“Grace will be here tomorrow,” she said, referring to one of their closest friends, a dark haired, sweet natured girl who was endearingly clumsy. “Lord Melbourne will be accompanying her.” This was said with great significance, as it was well known that Grace’
Grace s intended, the enigmatic Lord Melbourne, was the closest thing to a sworn enemy that Josephine possessed. She had been trying for over a year to break off their engagement, still to no avail.
Usually the mere mention of his name was enough to ruffle her feathers and have her spouting off about how Grace deserved so much better than the secretive Earl, but today she merely shrugged her shoulders and turned to stare out the window.
“That is nice. I do believe I will leave before they arrive. Do give Grace my best. I shall have to catch up with her when we are all in London.”
“Josephine…” Biting her lip, Catherine placed her hand upon her dear friend’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “Do you think leaving is truly the right thing to do?”
Turning her head, Josephine offered a smile that fell far short of her eyes. “Why in the world would I possibly stay? I love Traverson and he no longer loves me. There. I have said it out loud, which must make it true. We were never right for each other. I knew that all along. I just… let myself forget for a time. I shall remember eventually that I find him dull and boring and impossibly naïve and things will go back to the way they were. Yes, it is the right thing to do.”
“You cannot simply fall out of love with someone,” Catherine insisted.
Josephine’s laugh was short and quick and humorless. “Why not?”
“Because I tried it for years, and it does not work. You know how absolutely miserable I was without Marcus, and he without me. You and Traverson are like that. Apart you are fine, but together…”
“Together we are what? Argumentative? Bitter? Hopeless?”
“Magnificent. When you are together you are nothing short of magnificent, whether you see it or not. So return to London, if that is your wish. Run away with your tail tucked between you legs but know—”
“I am not running away,” Josephine interjected with a faint scowl.
“Oh no? And what would you call leaving without a word to anyone, least of all your own husband?”
“I am telling you ,” she pointed out irritably.
“I am not married to you. Do not make the same mistake I did, dearling. I ran from Marcus, and it was the most miserable time of my life.”
Shrugging free from Catherine’s grasp, Josephine turned from the window. “But he came back for you,” she said softly.
“Yes,” Catherine acknowledged after a long pause. “But what if he had not? Is that something you are willing to risk?”
In a flat, emotionless voice that sent chills down Catherine’s spine and brought tears to her eyes, Josephine said, “You cannot risk what you do not have.”
Josephine left an hour later. Ruthlessly fighting back the tears that threatened to spill, she snapped the carriage shades closed and stared straight ahead, ignoring the mutterings of her maid who sat across from her, a dark scowl on her face.
Amelia had been less than pleased when Josephine had announced their imminent departure from Kensington, and her displeasure had grown with every hoof beat that took them further from Traverson and closer to London.
“…do not see why we have to leave so quickly! Why, I did not even have time tae pack everything. The rest will have to be shipped, and ye know how the post is always losing things. Turn around. We have not gone that far yet. Turn around and—”
“Melly?”
“Yes’m?” the maid replied hopefully.
“Do shut your mouth.”
For the rest of the long, arduous journey the women rode in silence. When the carriage finally arrived at her townhouse at half past five, Josephine departed first after delivering a curt order for Amelia to see to unpacking all of their belongings.
She could not remember the last time she had treated her maid like… well, like a maid, but for the life of her she could not summon the emotion to care. It felt as though someone had taken a dull knife and simply carved out her heart. Her chest felt hollow and empty. It hurt, as nothing had hurt before. Even when her brother had shoved her out of the apple tree on her eighth birthday and her arm had snapped in two beneath her it had not hurt like this. No, this pain was on a level she never knew existed. Her entire body ached from it, as if she had withstood a savage storm and lived to tell the tale.
What made it worse of all, what made it absolutely unbearable, was that she could blame no one but herself. Through her own, selfish actions she had lost Traverson. She had loved him and lost him, before she ever really got to have him. And it was all her fault.
Slowly shedding her clothes until she wore only her chemise, Josephine drew all of the curtains in her bedroom closed, snuffed the candles, and welcomed the dark.
CHAPTER TEN
What the bloody hell was he thinking?
One fortnight had passed since Traverson had last seen Josephine and every day that went by felt longer than the last. He had remained at Kensington, sulking as only grown men knew how to sulk: quietly, angrily, and with a good bottle of brandy on hand at all times.
Marcus had tried to talk sense into him, and then Catherine. Neither had been successful, and it was not until yesterday, when Grace, an enthusiastic young woman Traverson had only met once or twice before, barged into his room at first light and gave him a stern talking to that he began to see reason. Recalling the conversation he winced, clapping a hand to his forehead and sinking down to his haunches in the same meadow where he and Josephine had made sweet love under the clear blue sky.
“You there, under the covers,” Grace had chirped as she flounced across his bedroom and actually had the nerve to pull back his quilt. “Are you awake? Oh dear, you sleep in the nude as well? So does my dear darling Lord Melbourne. Not that I would know firsthand, of course. But one does hear rumors. Are you blushing? How delightful! Catherine was right, then. You and Josie are absolutely perfect for each other.”
