by Anna Bradley
“Good. I’ll come see it this afternoon and give my final instructions. I intend to leave very early tomorrow for London, and I want the thing done before I go. I wish to present my gift to Lady Dare tomorrow night, when I return.”
“Yes, my lord. I believe she’ll be quite pleased with it.”
“Good man, Gibbs. I wouldn’t have trusted the thing to anyone else.”
“I—why, thank you, Lord Dare.”
Nick glanced up at the odd note in Gibbs’s voice, and his lips quirked. Dear God, it looked as if there was actually the hint of a smile on the old man’s face.
A brief silence fell, then Nick cleared his throat. “Ah, my clothing, if you would, Gibbs?”
Gibbs blinked, then recalled himself with a grimace. “Yes, of course. Right away, my lord.”
* * * *
“How much longer do you intend to keep up this charade, my dear?”
Violet didn’t like to lie to Lady Westcott, so she settled for feigned ignorance in place of a blatant falsehood. “Charade? What charade is that, my lady?” After all, Ashdown Park could be rife with charades Violet knew nothing about.
Lady Westcott crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and took Violet’s hand with a sigh. “My dear girl, it’s apparent to anyone who’s paying the least attention that you’re with child.”
Cold beads of sweat popped out on Violet’s forehead. If Lady Westcott had guessed her secret, then mustn’t Nick have guessed it as well, in spite of her silence on the subject? He hadn’t said a word to her, or even so much as hinted at it, but she spent nearly every moment with her husband, and God knew he paid attention to her.
A great deal of rather marked attention, indeed.
Lady Westcott went on as if she’d read Violet’s mind. “Nicholas is far from a neglectful husband. I daresay he’s well aware of your condition, but if not, then I imagine he must be concerned for your health by now. You don’t wish for him to worry about you, do you?”
“No. I wish nothing but happiness for Lord Dare, my lady.”
The trouble was, she wished for happiness for herself as well, and all her happiness depended on Nick. And if Nick’s happiness should depend on an Italian villa furnished with a seductive Italian mistress, what then? All Violet’s hopes for a life with him would come crashing down the instant he discovered she was carrying his heir.
Lady Westcott patted her hand. “Then tell him, my dear. It’s such wonderful news. I’m certain he’ll be delighted.”
Violet didn’t doubt he would be delighted. Delighted to escape England, and Ashdown Park, and a marriage that had disappointed him from the start.
Delighted to escape her.
“Dash it, not again.” Violet wiped at her eyes with the back of a shaking hand. Dear God, she could hardly go an hour without becoming weepy and overwrought these days. She didn’t know whether it was the baby, or Nick, or if love reduced even the most unshakeable among them to whimpering fools, but she seemed to be forever dissolving into floods of tears, and that was to say nothing of the nausea and the dizziness.
She didn’t recognize herself anymore. Violet Somerset had hardly ever been ill, but Lady Dare…well, Lady Dare wasn’t nearly as stalwart as Violet had been. No, Lady Dare seemed to be forever on the verge of a swoon, and she’d almost cast up her accounts all over the dinner table last night.
Quail eggs, it seemed, no longer agreed with her.
She’d swallowed the nausea back only to be overcome with an extreme bout of dizziness that had nearly sent her face first into her dinner plate, and now here she was again, sniveling and hiccupping like a hysterical child.
“Oh, my dear. Look at me.” Lady Westcott leaned forward and gently drew Violet’s hand away from her face. “Tell me what’s upsetting you.”
“Don’t you see, my lady? Nick has fulfilled the last of his promises to you. Repairs are underway at Ashdown Park, and his countess is now carrying his heir. There’s nothing to keep him in England any longer.”
“Oh, Violet, how can you say so? Why, one need only look at Nicholas to see he’s madly in love with you. Surely you must know how dear you are to him. Has he ever given you any reason to think he intends to leave?”
Violet’s breath hitched. “N-no, but he’s never given me any reason to think he intends to stay, either.”
