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so many Ephemeroptera, mayflies. And he’d sat with her through her embarrassing affliction, made her comfortable, watched over her, ordered every amenity for her comfort. He was predisposed to care for what was his—she understood that well enough from the care he took with the hired horses—but she truly believed he held a tiny spark of feeling for her. She would breathe that flame into a veritable fire of fondness, see if she didn’t. And she’d be a countess to make him proud, a worthy wife to the Earl of Windham. Oh, he could not help coming to love her.
    Unless he strangled her first.
    Lord Windham had not slept a wink the entire uncomfortable night, which made two days and nights without rest except for that brief nap before dinner. Worse, he’d had too much to drink, too much of his wife’s rattlebrained reasoning, and not enough physical gratification. Not nearly enough of that. None of that. Damn, even this morning he was feeling like a randy schoolboy who’d got into the headmaster’s liquor cabinet.
    And there was his wife, his bride, his bête noire , tripping into their sitting room as bright as her namesake in her lemony outfit and cheery good mornings. Her hair was neatly twisted under a ruched bonnet, with only a few curls left to escape, to torment a man.
    Totally oblivious to his migraine, megrim, and general bad mood, Aurora was filling her breakfast plate with enough food to sustain a herd of Herefords. The place in front of the earl was empty except for a cup of black coffee, as bitter as his ruminations.
    She made him feel old. He had eleven years more in his dish, but it seemed an eternity. He’d long ago lost that youthful optimism, where every day offered a new, better adventure. All his days seemed alike, offering nothing but new headaches, especially if he kept drinking as he had last night. Aurora McPhee was young and innocent, and she deserved to have her golden dreams come true. She deserved a young man to love her wholeheartedly, with no reservations, no restraints.
    He announced, therefore, “I have decided not to announce our wedding in London. Bath society can wonder, but the servants here are well paid not to gossip.”
    Aurora spilled her chocolate. As she mopped at the tablecloth, he went on. “I thought it would be better to wait until I spoke to my solicitor to see if there was any possibility of an annulment.”
    “You can do that?”
    “I have no idea. My man of affairs will know. Or he’ll find out. There is a better chance, of course, if the marriage is not consummated, so you will have your wish to be relieved of the burden of my presence. I thought to install you at my aunt’s home in Mayfair. She can take you around, introduce you to the ton , help you gather a stylish wardrobe, at my expense, of course. No one will speak of the incident in Bath. Did I mention that my aunt is Duchess Havermore? No one will question her sponsoring a new protégée, either. Her Grace has so many nieces and godchildren that she herself can hardly keep track. And if we can annul the marriage, I am sure she can find you an eligible parti. A husband of your choice, that is, who will show you the proper—” He jerked his looking glass out of his coat and surveyed his bride’s suddenly ashen coloring. “You are not going to be sick again, are you?”
    “No.” But she put down her fork. “I do think I have lost my appetite, however.”

Chapter Five
    The earl was finally going to get to sleep. After a polite offer to share the pile of journals and newspapers she had taken from the inn, which he just as politely refused, Aurora sat mumchance in the carriage on the way to London. She glanced out the window; she glanced at the magazines. She did not glance at Lord Windham, not even once.
    Kenyon had expected an argument over his admittedly unilateral decision to seek an annulment. He’d supposed there would be tears and recriminations, the type of scene he most loathed. Hell, he’d