“Who,” Traverson had gasped as he yanked the quilt from her grasp and wrapped it around his torso, “are you?”
“You do not recognize me? Probably because it is so dark in here. Not to worry, I can fix that!”
Already cringing, Traverson had cried, “Wait! Do not open the – hell and damnation,” he cursed as the bedroom flooded with light and seared his bloodshot eyes. Never in all of his life had he consumed more alcohol than in the past five days and nights combined. He had never been a drinker, not even a casual one, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now he was paying for it ten fold.
Squinting blearily at the dark haired buxom beauty that stood before him with her lips pursed and arms akimbo, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and more or less sat up. “I know you. I have seen you before with Catherine, Margaret and – well, with them.” It pained him to even think Josephine’s name, let alone say it. Thinking her name brought back memories so fresh they still drew blood every time he thought of them.
“I do not regret it. What we did, we happened between us… It was wonderful. More wonderful than I ever could have dreamed.”
“I do regret it and I am sorry it happened.”
Dear God in heaven, had he actually said that? That and more, he reminded himself grimly. Straightening up slightly, he ran his fingers through his hair and glowered up at his unwanted visitor. “Why are you here?”
“To speak with you,” Grace answered cheerfully. “Or rather, to talk some sense into you. Yes, that seems like the best course of action.”
Traverson frowned and pulled the covers more tightly around his bare shoulders. “You should not be in here. I – I am not dressed.”
“You do not say,” Grace breathed, her blue eyes rounding. “It will be difficult, but somehow I shall manage to restrain myself.”
“Why are you here,” he snapped again, uncomfort
able with the distinct impression that he was being laughed at.
“I am here because you need a swift kick in the arse.” Her dark eyebrows lifted. “And I drew the short straw. Although I think Margaret cheated.”
“Margaret is here as well?”
“With her husband in tow,” Grace confirmed with a nod. “Actually they arrived two days ago, but you were too drunk to notice.
You do not strike me as a man who enjoys spirits, Lord Gates. Are you trying to drink the pain away?”
Traverson rubbed his chin. Of the three women who Josephine was closest with, he had always thought Grace the most featherbrained. Not only was the girl incessantly clumsy, but she always seemed to spout off the first thing that came to her mind. Now he was not so certain… about anything, it seemed. “Perhaps I am,” he admitted gruffly, glancing down at the floor.
“And how is that working for you?”
Propping his chin on one hand, he said, “How do you think it is working?”
“Not well at all, if I had to guess. It appears as though you have forgotten to shave in quite some time, and you have a rather curious odor about you. I would suggest a bath, Lord Gates. Or several, as the case may be.” She grinned cheekily, and his mouth could not help but curve faintly in response.
When was the last time he had smiled? Or even laughed? He could not remember. It felt like another lifetime ago. “If you have come to convince me that I have made a mistake in my decision to part ways with Jose… Er, with my wife, you are wasting your time.”
Grace tipped her head to the side and blinked at him. “Are you doing it then?”
“Doing what?”
“Divorcing her?”
“Div—WHAT?” In an instant he was on his feet and towering over Grace who did not so much as flinch in the face of his sudden rage. “Who said that I was divorcing her?” he demanded. “Did she say that? DID SHE?”
“Lord Gates you have dropped your blanket,” she said calmly.
Flushing a deep crimson, Traverson ducked and retrieved the quilt. Pulling it nigh to his throat, he said in a more controlled tone,
“I never mentioned divorce. The very idea is preposterous.”
“Then you want to remain married to a woman you claim to no longer love?”
“Of course I wish to remain – that is to say, there is little choice in the… I never imagined that we would – bloody hell,” he cursed, giving a frustrated shake of his head. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” Grace asked innocently.
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Her who?”
“You damn well know who!” Barely resisting the urge to gnash his teeth together like some sort of feral dog, Traverson stomped across the room and glared out the window. From this side of the estate he could see far across the distant fields, including a cluster of beech trees. A very familiar cluster of beech trees… Realizing he was staring at the spot where he and Josephine had made love, he jerked his gaze away, but it was not enough to suppress the memories that washed over him.
Josephine’s breasts, heavy in his palms. Her hair, tangled and gleaming, making her appear as if she were a goddess of old. The little whimpering cry she made when he touched her intimately, when his finger slipped between her slick folds to gently thrust. The feel of her nails at his back, streaking down across his flesh. The tightness of her sheath as she clenched around him. The husky timbre of her voice as she whispered the naughtiest things in his ear…
Grace cleared her throat, drawing him back to the present. “Lord Gates,” she began briskly, “I shall not beat around the dead horse, as they say. Or is it the bush? I can never remember. Either way, I came up here with the express intent of saying what I have to say, and now I shall say it.”
“By all means,” Traverson said dryly, “have at it.”
