Page 104 of Duke with a Deception
Verity finished readingthe last letter Leo had ever written her. It had been from his sickbed. In typical Leo fashion, it had been filled with hope. Hope for the future they would share together, which had never come to be. Love for her that she could still feel in her heart, unvanquished by death and time. But fate had designs for them beyond their comprehension. Their love had not been meant to be.
She smiled, though her eyes welled with tears. She had been so emotional lately. A veritable watering pot. But then, she reckoned there was a good reason for that.
It had been three days since she left King in London, and she had finally gone through the stack of letters once kept faithfully by her bedside. She missed Leo. Missed the lively talks they’d had, missed his boyish charm, his silliness. And yes, she still loved him.
But it was becoming difficult for her to reconcile her feelings for Leo with what she had grown to feel for King. She had departed in a mad rush, desperate to be beyond his magnetic orbit. King was a force unto himself. It wasn’t just his handsome face, his easy elegance, his formidable style, or his sensual ways. There was something about him that was indefinably unique, some quality that drew her to him in a way she had never experienced in her youthful courtship with Leo.
When her memory initially returned to her, it had been such an onslaught, and she had been overwhelmed by a deep sense of betrayal and guilt. How could she have forgotten Leo and given another man his place in her heart, her bed?
However, several days later, her wild emotions were beginning to settle, though a certain trepidation was added to them. She hadn’t received her courses in as long as she could recall. Not, if she thought back correctly, since before her wedding to King. What if there was a specific reason for her lack of monthly flow?
Her hand crept over her stomach, and Verity allowed herself to wonder, for the first time, if she was carrying a child. King’s child.
And as she lay alone in the bed that had been hers when Leo had courted her, she couldn’t deny the ache inside her. She didn’t only miss the boy she had loved. She missed the man she had fallen in love with.
She missed King.
She wasn’t certain what that meant for her yet. Could she trust him? Were her feelings true, or was she still confused?
Either way, the hour was late, and tomorrow was another day in which Emma and her unlimited energy would demand attention. The distraction would be welcome.
Verity folded the letter and returned it to the stack in the wooden box, then closed the lid. She knew instinctively that this would be the last time she read the letters.
She just didn’t know what came next.
CHAPTER 20
Angel (for that is what you shall always be to me),
Seven days. Seven awful, horrible, meaningless days. I am despondent. I hate myself for hurting you, for causing your tears. I hate that you are no longer here. I miss you, and I miss our dear little Emma, too.
I hope you are continuing the bedtime stories without me. She would be dreadfully disappointed otherwise. I will admit to a selfish, yearning desire to know about what the dragon is presently eating. Has he recently dined upon a “rack-nid,” perchance?
The household here is somber. I do believe Mrs. Sendall is plotting my demise. Everyone misses you. None more than I.
Ever yours,
King
“You look like the devil thrashed you senseless.”
King surveyed his friend, the Duke of Richford, who had paid an unexpected—and uninvited—call upon him this afternoon.
“I expect that I do,” he acknowledged, uncaring.
One whole week had passed since Verity had left him.
Not a word had come from her.
He was going out of his bloody mind.
“It’s most unlike you to be so…” Richford waved a hand at King’s person.
“So…?” King prompted helpfully. “So, what, Richford? I haven’t all day to play games with you. I have important matters awaiting me.”
Such as writing more letters to the wife who refused to speak to him. But Richford didn’t need to know that.
“Unkempt,” his friend finished with a grimace. “You’re usually the first one to berate us all about the color of our waistcoats or the cuts of our coats or the style of our trousers.”
