Page 106 of Duke with a Deception
She bent and plucked a tiny flower, holding it in her hand as she murmured aloud, “All are but ministers of Love.”
Almost impossible to believe how many years had passed since he had stood here with her. It felt like a lifetime ago, as if she had been another person.
She had been painfully young then, filled with dreams and hope and love. Now, she was older, wiser, but the hope and love had not gone. They were still there, burning brightly inside her. Death had not extinguished their flame. And, if she were honest with herself, she could admit that the time she had spent as King’s wife had served to make them even brighter.
Her hand again crept over her stomach. Was she imagining a gentle swell there, beneath her corset? Or was that merely what her heart wanted? A new life, a second chance. A babe, hers and King’s. Nearly two weeks had passed since she had arrived at Riverdale Abbey, and still, her courses had not come.
She had yet to experience sickness in the morning as Sybil described, but it was more than possible that Verity was with child. And the thought filled her with a joy she hadn’t felt since she’d discovered King’s deception.
“I hope you will forgive me for losing the memories of you,” she whispered to the gently blowing wind. “And I hope you will forgive me for falling in love. I promise I’ll never forget what we shared again.”
It was time to move forward. He would have wanted her happiness, she thought. He would not have wanted her to mourn him at the expense of living her own life.
The blow to her head had changed everything, and as she watched the breeze play in the patch of forget-me-nots, she felt the last of the weight lifting from her shoulders.
My love,
Thirteen days have passed. I begin to fear you shall never forgive me, and worse, that you will never love me.
The house is quiet and cold. Pierpont has not smiled since you left. Mrs. Sendall’s frown is impenetrable. I continue to be desolate. You are everything to me. I am sorry for every pain I have caused.Writing these letters does little to assuage the agony within me, but they are all I have left.
Ever yours,
King
“You have lost weight,”Hutchens pronounced, frowning at King as if he had just committed a grievous sin.
And he had indeed committed many, but losing weight wasn’t one of them.
“I haven’t,” he denied, even though he couldn’t be certain if he had or if he had not.
His body was simply there, existing like the rest of him. He was a shell.
“Your trousers are too loose,” Hutchens argued, looking at the offending garment. “They hang off you. And your waistcoat…” He paused, pulling and plucking at the fabric. “The cut is wrong now that there is less about your middle.”
“I would think less about the middle is a boon.”
“It would be if you were a man with too much on his bones,” Hutchens declared. “But you were already lean. Now you are beginning to look positively gaunt.” He let go of the waistcoat and waved a hand at King’s face. “When I shave you, you are nothing but jaw and cheekbones.”
King scowled. “Don’t shave me, then.”
He was contented to hide behind a beard. And he didn’t give a goddamn if his trousers or his waistcoat hung on his frame.Once, he had concerned himself with his impeccable dress. Now, nothing interested him. He didn’t care if he wore a neckcloth or what color his waistcoat was. Hell, he was fortunate if he even remembered to don a clean shirt.
Hutchens gasped. “But you dislike beards, Your Grace.”
King waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve changed my mind.”
His valet looked at him as if he had gone mad. “You have?”
He shrugged. “It hardly matters if you shave me or if you don’t. If you find my cheekbones objectionable, leave it.”
“But you must be cleanly shaved,” Hutchens protested.
His valet was a deft hand at shaving him, and he knew how seriously Hutchens took his profession. He was devoted.
“You needn’t worry,” King reassured him. “I shall let anyone who asks know that the fault is mine if my appearance is unkempt and not yours.”
“Unkempt?” Hutchens shuddered. “I didn’t want to have to say this, but you leave me little choice, Your Grace. Mrs. Sendall has reported that your meals are being returned to the kitchens untouched.MonsieurBarreau is beside himself, thinking that something is amiss with the dishes he has prepared.”
