Not much of a marriage.

“Let my actions speak for me,” he said. “Let me prove to you that what I’m telling you is the truth.”

In her mind, she heard her cell phone ringing, over and over again. Right after the break-up, he had called her a hundred times, easy—sometimes leaving messages she never listened to, sometimes not. She had taken two weeks of vacation right after she’d found out, escaping even her farm in Indiana, and going back northeast to Plattsburgh and the apple orchards of her youth. Her parents had been so glad to see her, and she had passed those days tending to McIntosh trees with the other manual laborers.

By the time she had returned, he’d been gone.

The phone calls had dried up after a while. And eventually she had stopped flinching every time a car pulled up to the front court.

“Please, Lizzie … say something. Even if it’s not what I want to hear—”

The sound of a woman laughing softly cut him off and brought both of their heads around to the doors that opened into the garden. When Greta had left, one of panels hadn’t shut all the way, and through the opening, Lizzie could see two people walking down a brick path toward the pool in the far corner.

Even in the subtle glow from the landscaping lights, it was clear that the gown the woman had on was a brilliant red, its voluminous folds trailing behind. Beside her, a tall man in a suit had gallantly offered her his arm and was staring down at her with the kind of attention one might reserve for a meal.

“My sister,” Lane said unnecessarily.

“Is that Samuel T.?” Lizzie asked.

“Who cares.”

She looked back at Lane. “You broke my heart.”

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t what I wanted, Lizzie, not in any way. I swear to God.”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

He was quiet for a time, his eyes roaming around her face. “I’ll baptize myself a hundred times if that’s what it takes. I’ll memorize the Bible, I’ll kiss a ring, I’ll do whatever you want—just please—”

“I can’t go back, Lane. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

He fell silent. And then after a long while, he nodded. “All right, but can I ask you for one thing?”

No. “Yes.”

“Just don’t hate me anymore. I’m doing plenty of that on my own time.”

The garden was as fragrant as a woman fresh out of a bath, as precisely arranged as a parlor, and as private as a college library.

Which was to say, it was semi-private. Easterly’s many windows overlooked the carefully tended beds of white and cream flowers, all of which were discreetly lit.

Fortunately, Gin had no problem having sex in public.

As she hung on to the powerful arm of Samuel Theodore Lodge III, she didn’t bother to hide her smile. “So how long have you been with her?”

“When did we arrive here? An hour ago?”

She laughed. “Why, oh, why, dear Samuel, do you bother with women like that?”

“What other kind is there?”

It was hard to tell who was steering whom into the darker recesses of the farthest corner, where the brick walls met on the back side of the pool house. But that was where they were both headed.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, reaching up to touch the diamonds at her throat … and then allow her fingertips to drift downward over her bodice. “I would have bothered to put panties on.”

“Trying to turn over a new leaf, are you.”

“I like it when you take them off of me. Particularly when you get frustrated and rip things.”

“I’m not in an exclusive club, though, am I.”

“Don’t be coarse.”

“You’re the one who brought up underwear. You’re also the one who wanted me to come out here with you. Unless you actually needed fresh air for once?”

Gin narrowed her eyes at him. “You are a bastard.”

“Not according to the dictionary. My parents were well and truly married when I was conceived.” He cocked a brow. “Which I don’t believe you can say about your own daughter, can you.”

She stopped, the tide turning in a direction she had not intended. “That is over the line, Samuel. And you know it.”

“It’s a bit odd, you talking about propriety. Aren’t you fucking that married partner in my law firm? I believe I heard that somewhere recently.”

Ah, so that was why he was acting this way.

“Jealous?” she drawled, her smile returning.

“He can’t satisfy you. Not for long, and not the way I can.”

When he went to grab her, she let him—and enjoyed the way his hands bit into her waist and his mouth ground against hers. It didn’t take him long to lift her skirting up her thighs, and keep it there in spite of all the crinolines.

Then again, he’d been getting under yards of fine material since he was fourteen and going to cotillions.

Samuel T. groaned as he discovered for himself that she hadn’t lied about having nothing on underneath her dress, and his fingers were rough as he pushed his way inside of her. The heat and the need that came next were such a blissful relief from everything she didn’t want to think about, the sex washing away her regrets and her sadness, giving her nothing but pleasure.

There was no reason to fake the orgasm she actually had, her nails sinking into the smooth shoulders of his tuxedo jacket as she gasped, his old-fashioned Bay Rum cologne such a throwback, it made him way ahead of his time.