Page 92 of More or Less a Countess
He turned his head to the window, surprised to see only darkness. They’d slept for hours. A maid must have come in at some point because a fire had been laid, but it had long since burned to embers, and its faint glow wasn’t enough to chase away the pressing darkness.
Nick slid out from under the coverlet and rose from the bed, careful not to wake Violet. He padded across the room, squinting in the dark, but his dressing gown was draped over the end of the bed, as always, and he snatched it up and shoved his arms into the sleeves.
He needed time away from her, away from her tempting body and her seductive warmth, or else he’d take her again. God knew it was tempting to bury his fears and doubts, much as he’d buried himself inside her sweet body tonight, but his heart was still wary, even if his cock wasn’t.
He needed a drink.
He fumbled in the dark, tripping over discarded clothing as he went. He’d nearly reached the door when he stepped on something, and looked down to find he’d trod upon Violet’s gown. He took it up and discovered there was something in the pocket—something square and hard. Curious, Nick reached in, pulled the object out, and held it up to the faint light of the fire to see what it was.
Violet’s sketchbook.
She’d taken it with her everywhere since they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, and she was forever scribbling in it. Nick hesitated, but then he slipped the book into the pocket of his banyan and crept from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
He didn’t open the book until he’d reached his study and had a full glass of whiskey at his elbow. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find inside those pages, but the whiskey seemed a good idea, just in case.
On the first page of the book was a sketch of him, mounted on his horse and surrounded by a sodden field. His lips were pulled into a sulky line, and his hair was damp with rain. She must have taken it the day after they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, when she’d wheedled him into escorting her over the grounds. Despite his pout, he looked rather vigorous and lively in the sketch, which was odd, since he didn’t recall having been terribly enthusiastic about that outing.
Nick lifted his glass to take a deep swallow of his whiskey, but then set it aside again as he turned to the next page, blinking in surprise when he found it was another sketch of him, this one a close drawing of his face. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a softness in his eyes he would have thought utterly out of character for him.
He turned to the next page, then the next, and then he quickly flipped through every page, his eyes widening with disbelief.
The book was filled with sketches of him.
Some of the drawings were rough, and there were a few of just his eyes, or his mouth, but there were dozens of them. Close sketches of his face, profiles, and detailed sketches of him in settings around the estate. There was one of him in the portrait gallery, strolling among the paintings, and another of him in the attics, pulling a cloth off a portrait of his mother that had once hung in the dining room. After her death his father couldn’t bear to look at it, and he’d had it packed up and stored away, but Violet had persuaded Nick to bring it down and re-hang it. There was a drawing of him in the carriage, and another in the churchyard in the village, pointing up at the steeple.
And then, at the end of the book was a sketch she’d taken this morning, when they’d been together in the conservatory. It was only half-finished, but something about it made Nick’s breath catch.
His arms were crossed over his chest and he was staring out the window, his face wistful. What had he been thinking of when he’d been staring out that window this morning? What had put that look on his face, that look of such yearning—
Her. He’d been thinking ofher.
The book slipped from his fingers and fell to the desk.
All these drawings…
She must have started the book on the day after they’d arrived at Ashdown Park, because the first sketch was from the day he’d escorted her over the estate, and there was a sketch for every single day since. All this time he’d been berating her, hurting her, and she…
Had she intended to give the book to him?
He’d hardly thought the question before he realized he already knew the answer.
She’d done this for him.
A gift. An impossible gift, one he never dreamed he could ever receive, from anyone.
Himself.
But the sketches were of him, and yet not him at the same time. That man in the conservatory—he wasn’t The Selfish Rake.
Nick’s hands shook as he picked up the book again and turned back to the final drawing. There were lines of grief etched into this man’s face, but there was strength and resolve as well, and even though his eyes were shadowed with pain, there was kindness and patience in them.
Was this…was this the wayshesaw him?
The Selfish Rake.
She’d sworn over and over she hadn’t thought of him that way almost from the first moment she’d known him, and yet he’d refused to hear her, refused to listen, refused to believe.
“The Selfish Rake”—perhaps it had struck at his heart not because he believed it was how Violet saw him, but because it was how he sawhimself.
