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melody she played. Thoughts pounded her mind much like the drumming rain slammed the window.
    Where was Avondale?
    All the other guests returned before the deluge started, and his absence had grown embarrassing. As guests trudged in, tired and muddy, each asked about him, gave her a deeply questioning gaze, and then retired to bathe and change for dinner.
    Lorna slashed her quill viciously against her parchment. “During his wedding week? I think Avondale neglects his bride.”
    Cailin winced and played a sour note.
    “La, la, ladies. Men enjoy doing the unexpected.” Aunty Moira wet green floss between her rosy lips and re-threaded her needle. “I’m sure the rain delayed His Grace. More than likely he took shelter someplace and will return directly when the downpour ceases.”
    “It looks as if the rain will never stop.” Cailin rested her cheek against the smooth curve in the rosewood harp and tried not to frown.
    Had Avondale been hurt? Or lost somewhere on their vast estate? Why did he not return?
    “His Grace seemed so attentive to you when he said his vows.” Lorna’s big gray-green eyes looked dreamy as she stared out the window at the blowing rain. “Perhaps he’s not—”
    “And he shall soon be at your side again. Do not fret, lamb. Men will behave like men. Would we wish them different?” Aunty Moira plied her needle through her tapestry panel and looked as content as a kitten curled inside a willow basket, her dainty slippered feet, peeking beneath dark blue satin flounces, tucked close to the fire crackling in the wide fireplace.
    Cailin plucked another false chord and dropped her hands to her lap. She scooted her chair back from the harp and rose to pace the shadowed room.
    Why had her new husband disappeared so quickly this morning? She puckered her forehead. What could lure him away from her arms? Was this his way of telling her she’d not pleased him? Now he was conspicuously absent. Guests were whispering.
    “His Grace is accustomed to so much more society than our country castle affords. London has sparkling soirées.” Aunt Aley waved her hand dramatically. “As well as the theatre and smart entertainment.” Her round cheeks waggled with an aggravating air of knowing things the rest of them could only imagine. “We country folk must seem quite boring.”
    To what else was Avondale accustomed? Cailin gripped her arms under the folds of her loose silken sleeves and continued pacing. Perhaps he kept a secret lady friend whose company he sought. She let her hands droop motionless on the arched neck of the harp. She’d heard titled Englishmen, more often than not, kept mistresses.
    “Yes. Oft times His Grace attends court.” Aunt Aley stabbed her needle threaded with black floss into her section of the tapestry panel. “I understand all manner of unspeakable acts occur with the German majesties. And the English at court are little better.”
    The heels of Cailin’s hands jerked against the heavy harp, knocking it off balance. She grabbed the wood and fumbled the instrument upright before it fell to the polished granite. She lowered her chin and hid her horrified expression behind her veil of golden hair. Despite courtly customs, she would not share her husband.
    “Thank God for your beauty, lamb.” Dear Aunt Moira’s hazel eyes silently expressed sympathy. “Although you have not yet been to court, when you do you will be prized by the nobles there.”
    Aunty Moira’s words didn’t ease the anxiety curdling her stomach. She yearned to be prized by only one noble. She could still feel the magic of his hands on her skin.
    “Do you have a headache, Cailin?” Aunt Aley’s yellow teeth gleamed across the gloomy room. “You look positively ill. Last night must have been quite trying.” She thinned her lips. “We do understand. Except Moira, of course.” She glanced around the drawing room. “And Lorna.”
    Cailin’s stomach clenched.
    Obviously, Aley hadn’t enjoyed her