Private Arrangements

by Sherry Thomas

vulgarity of all vulgarities, she had an abiding interest in commerce, in the making of goods and money.

It had been a relief to be with Theodora. They’d met in St. Petersburg, where their mothers shared the use of a troika. He’d been fifteen then, she sixteen. She was as poor as he and, like him, lived in fashionable places in unfashionable seasons. They understood each other’s plight without ever needing to speak a word of it.

She was the daughter of an entrepreneurial man. She understood that even the most careful nurturing didn’t always yield the fruits one sought.

He had changed into a silk dressing gown, as sleek and dark as the piano itself. His hair was rumpled, but otherwise he looked serious, intent, a man with a purpose. An excellent man, the consensus had always been: a most dutiful son, a caring brother, a faithful friend—all that and social graces too. And a streak of subterranean viciousness that had to be experienced to be believed.

She was wrong. It wasn’t about Theodora. It had never been about Theodora. It was always about her.

She had done it. For some reason she had decided that she must have him, so she’d had the letter forged. Of course it was her; she was by far the most devious person he had ever come across. And he, horny fool that he was, had played along ever so willingly. How immeasurable her satisfaction must have been to see him this morning, knowing that her victory was complete and that he’d melt in her hand as readily as a piece of suet. Anger—burning, icy, dark as the pits of hell—took over every cell of his body. He clung to that anger, for it dispelled pain and kept it at bay.

He did not want her to recognize the beast in him. He wanted her to panic, to despair, but to still want him, still think him the most perfect man that ever lived.

He’d come for her. For whatever reason, he’d come for her. And they’d missed each other, as if Shakespeare himself had scripted their story on a day of particular misanthropy.

There’d been a time in her life when she’d have walked barefoot over a mile of broken glass for a reconciliation with him.

“Yes, I would,” said Camden. He was home at last. He would never leave again.

There was no such thing as a marriage with one happy spouse. Both must be or neither.