If it be humble, it is no home for a lady.

—MISS PENCE

September 1, 1891
Denver, Colorado

Alex looked up from his notes when Charlotte walked into his study. Today his bride wore a shade of pink that matched the color in her cheeks, and her hair was fashioned in a simple coil at the nape of her neck. Draped over her arm was a collection of lengths of cloth.

He noticed the letter he’d received yesterday lying within reach. And within sight of his wife. Alex snapped it up and tossed it in the top drawer of his desk. Until he decided what he thought of the University of Colorado’s interesting but unsolicited offer to join their staff, Alex intended to keep the information to himself.

“And I thought I married a businesswoman bent on ruling the world one company at a time.” He set aside his pen and journal to give her his full attention.

“You did, and perhaps I will, but first I’ve a few samples here I’d like to show you.” She laid the fabric across the edge of his desk. “The colors in here are so dark and dated. What do you think of this one?”

Nothing about his third-floor space seemed displeasing, and there would be no painting over of the constellations above him. He did his best to study the woodsy green material with some measure of interest while he decided whether to assert his preferences now or later.

“Yes, it will do fine,” Alex said when he figured he’d shown enough interest. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some things to attend to.”

“Truly, Alex, if you have no opinion, it’s fine to say so.”

“What?” He looked up as Charlotte wandered to the bookshelf and selected a volume by Voltaire. “No, really, I don’t mind the green at all.”

“You don’t mind it?” She replaced the book on the shelf and turned to face him, one hand on her hip. “Why bother changing anything if there’s nothing to be gained by it?”

“An excellent argument for more than just fabrics.”

Charlotte huffed. “Why am I even asking you? We won’t be married much longer.” She moved toward him, sweeping past the trunks of still-unpacked journals and charts to settle easily in the chair across the desk. A knock sounded at the door, and one of the small army of household staff peered in.

“The mister’s tailor is here for a fitting,” the maid said.

“My tailor?” Alex shook his head. “I ordered no clothing.”

Charlotte’s gaze pointedly swept the length of him. When Alex’s eyes met hers, she shrugged. “I took the liberty of choosing a few things that were a bit more appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what?”

“The reception, of course.” Charlotte looked past him to the maid. “Thank you, Mary. Please let the tailor know that Viscount Hambly will be down for his fitting in a few minutes.”

“No, Mary,” Alex said. “Tell the tailor to give me ten minutes with my wife, and then he can come up here for the fitting.”

“But Alex, I …” Charlotte apparently thought better of her protest. “Never mind. Yes, Mary, please do as the viscount asks.”

Alex returned his attention to Charlotte. “Have you found your paints?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She smoothed her skirt, then rested her palms in her lap. “Alex, it is September today. Did you realize that?”

“I did, actually.”

“Grandfather has asked when I’ll be returning to work in London.”

Alex felt an odd flash of temper. “Likely he asked when the two of us would be returning.”

She met his stare. “In any case, I’m anxious to meet with his board again. Other than the day before the wedding, I’ve had little contact with anyone but Grandfather. Of course, under the circumstances I suppose he’s really the only one I need to speak to.”

Alex watched his wife as she absently turned the wedding ring that meant so little to her. Already she’d said more to him in this conversation than in all the past week put together.

“Perhaps I’ll take a house in London after the first of the year,” she said.

“Does your grandfather’s home no longer meet your needs?”

She gave him a sideways look. “A place of my own.”

Alex nodded. This uneasy truce of theirs would end as soon as she learned he would not seek an annulment. Knowing Charlotte had a place to live that did not involve sleeping under the same roof as him might be beneficial to both of them.

And yet, that was no marriage, was it?

“Have you had any further correspondence with Mr. Pembroke?” Charlotte asked.

The question hit a nerve, and Alex winced. “It has been some time since I’ve received a letter from him, actually.”

“I see. Might a telegram be in order?”

Though he knew the answer all too well, Alex decided to broach the topic anyway. “Why the sudden interest in Will Pembroke, Charlotte?”

She shifted positions. “Only to see if perhaps anything important has gone missing between his office and yours.”

“Charlotte,” he said slowly, painfully aware of the trouble he was about to dive into, “what is it you’d like to know?”