Nick hadn’t mentioned Italy or his mistress since their disastrous wedding night, but he’d also never made Violet any promises. Even when he held her tightly in his arms throughout the night, or when she woke to find him gazing down at her while she slept—even then, when she swore she could feel his love wrapped around her—even then, he made her no promises.
And that wasn’t the worst of it.
Violet met Lady Westcott’s eyes. “He’s been…secretive lately. More than once I’ve caught him whispering with Gibbs, and when I entered his study the other day he whisked some papers off his desk so I couldn’t see them. He disappears for hours at a time, too, and I’ve no idea where he goes—somewhere in the house, I think, but I can never find out where.”
Lady Westcott’s brows drew together. “That is rather odd, but it may be perfectly innocent, and even if he does intend to leave, hiding your condition from him only postpones the inevitable, Violet. He’s going to discover the truth soon enough, if he hasn’t already.”
Violet knew Lady Westcott was right, and yet it seemed for all that she’d drawn Nick as The Selfish Rake, she was the one who was selfish, because she wanted to keep him with her for as long as she could. “I know. I promise I’ll tell him soon, my lady, but—”
They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door, and a moment later it opened and Nick peered around the corner. “Violet, I—oh, good afternoon, Aunt.”
“Ah, Nicholas. Good afternoon.” Lady Westcott gave Violet a meaningful look, then patted her hand one last time and rose from the bed. “Now that you’re here I’ll leave your wife to your care, as I’ve letters to write this afternoon.”
Once Lady Westcott was gone, Nick joined Violet on the bed. “You look pale, my lady. Do you feel better?” He cupped her cheek in his hand and lowered his voice. “I was lonely this morning when I woke and found you’d gone. Poor Gibbs got the brunt of my disappointment, I’m afraid.”
His sheepish grin, his hand on her face, his soft voice…it was difficult to look into his warm gray eyes and believe he didn’t care for her. Perhaps he didn’t intend to leave at all, and she was worrying herself over nothing.
“I’m sorry I left you alone. I woke very early feeling ill, and I didn’t wish to wake you.”
“It’s all right, sweet. You’ve, ah…you’ve been feeling unwell for several weeks now. Perhaps we should call in a doctor.”
His eyes met hers, and Violet knew at once Lady Westcott was right—Nick already suspected she was with child. He was only waiting for her to tell him, and she was being terribly unfair, keeping it from him. He was her child’s father, for pity’s sake, and no matter how afraid she was, he deserved to know the truth.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, reached for his hand, and laced her fingers with his. “Yes, perhaps we should, but I’m not ill, Nick. I’m…we’re going to have a child.”
She’d imagined he’d react with pleasure—no matter what his intentions regarding their marriage, a child was welcome news—but she hadn’t expected his face to transform as if a beam of sunlight had fallen across it, and she couldn’t have foreseen the way his beautiful gray eyes softened and darkened with emotion.
The joy on his face, the wonder there…
Violet gazed at him, wild hope leaping into her throat. “Nick? Are you—?”
Before she could say another word, he seized her hand, brought it to his lips, and smothered it with kisses. “I thought perhaps…but I didn’t dare hope. Such a gift, Violet. I couldn’t be happier.”
He tried to say more, to swallow the emotion that made the words tangle in his throat, but his voice broke, and after a moment he simply lay down beside her, drew her into his arms, and urged her to rest her head on his chest.
Violet melted against him as his fingers sifted through her hair, and the breath she’d been holding for weeks eased free of her lungs at last. He cradled her against his chest for a long time, and Violet’s eyes had just begun to drift closed when she felt the rumble of his voice against her cheek. “I’ll leave you here to rest for a while, sweet. I’ve some business with Gibbs this afternoon, but I’ll come see you when I’ve finished.”
Violet tensed. “What business?”
“Oh, it’s just…I don’t like to bore you with it.”
