Copious tears had finally succumbed to the oblivion of slumber. She stretched languorously, then remembered—Blackwood was home. Obviously someone had stopped her maid from waking her with her usual breakfast. Perhaps the duchess had done so in the anticipation Serena might not be alone in her bed. Memory of the confrontation in the intimacy of her husband’s chamber brought the same anger-laced pain: anger at herself, at Blackwood, at the war, at all that separated them; and pain for the happiness lost. It wasn’t fair! She knew what she wanted, but it seemed impossible—she yearned to go back to those feelings he had inspired in her so long ago. She wanted her husband, heart-whole, charming, and full of ideals, returned to her. She freely admitted she was no longer as naive and blindly romantic as she’d once been. And with aching regret she acknowledged Blackwood’s view of life was not as glitteringly noble and pure as it had been.
