Page 98 of Duke with a Deception
Her husband.
“I want to hate you,” she whispered against his chest as he stroked her hair.
“I hate me more than you ever could, angel,” he murmured.
This time, she didn’t bother to correct his sobriquet for her, one that had been beloved to her until she had discovered the truth and her world as she knew it had shattered. They stood there, locked in each other’s arms as the sun continued to rise, bleak and certain over London once again.
And that was when she knew with horrifying, painful clarity that she was going to have to put some distance between them as soon as she possibly could.
His wife was leaving him.
King learned the news from Hutchens when his valet awoke him suddenly from the oblivion he had finally fallen into some time after dawn. Unfortunately, the gin he had tossed down his gullet had left him with an aching head and a curdled gut.
He sat up, the bedclothes falling to his waist. “You are certain?” he bit out.
Inside him, all he could think was that it couldn’t be. He had held Verity in his arms hours ago. She hadn’t pushed him away. Surely if Verity intended to desert him, she would have said so then. She wouldn’t have wept into his waistcoat and then allowed him to escort her back to her bedroom with a kiss on the cheek and the promise they would speak more after some much-needed sleep.
He hadn’t wanted to let her go, but he’d realized he had to honor her wish for space and time. Now, he wondered whether that had been the right decision. If going to bed with a bottle of spirits instead of his wife had proven his ruin rather than a way to give her what she needed.
Hutchens was grim. “The carriage has already been prepared. The nursemaid and the child are going as well. They are downstairs now, having finished breakfast.”
“No,” he denied, rushing from the bed and searching for anything suitable that he could don.
If she was taking Emma with her, it meant she didn’t intend to return any time soon.
Or ever.
Fuck.
The realization sucked all the air from his lungs. He couldn’t bear it if she left him. She and Emma had brought sunshine into the darkness of his world. If he lost that, he would lose himself.
“I would have come sooner, Your Grace, but you did request not to be disturbed.”
He snatched up yesterday’s shirt, not giving a bloody damn that it wasn’t fresh, and stuffed his arms into the holes. “I thought she intended to sleep as well. The ball went on until nearly dawn, and after that…”
He allowed his words to trail away, for he didn’t want to confide in his valet. It was too personal. Too raw.
“Where are my goddamned trousers?” he growled, striding about the room as his fingers fumbled over buttons.
“Your trousers are here, Your Grace.” Calmly, Hutchens extended an arm, the carefully pressed, fresh trousers draped over it.
King snatched them up and began hauling them on, not giving a damn if the trousers were laundered and his shirt was a day old. “Thank you, Hutchens. Waistcoat?”
Hutchens held up one of King’s favorites. “Here you are, Your Grace.”
“Has she indicated her plans to any of the household?” he demanded, finishing fastening his trousers, his heart pounding harder than his bloody head.
He was never going to drink gin again.
Or sleep.
Or leave his wife unattended.
Or keep the truth from her.
“Mrs. Sendall mentioned that Her Grace intends to journey to Riverdale Abbey,” Hutchens advised grimly.
“The devil she does,” he bit out.