Sudden nausea crawled up Violet’s throat, but this time it had nothing to do with the child. What was this mysterious business with Gibbs that had taken so much of her husband’s time these past few weeks, and why was Nick so determined to hide it from her?
“Nothing you do could ever bore me.” Violet made an effort to keep her voice light. “It’s just not like you to be so secretive. What does this business entail?”
A journey to the Continent? Italian villas, and Italian mistresses?
Nick laughed, but he shifted restlessly beneath her as if he wished to be away. “It’s nothing you need worry about, but I’m afraid it will take me to London tomorrow. I intend to leave at first light so I can be back at Ashdown Park the same evening.”
He tried to ease her head off his chest, but panic made Violet cling to him like a burr. “London? But…it’s so sudden. You never said a word about it until…”
Until I told you I was with child.
“…until now.”
“I know, sweet. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped, and I won’t be gone long—just a single day.”
Violet’s head had gone dizzy with fear, but she pulled herself from his arms and struggled to a sitting position so she could see his face. “Take me with you.”
Nick looked startled at this abrupt request. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“I’d welcome the chance to see my grandmother and sisters, even if just for an afternoon,” Violet added, trying to control the note of hysteria in her voice.
He shook his head and laid a tender hand on her belly. “No, sweet. It will be a cold, wet journey, and I don’t like for you to exhaust yourself when your health is delicate. It’s best if you stay here and rest.”
His tone was kind, but Violet heard the finality in his voice, and she gave him a weak nod. It was nothing, after all—just a quick journey to London. She was foolish to get so upset over what was no doubt a simple errand.
It wasn’t as if…
It wasn’t as if he’d leave tomorrow and never return.
“Violet?” Nick took her chin in his hand with a frown and turned her face up to his. “Why are you so distressed? It’s only for a day. I’ll be back before you even realize I’ve gone.”
“I—it’s just that I’ll miss you dreadfully.”
His face softened, and he trailed the back of his fingers over her cheek. “I’ll miss you, too. Rest now, and I’ll be back before long to check on you, all right?” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and Violet, who hadn’t any idea what else she could do, let him ease her back against the pillows.
He did come back and check on her, much later, but he seemed distracted, and Violet fancied he avoided meeting her eyes. She suffered another bout of nausea in the evening and was forced to leave him on his own for dinner. She took a tray in her room, bathed, retired to her bed, and waited for him to come to her.
Waited, and waited, and waited…
After hours spent staring at the canopy above her, she at last crept through the connecting door into Nick’s bedchamber, only to find it cold and empty.
He wasn’t there, and he never came to her that night. For the first time since they’d made love, her husband left her alone and untouched in her bed.
It was hours before Violet succumbed to a troubled sleep, and when she woke the next morning, Nick was gone.
Chapter Twenty-three
The sun was struggling to shine through a heavy bank of clouds, and the normally cheery breakfast parlor was dull and dreary.
“Won’t you take a bit more sustenance, my dear?” Lady Westcott cast a worried glance at Violet from the opposite side of the table.
The entire house was dull and dreary, and Violet was the dullest and dreariest thing in it.
It would have saved everyone a great deal of trouble if she’d given in to her initial impulse to stay in bed, but she’d forced herself to rise, wash, dress, and join Lady Westcott for breakfast, despite the nausea churning in her stomach and the heavy depression that hung over her spirits.
No wonder Nick had left her for his mistress.
His mistress would be beautiful, of course—mistresses always were, especially the Italian ones. Beautiful and sensual, and…accommodating. A lush, dark-eyed enchantress who didn’t burst into tears at the slightest provocation, or cast up her accounts at the dinner table—
“Violet?” Lady Westcott’s brow creased in a frown as she took in the dried crumbs on Violet’s plate. “Surely you can manage a bit more than a few bites of toast?”
Violet sighed. She was being absurd. Nick had promised he’d return this evening, and she had no reason to doubt him. “Perhaps a bit later, my lady. I believe I’ll retire to my rooms and rest for a while.”
