was disgust. Wordlessly, he gathered his things and walked out. She hadn’t seen him again until she found him lying in her bed. This bed, where they both now lay together.
    “Was it always like that?” he asked, voice so low she almost thought she imagined it.
    “You know it was.”
    “I tried to forget.” He rolled on his side, and she made the mistake of looking at him. She liked the way his hair fell over his forehead and cheek, making him look young and vulnerable. One of his hands traced her bare shoulder. “I wouldn’t have been able to stay away otherwise.”
    “You were right to leave,” she said.
    “I should have stayed and killed that bastard.” His hand tightened on her shoulder and then relaxed.
    “It wasn’t his fault. I wanted—”
    He put a finger over her lips. “I know. I was not a very good husband to you. I was monstrously inattentive.”
    She almost laughed. “And I was a good wife?”
    “We both had our first loves.”
    Now she’d given up spirits, but he had not given up the Barbican group. She said nothing for a long time. His breathing grew slow and regular, and finally, when she thought he might be almost asleep, she said, “Do you think you can ever forgive me?” She did not think it was possible. After all, she could not even forgive herself.
    “I would like to,” he murmured.
    She waited.
    “But I do not think I can forget. The image of you and him…” He put a hand to his eyes, seeming to indicate something seared there forever.
    “Nothing happened,” she said. “That was the first time, and as soon as you left, he left. Nothing happened between us.”
    Blue opened his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that?”
    “No. But I wanted to say it nonetheless. I was always faithful to you.”
    He looked away. Moonlight streamed in through exposed windows whose curtains she had forgotten to close. Blue’s body was lean and muscled in the pale wash. Here and there she saw scars, evidence of his dangerous occupation. Some were familiar and others new to