Page 71 of More or Less a Countess
Since the moment she’d met Nick, Violet hadn’t given Lord Derrick a second thought. All of her thoughts, all of her emotions, were tangled up in the man standing in front of her, and whatever she’d once felt for Lord Derrick had faded into insignificance.
It hadn’t been love. A girlish infatuation perhaps, an appreciation for Lord Derrick’s kindness, but not love. She knew that now. The way her heart soared with joy when Nick smiled at her, the constant ache she felt to touch him, the urge to brush his hair away from his eyes or take his hand—thatwas love, and she’d never felt any of that for Lord Derrick.
Only Nick.
She had to tell him, to make him understand—
“I offer a compliment to your taste, Lady Dare. Derrick’s a worthy gentleman. There’s none better in all of London, in fact. I should have guessed it, of course—two of your sisters mentioned something about your broken heart. Pity, but it does you credit Lord Derrick should have been the one to break it. Your sisters seem to think your heart is mended, but perhaps you haven’t quite overcome the disappointment? You were happy enough to linger with Derrick in the alcove today, and he appeared to be more than satisfied to have you to himself.”
Violet recoiled as if from a slap. “No! You don’t think…you can’t possibly be implying something improper occurred? It’s been weeks since I cared for Lord Derrick in that way, and Lady Honora is my friend—”
“And I’m your husband, Lady Dare, but you didn’t seem to recall that when Lord Derrick’s lips were on your glove, did you?”
“He was offering his congratulations on our marriage, my lord. Nothing more—”
But Nick went on speaking, as if she hadn’t offered a word in her defense. “Well, my lady, don’t despair. You may yet have a chance to mend your shattered heart. Lord Derrick may tire of his new wife, and you’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
“Rid of you?” Violet pressed a hand to her stomach to ease the sudden sickening twist there. “What do you mean, I’ll be rid of you?”
He shrugged, but the despair in his eyes was at odds with the casual gesture. “Oh, did I forget to mention it? As surely as you used me, I also used you, Lady Dare. I needed a wife, you see, and you happened along at just the right time.”
Violet reached out a hand, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to steady herself with. “You…used me?”
For one instant he seemed to flinch at the question, but then the hard mask descended again, and when he spoke it was with the same casual unconcern as before. “I’m afraid so. Not very gentlemanly of me, I confess, but then I’m a selfish rake, and one can’t expect much better from such a man. I’ve just acquired a new Italian mistress, you see, and I’d hardly had a chance to enjoy her before my aunt dragged me back to England and refused to let me return to the Continent until I’d found a wife. Most inconvenient timing, it not being the season. I’d reconciled myself to a long, dreary stay in London, but then I stumbled upon you, and once I determined you weren’t mad, I decided you’d do as well as any other lady.”
A tiny gasp of pain escaped Violet’s lips, but it was a faint, choked sound—too faint for a sound that felt as if it had been torn from her very soul. “You’re…leaving England? You intend to return to Italy at once?”
“As soon as I get an heir on you, yes. It won’t be as pleasant a task as we both might have hoped, but it’s another requirement of my aunt’s, you understand.”
Violet kept her gaze fixed on a point just over his shoulder.
Oh, God, I can’t look at him…
“We won’t attempt the business now, however—not when you look so…distressed. Fatigue, I daresay. Go to sleep, my lady. We leave for West Sussex early tomorrow morning.” He gave her a mocking bow, then he strode to the door without sparing her another glance, and closed it behind him.
Violet stood in the middle of the room after he’d gone, still and silent, her body numb, her mind a blank. What was she meant to do now? She didn’t know, couldn’t think…
Long, silent moments passed before the answer came to her, and when it did it brought no comfort.
There was nothing shecoulddo. Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when he’d calmed down, then she could explain, persuade him…
But the tiny flicker of hope stuttered and died before it could spark to life.
His eyes, when he’d looked at her…she’d never seen such coldness in his eyes before, like two frozen gray stones…
She pressed a hand against her mouth to smother the sob that rose to her lips and stumbled toward the bed, her movements stiff and mechanical as she discarded her clothing and donned the sheer white nightdress. She cringed as the silky fabric slid over her skin, but aside from the clothes she wore, it was all she had.
Sleep. She’d go to sleep, just as he’d bade her, and perhaps tomorrow it wouldn’t all seem so hopeless.
She was about to slip under the coverlet when she remembered her sketches were still scattered over the table. She dragged herself across the room to gather them together, but she didn’t linger over them—didn’t look at them at all. She simply shoved them into an untidy pile and stuffed them back into her portfolio.
Papers and ink, nothing more, just as Hyacinth had said. It seemed incredible to Violet she ever could have felt so passionate about them—that she could have ever believed they were so important. What was paper, compared to flesh and bone? Her book—the book she loved so dearly—had it ever been anything more than an excuse, a poor substitute for the only things in life that truly mattered?
She blew out the lamp, crawled between the cold sheets, and lay there for a long time in the silent darkness, trying not to think of Nick.
Where he’d gone, what he was doing, whether he was alone…
She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the wetness on her face. She squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears from falling, but they persisted, sliding under her closed lids, dampening her eyelashes and streaming down her cheeks until at last, weary from weeping, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