“Yes, I think that’s wise, my dear. Shall I come up in a few hours, to see how you do?”
“Yes, please.”
Violet offered Lady Westcott a wan smile, then set her napkin aside and wandered out into the entryway, intending to retire to her bedchamber and let sleep eat up the long hours until Nick’s return, but instead of mounting the staircase she found herself roaming the hallway toward Nick’s study. She slipped inside, closed the door behind her, and drifted over to his desk, sighing as she sank into his deep leather chair.
It smelled lovely in here, like Nick, but with a rich, faintly smoky undertone of whiskey and fine port. Violet inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill her head and spill around her until she could almost imagine Nick himself was here.
Her eyelids felt weighted, and she let her eyes drop closed. Perhaps she’d rest in here for a bit, instead of retiring to her bedchamber…
“Oh. Lady Dare. I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
Violet blinked open her eyes to find Gibbs standing at the doorway of the study. “It’s all right, Gibbs. Do you need something?”
“Yes, my lady. The land steward Mr. Quarles is here, asking for the bill of sale for some farm equipment Lord Dare recently purchased. Apparently there’s a dispute about a missing plough.”
“Yes, I know the one you mean.” Violet glanced over the papers scattered across the polished surface of the mahogany desk, but she didn’t see it, so she rummaged about for the key, unlocked the desk, and slid open a deep drawer on the right where they kept the papers related to the farm and tenants. “Ah, I think this is what you need.”
She held out the paper to Gibbs, who accepted it with a bow of thanks and left to deliver it to Mr. Quarles.
Violet slid the drawer closed, locked it, then tossed the key into the shallow top drawer, but when she tried to push it closed, it jammed halfway, as if something were blocking it. She pulled the drawer back out and squirmed her hand into the small space behind it, patting around until her fingers closed on a few crumpled papers wedged between the drawer and the back of the desk. After a struggle, she managed to pull them loose.
She smoothed the pages flat on the desk, her brow furrowing with confusion. She was as involved in the management of the estate as Nick was, and she’d seen every paper that crossed this desk, but she didn’t recognize thes
e.
She skimmed over the first document. Odd. It looked like a lease agreement. As far as she knew they didn’t lease anything, but Nick’s signature was scrawled across the bottom of the page, so there must be—
Casa di Bella Mare, a San Felice Circeo.
House by the Beautiful Sea.
Violet blinked down at the name, then blinked again, but the words continued to swim in front of her eyes. Nick had never told her the name of the house, but she knew at once there was only one thing this could be.
The lease to his villa on the Italian coast.
Violet’s breath stuttered in her chest as her gaze darted down to the bottom of the page. She must have known what she’d find, in the same way one knew a dream was about to disintegrate into a nightmare, because her breath had already frozen on her lips before she even read the words.
But knowing didn’t keep her heart from breaking.
The paper drifted from her nerveless fingers and fluttered to the desk.
He’d renewed the lease on his villa.
The agreement was dated weeks ago, in November, on the day after their wedding—the day they’d arrived at Ashdown Park. He’d sat at this desk in this study and signed that agreement, and then that night he’d crept into her bedchamber and touched her, made her cry out for him—
Made her weep for him.
All this time—all those nights he’d held her, stroked her hair as he whispered in her ear—all along this paper had been sitting in his desk, waiting for the moment when he’d done his duty to his aunt and his title and could be free of her at last.
Had he sent a copy of the agreement back to Italy weeks ago, when he’d begun to suspect she was with child? Or had he taken it to London with him today? His mysterious trip to London—the trip that had materialized only after she’d confirmed she was carrying his child.
But it didn’t much matter when, did it?
What mattered was he’d never intended to stay in England, and once he was gone, he never intended to return. There was only one date on the lease—the signing date. In the place where the lease’s end date should have been written, Nick had scrawled the word “indefinitely.”