Her fingers drummed a rhythm on her knees, and she lowered her gaze to study something in her lap. Then she abruptly returned her attention to Alex.

“I would like to know when I am free of this marriage.”

“I see.” He exhaled slowly. “Then I shall inform you of any further information I receive on that topic in as timely a manner as I can manage.”

There. He’d answered her concern with a mostly truthful statement.

Alex sighed. Mostly was not good enough. A partial truth was still a lie.

“Look,” he said. “I’ve not heard from Pembroke because I’ve informed him I no longer wish for him to look into an annulment through the London courts.”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “Stop teasing me, Alex.”

He waited a moment before speaking. “I’m quite serious.”

“I see.” Charlotte rose and gathered up her fabrics. “It appears you’ve forgotten that we had an arrangement. As part of that arrangement, I have pretended to be your wife. And because of that, you now have this lovely office and that telescope. You also have a standing in this town that only an association with the Becks could have achieved.”

“A standing in this town?” Alex looked up at his wife. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Charlotte. You know I don’t give one whit for social standing, but if I did, an Englishman and his titles are always welcome in the drawing rooms of Denver.”

To her credit, Charlotte only let her haughty expression slip for a moment. “I’ve a mind to tell you exactly what I mean, but I fear I shall only cause more harm to what appears to be an endangered arrangement.” She lifted her chin. “I shall forgive you for considering the breaking of your promise.”

“You shall?” He stood and looked down on her from his superior height. “That’s quite magnanimous of you, Charlotte.”

“As is allowing you to live in my home when you have acted so dishonorably.”

She took his laughter no better than the news of his lack of interest in the annulment. Dropping the fabrics at his feet, Charlotte stormed toward the door.

“Come sit down,” he called.

“I won’t.”

“Fine,” Alex said, “but you should know it is I who am allowing you to live in my home.”

He waited for her footsteps to slow, and she returned to stand before him.

Alex shrugged. “I’ve the proof if you’re interested.” He retrieved the file Daniel Beck had given him upon their arrival in Denver. “I had hoped to spare you this.”

Charlotte looked at the file with disdain and refused to take it. The expression she offered him was no better. “I wish no proof from you, Viscount Hambly. If you’re not to be trusted with the annulment, then you’re certainly not to be trusted with this.”

She squared her shoulders, but something in her eyes held the slightest bit of fear.

“Then go and ask your father,” he said. He’d already told her more than he’d intended. What was it about this woman that made him do things he wished he hadn’t? “And send the tailor up. Being poked with pins sounds like a slice of heaven compared to continuing this conversation.”

“All right,” Charlotte said. “I shall.”

Later, as the tailor took his measurements, Alex heard the carriage leave. Exactly one hour and ten minutes later, it returned. Alex moved to the window and watched as the driver handed Charlotte out of the carriage. While she made her way up the stone walk to the door, he slipped back so that Charlotte would not see him observing her.

When the front door slammed shut, he heard it. And when she stormed up the stairs to slam yet another door, likely the one to her bedchamber, Alex heard that too.

He went back to his desk and retrieved the letter from the university. Request to teach. Offer to research. Plans to extend the current program. He read the letter from the dean in phrases, two or three words here and there, until he reached the end. “Must have your reply before 15 September.”

Two weeks from now.

Another door slammed, and he heard footsteps on the floor below. Charlotte seemed to be pacing, as the steps continued but she did not seem to make any progress.

And then, suddenly, everything went quiet. He shifted to listen. Nothing split the silence except the tick of the clock behind him.

Alex rose to find the book he’d been reading, Mr. Langley’s The New Astronomy, but he had no mind for concentrating. His addled brain kept wandering back to the floor below, where his wife likely plotted either his imminent demise or her imminent departure.

When the carriage once again pulled around to the front of the house, Alex did not need his telescope to see who climbed inside. He watched from the ledge between the two gargoyles as his wife and a half-dozen of her trunks disappeared down Grant Street.

He waited a full two hours before sending one of the staff down to the Beck home after Charlotte. When that failed, Alex debated whether to search for her at the Windsor Hotel. Surely she would not wish their marital troubles to become public knowledge.

But where else could she have gone?