She’d left him.
He moved to inspect the wardrobe, finding it full of her things, dresses in a dozen purple hues, shoes piled below. On the dressing table, powder and hairbrushes, pins and baubles, a bracelet she’d worn at lawn bowls. Earbobs he recognized from one evening’s dinner.
She’d left him, and quickly.
Goddammit, she’d told him she loved him, and she’d sped from the house as though hell itself was chasing her. Like Merope and the Pleiades taking flight as doves. And Malcolm, blind and desperate Orion, forced to hunt her again. Like a fool.
He bit back the scream of rage that threatened to loose itself in the dark room and went to the window, open to let in the summer’s night breeze. The room faced the drive, a long, lingering path that led to the main road and then to the London post road.
There was no sign of the carriage, no lantern light flickering in the distance, no indication that she’d ever been here.
He placed his hands on the windowsill, clutching it until the stone and wood bit into his palms, and whispered her name with all the rage and desperation and love he could find.
She’d left him, like a damn coward.
And then the thought came, cold and harsh and terrifying. What if she’d run again?
He went stick straight. She wouldn’t run again. Not the way she had before. She’d left with her sisters this time. They wouldn’t let her go, would they?
Words echoed, memory of the day she’d appeared in Parliament and asked for the divorce he never intended to give her. I have no reason not to end our unhappy union. I have nothing to lose.
No reason not to run. Nothing to lose.
And she didn’t have anything to lose. She’d made sure of it. She’d returned to London on the arm of the American, with whom she had friendship and nothing else. She sang in a tavern. Slung whiskey as what—a lady barkeep? She had money—her father’s and his mother’s—and nothing to tie her to London.
But she had him, dammit.
“She said she loved me!” His harsh, broken whisper cut through the darkness, and he closed his eyes, fists clenched at his sides. “How could she leave me?”
Love is not enough.
“Your Grace?”
He spun, heart in his throat, to face Lady Felicity Faircloth, framed in the doorway, a lantern in one hand and Sesily’s damn cat in the other. He shook his head to clear it. He did not have time for these girls. “It was never real, Lady Felicity,” he said. “You were a ruse.”
She nodded. “I know. Anyone with eyes in their head could see that you and the duchess were for each other and no one else.”
“Anyone but the duchess could see it, I think you mean.” He could not keep the frustration from his tone.
“I think she sees it, too, you know,” she said. “But far be it from me to get involved.”
“You’re standing in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat, so I think you are rather involved already,” he pointed out.
She nodded, a smile playing over her lips. “That may well be true.”
“As a matter of fact, I cannot think of a less appropriate location for you than in my bedchamber holding my wife’s sister’s cat.”
The smile broadened. “Are you planning to debauch me in some way?”
“I am not.”
“Well then I think I am perfectly safe. Also, the cat seems to dislike you.”
Mal looked to the white animal, who appeared perfectly content in Felicity Faircloth’s arms. “I thought we’d reached a détente, honestly.”
The cat yowled.
“Oh, yes, it seems so.” She paused. “The point is, I think my person is quite safe with you.”
“There was a time when I would have been disappointed with that assessment.”
Felicity smirked. “I imagine you were younger then. And less besotted with your wife, which puts a considerable damper on a man’s dangerousness.”
“Definitely younger, likely not at all less besotted with my wife.”
“That seems to be a problem for you.”
“Considering I regularly lose her, I would have to agree,” he replied, unable to find humor in the situation.
Felicity Faircloth took pity on him then. “I’m afraid I’ve something to tell you, Your Grace, and I do not think you will enjoy hearing it.”
He moved to the low shelf by the window and fetched a flint box, lighting the lantern there, at once making the room more welcoming for the young woman and more devastating for him. There was a hatbox at the foot of Sera’s bed, open and empty, as though she’d had neither time nor inclination to fill it and take it with her.
And next to it, a piece of paper. Folded haphazardly, a scribbled M its only adornment. He opened it, his heart pounding.
I cannot stay.
I await news from Parliament.
—S
He swore, harsh and unpleasant, and crushed the paper in his hand.
He looked to Felicity. “Is it more or less enjoyable than hearing that my wife has left me . . . again?”
The young woman’s pause unsettled, he had to admit. And then, “Well, to be honest, it is less enjoyable, I’d imagine. Considering the events of the morning.” She paused, rushing to clarify, “The ones I witnessed, that is.”
Mal’s stomach twisted. “Go on then.”
She sighed and crouched, lowering the cat to the floor. With no hesitation, the animal leapt into the hatbox and sat carefully inside, watching the two of them with serious, unwavering eyes.
Mal did his best to ignore the creature, turning, instead, to face Felicity, who had fetched a piece of paper from somewhere, and was now unfolding it.
“Have you prepared a speech of some kind?” he said, knowing he was being intentionally difficult.
She cut him a look, but ignored the question. “This arrived via my lady’s maid an hour ago.”
Mal did not like the sound of that. His gaze flickered to the escritoire in the corner, where a blotter and pen were left in disarray, as though his wife had dashed off a letter before she fled.
A letter to this woman, for some reason. “Go on.”
Felicity nodded, and proceeded to read aloud. “Dear Lady Felicity, You must know I am very fond of you. You are intelligent and forthright and, most of all, strong. You have a mind of your own and are unafraid to speak it, all things that will serve you well.” She paused and looked at Mal, and he read the nervousness on her face. Recognized it. Felt it himself, loathing the anticipation of the words that were to come. Loathing the words themselves even before the lady read them. Wanting to stop her. Knowing that whatever she had to say must be said.
She persisted. “All those things will serve Malcolm well, also.”
“No,” he said, unable to keep the word from exploding from his chest.
Felicity Faircloth looked to him, in clear affront. “Of course not.”
“Then why . . . ?”
She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. Then, simply, “She doesn’t seem to care how we feel about it, Your Grace.”