Page 93 of More or Less a Countess
But now…
She’d shed light on two years of smothering darkness. Gibbets, ghosts, the dreary streets of rain-soaked London—she’d turned them all on their heads, and given him a new way to see them.
Was it so unbelievable to imagine she could help him change the way he saw himself?
And if he could do that, if he could be strong enough to believe he was a worthy man—not Graham, or Lord Derrick, but a worthy man in his own right, like the man in these drawings—then surely there was still hope for him and Violet?
He thumbed slowly through the pages again, but this time when he looked at the sketches he didn’t only see his own face.
He saw hers.
He saw her as she’d been tonight, with her hair cascading over her shoulders, her face alight with hope as he moved inside her. He heard her—the way she sighed for him, her cries as she shattered so sweetly beneath him, and later, when she’d whispered in his ear…
Your scent makes me dream of forests.
Nick slipped the book back into his pocket and left his study, his whiskey still untouched on his desk. When he reached his bedchamber he crept to the bed and slipped under the covers. Violet murmured in her sleep, but she burrowed into him and nestled her head against his chest.
Nick pressed his lips to her hair and settled her against him, just as if he’d never left her at all.
Chapter Twenty-two
Four weeks later…
Nick woke with a sleepy smile and reached to the other side of his bed, but instead of handfuls of warm, tempting wife, his arms closed on empty air.
Where Violet should have been, he found only cold, deserted bedsheets.
Damn it, where—
“Good afternoon, Lord Dare.”
Nick thrust his head out from under the cocoon of blankets, and every appendage that had been swollen with hope only moments before deflated at once. “Damn it, Gibbs. You’re not my wife.”
“No, my lord. I’m afraid not. I beg your pardon for disappointing you.”
“Disappointing me? You flatter yourself. It’s not a disappointment, it’s a bloody tragedy. Where the devilismy wife?” He’d fallen asleep with her cradled in his arms, and he preferred to wake up that way, as well.
Gibbs hesitated. “I believe I overheard her lady’s maid, Bridget, tell Lady Westcott her mistress is indisposed this morning. Lady Westcott is with Lady Dare now.”
“She’s indisposed again?”
Violet had beenindisposeda number of times over the past few weeks, and so fatigued she’d taken to resting in her bedchamber before dinner. This behavior was so unlike his vibrant, energetic wife Nick suspected illness wasn’t the cause of her discomfort at all, but until Violet confided in him, he forced himself to subdue the wild leap of hope in his heart.
“Perhaps a quick wash, my lord, and simple attire for the day, so you may attend Lady Dare as soon as possible?”
Nick glanced at Gibbs in surprise. “What, leave my bedchamber without a properly tied cravat, Gibbs? Have you lost your wits, man? People will think I’m a savage.”
“Yes, my lord. I meanno, my lord. That is, no one could ever mistake your lordship for—”
“For God’s sake, Gibbs. I’m only jesting. There’s no need to become flustered. I’ll attend Lady Dare after I’ve breakfasted and properly attired myself.” He didn’t want to encourage the notion he was so besotted with his wife he’d scurry from his bedchamber to go chasing her all about the house.
Except…
Nick glanced at the cold, empty place next to him in his bed.
Hewasbesotted with his wife. What was the use in pretending otherwise? She’d only left his bedchamber a few short hours ago and he already missed her. The truth was he’d go much farther than her bedchamber to see her. He’d chase Violet from one end of Ashdown Park to the other if he had to.
Or one end of England to the other, come to that.