“Very well. I have never approved of Josephine’s dalliances, but at the very least she never made any attempt to hide them from you or anyone else. That is because, despite her faults, she is an honest woman. When she says she does not want to be with you, Lord Gates, then that means she does not want to be with you. But when she says she loves you, then that means she loves you. It is as simple, and as complicated, as that.”
“But how do I know—”
“Wait,” Grace admonished, holding up one finger. “I am not finished. Love is not something that can be seen or touched or held. It is something that must be felt from the heart and once felt it shall never be forgotten.” Her lips pursed. “I believe I read that on a piece of stationary once. Either way, Lord Traverson, you cannot merely turn your back on love. It is not a piece of dust to be swept under the rug and ignored. So go after Josephine, or do not. Just know that what you feel for her, good and bad, you will never feel for another.”
A heavy silence fell over the room while Traverson digested her words and sought their meaning. “You should be a poet,” he said finally, meeting Grace’s eyes with a rueful grin.
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head so fast her long black hair, unbound save one silver comb, flew across her face. “I do not have the patience to put thought to paper, but it is one regret I have learned to live with. Will you be able to live with yours, Lord Gates?”
Will you be able to live with yours, Lord Gates?
Even now in the stillness of the meadow Grace’s words echoed through his head. Cupping the back of his neck he sighed and raised his face to the sun, drinking in the warmth it offered.
Had he made a mistake in turning Josephine away? Could he forgive her? Could she forgive him? Grace had been correct when she said Traverson always knew about Josephine’s affairs and never once had he asked her to stop. Instead he waited patiently, certain that with time her love would grow. Except when it did he had stomped it ruthlessly beneath his heel without giving it a chance to bloom.
“Bloody hell,” he repeated, surging upwards. Of course he had to go after her. What other choice did he have? As different as they were, Traverson felt in his bones that Josephine was the right woman for him just as he was the right man for her. Whatever had happened in their past was nothing compared to what they could have together in the future.
He was going to London.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
On a Tuesday at half past nine in the evening a knock sounded on the door. When the knock turned to a pounding, Josephine rolled out of bed, lit a single candle, and, dressed only in her nightgown, padded barefoot down the stairs. Under normal circumstances she would never have to attend to her own door, but the butler was ill and Amelia had left to visit family the day before.
Still half asleep – she had taken to retiring well before dark – Josephine peered through the peephole, frowned at the man on the other side, and unlocked the door.
“What do you want?” she asked curtly, pushing the candle between them. The flickering flame cast light across the man’s features, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the sensual tilt of his mouth.
“I have come to see you,” he said, looking taken aback at his less than warm reception.
“As you can see I am not receiving visitors. Come back tomorrow. Actually, do not come back at all. I have no wish to see you ever again,” she said, putting great emphasis on the last two words.
“I have traveled all day to get here.” The man wedged his black riding boot in the doorframe, making it impossible for Josephine to slam the door in his face, although she gave it her best effort.
Huffing out an exasperated breath, she swung her braided hair over one shoulder and crossed one arm over her middle. “You are not welcome,” she gritted out, her violet eyes flashing dangerously. “Now leave!”
Her unwelcome guest did not like that one bit. His mouth curling into a sneer, he shoved his shoulder against the door and slammed it open. Josephine, not expecting the sudden blow, went flying back, her bare feet skidding on the freshly polished wood floor. Catching herself against the opposite wall, she stood stunned for o
ne fleeting moment, unable to believe what had just occurred.
No one had ever handled her in such a fashion, let alone in her own home!
Mindless to the fact that the front door had been closed and locked, she whirled on her guest with all the ferocity of a lioness defending her den. Slender hands curling into fists, she growled, “You are going to sorely regret that.”
“Am I?” the man taunted, a wicked grin curving his mouth. “I do not know what game you are playing Josephine, but I think I like it. Let us continue this in the bedroom, shall we?” He lunged for her with lightening quick speed and managed to snag her wrist.
Abruptly realizing the seriousness of her situation – alone in a house with the last man she ever wanted to see – Josephine frantically tried to free herself, clawing at the fingers that easily encircled her wrist and when that failed clinging to the banister with all her strength to prevent herself from being dragged upstairs.
“Let me go,” she gasped, crying out when her shoulder slammed painfully against the wall. The candle she had set aside on the front windowsill sputtered and went out, casting the house into utter darkness. Her captor chuckled softly under his breath, his grip tightening until she could feel her small bones grinding together and she cried out anew.
“You know you want this,” he snarled, yanking her up the stairs step by torturous step. “Do not pretend otherwise. Or on second thought, do. I rather like it when you scream.”
Then I shall hold my lips closed until they bleed, Josephine thought savagely. When they reached the second floor she fought back again, kicking and pummeling her attacker with everything she had. One careless slap to her face had her reeling back, clutching her cheek as her eyes burned with tears and disbelief.
“Why?” she whispered, unable to believe this man she had once trusted, had once shared her body with, was capable of such heartless violence.
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