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had no use for her, cared not to be in her presence unless necessitated by society, she would be free to continue her experiments.
    A small, fleeting smile drifted over her lips. She had a mission, a new goal, to find an appropriate location for her work. Then her crates would need to be unpacked, and her laboratory set to rights.
    "I shall be far too busy to bother myself with a husband's attentions,” she said with single-minded determination. Her fanciful girlish notions had to go. She would drive them out with honest work, and exacting experiments.
    Magnus listened like a child with his ear pressed to the connecting door as she readied herself for bed. It was madness, pure and simple. Whatever possessed him to marry again? Had Elizabeth not taught him well enough?
    Her candid abhorrence for him, her one and only acceptance of him in her bed on their wedding night that ended with her cursing at him from the top of her lungs, that he was a beast, a monster, long before the scars, should have taught him well enough.
    His former wife, once the diamond of the ton , could not stand the sight of him. She'd played him well, had lured him in with her coy smiles and golden locks. But once wed, he'd seen her true nature, a more horrid shrew he'd never met. He'd known she'd married him for his rank and holdings in the beginning, but he'd hoped, however foolishly, that they could share in some comfort, some familiarity, have a family, but it was not to be.
    He tried, oh how he'd tried to be what she wanted. He almost begged her at one point, but in the end he knew she would never see him as anything more than a means to an end, a necessary evil in her life. Money and titles were all that mattered to her.
    Pressing his forehead to the door, he let out a long unsteady breath. Now here he was yet again, faced with a woman who could not possibly want him. He'd condemned his new bride to a life with him, a man who could give her nothing. Even his home could not soften the sentence. Bridley Hall was a cold house, sitting near the cliffs by the ocean, the wind whipping at it with constant vigilance, stealing all warmth.
    Love never survived in this house , he thought, pulling away from the door.
    His father and mother were bitter combatants until the end. As an only son with few friends and distant relations he'd met fewer times than he could recall, George Crittenden was the only one left from his past.
    Crittenden's long absence from England, and Magnus’ years of isolation after Elizabeth's death had left him alone. And in that loneliness he'd harbored one dream, one he should have left well enough alone.
    To have someone love him.
    He peered out the window, into the darkness, cursing himself and the wrong he'd done Agatha.
    "You were right, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “I am a monster."
    Agatha gathered her determination around her like a shawl, and descended the stairs to breakfast. She was a bit taken aback at the sight of Magnus sitting at the head of the table. She'd assumed he would continue to avoid her. Although sure it would do little good, she pasted on a bright smile. “Good morning."
    She didn't wait for a response, and turned to the sideboard and began filling her plate with various items.
    "Good morning,” he said, his low timbre bringing a jolt to her pulse.
    She steadied it with a few even breaths then took a place beside him, never looking at his face. A footman filled her cup with tea and she nodded her thanks.
    She felt Magnus watching her from behind his papers, his regard was unmistakable as she sipped her tea. There was a leashed tension to it, why she could not fathom, but reasoned it to be forced resolve, or perhaps even tolerance.
    Placing her cup back in the saucer, she took up her fork and began to eat, although her appetite had fled at the sight of him.
    Nerves are a puzzling thing, she thought. They could create or diminish hunger.
    "Did you—sleep well?” he asked.
    His odd tone pulled her gaze to his.