Chapter 20
Angel (for that is what you shall always be to me),
Seven days. Seven awful, horrible, meaningless days. I am despondent. I hate myself for hurting you, for causing your tears. I hate that you are no longer here. I miss you, and I miss our dear little Emma, too.
I hope you are continuing the bedtime stories without me. She would be dreadfully disappointed otherwise. I will admit to a selfish, yearning desire to know about what the dragon is presently eating. Has he recently dined upon a “rack-nid,” perchance?
The household here is somber. I do believe Mrs. Sendall is plotting my demise. Everyone misses you. None more than I.
Ever yours,
King
“You look like the devil thrashed you senseless.”
King surveyed his friend, the Duke of Richford, who had paid an unexpected—and uninvited—call upon him this afternoon.
“I expect that I do,” he acknowledged, uncaring.
One whole week had passed since Verity had left him.
Not a word had come from her.
He was going out of his bloody mind.
“It’s most unlike you to be so…” Richford waved a hand at King’s person.
“So…?” King prompted helpfully. “So, what, Richford? I haven’t all day to play games with you. I have important matters awaiting me.”
Such as writing more letters to the wife who refused to speak to him. But Richford didn’t need to know that.
“Unkempt,” his friend finished with a grimace. “You’re usually the first one to berate us all about the color of our waistcoats or the cuts of our coats or the style of our trousers.”
“At least I am bathing, and I’m not hiding fish bones in the piles of correspondence on my desk,” he pointed out unkindly.
They both knew he referred to the occasion, not terribly long ago, when King had coaxed Richford from his self-imposed isolation at his country seat, where he’d been wallowing after ruining Whit’s sister, who was now his wife.
Richford had been in a dreadful, drunken state when King had gone to him, and he liked to think he had a hand in encouraging Richford to realize he was in love with the woman who had become his duchess.
“But it does look as if you have been redecorating,” Richford pointed out, also uncharitably, as he cast a glance around the study.
So, he hadn’t managed to have the walls patched yet. Who cared?
“One of the holes belongs to Riverdale,” he grumbled.
“Did he take a hammer to it?” Richford wondered, pointing at a spot near the window.
No, that had been King’s fist. He wasn’t proud of that, and his knuckles were still cursing him for it, but sometimes the frustration and fury at himself took him in a relentless hold.
King glared at his friend. “Did you come here solely to offer commentary upon the state of my walls?”
“No, I came here because we are running out of time, and we are growing rather desperate about what we must do with the club,” Richford admitted. “You had mentioned speaking to Lady Corbett about it.”
Blast. So he had.
“I have been rather busy, and I hadn’t the chance,” he admitted.
“I can see that you were indeed preoccupied,” Richford said wryly. “Would you care to speak about it?”
“Would you care for me to feed you your teeth?” he returned, feeling surly.
“I don’t think my wife would appreciate it very much if I came home without them,” Richford said calmly. “She is rather fond of my pretty face, you know.”
“No doubt she is.”
Richford sighed. “Would you like me to speak with Lady Corbett on your behalf?”
“No. I’ll do it.” Ophelia was his friend, and he needed the distraction.
“Might I suggest you clean the ink stains from your fingers first?” Richford asked.
“Might I suggest you shut the hell up?”
“You might,” Richford said, nodding. “And I won’t argue.
You’re clearly not in the mood. I will, however, point out that you are the man responsible for my seeing the error of my ways.
I understand that your wife is displeased with you, but you are clearly in misery without her.
As a wise man once counseled me when I was stinking like a barn, splattered in Salmon a la Chambord, and half soused, you should go to her. ”
Odd, that. Having one’s words repeated in a different circumstance, being the one given advice instead of the one offering it. King didn’t think he liked it.
“I would go to her,” he relented, “but she has asked me for her space, and I mean to honor that request, even if it proves my undoing.”
Richford cast an uncertain glance around. “It looks to me as if it already has been your undoing, old chap.”
And curse his hide, the Duke of Richford was not wrong.
My love,
Ten days. I am wretched without you. The hours that pass have no meaning. Come home to me.
Until then, I am ever yours,
King
With Emma in her nursemaid’s capable care, Verity had donned a sturdy pair of boots and a simple walking gown she had discovered in her wardrobe. Now, she was walking along the stream where she had often lingered with Leo. Forget-me-nots bloomed in tufts around her feet, small and vibrant.
The lone forget-me-not Leo had given her was still in her locket, dried and faded but forever preserved. It was a fond memory, and she was glad it had returned to her, along with the verses of the poem he had recited.
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.
Monsieur Barreau is beside himself, thinking that something is amiss with the dishes he has prepared. ”
“The problem is not with Monsieur Barreau,” he explained. “It is with me. I am not hungry.”
“But you must eat.”
“Are you my mother now, Hutchens?” he growled, feeling quite irritated with the way his valet was fluttering about like a worried hen at her nest. “Because I could have sworn the heartless wretch was dead and buried.”
“I am worried for you, Your Grace,” Hutchens said quietly. “We all are.”
Well. It seemed as if his domestics had converged to discuss him. King didn’t think he appreciated that, even if their intentions were good. He could take care of his bloody self. And if that meant not eating when he wasn’t hungry, then he wasn’t going to fucking eat.
“You needn’t fret,” he said, aiming for politeness. “I am perfectly well.”
“You have not been yourself.”
“That is because I am not myself,” he snapped. “I shan’t be again, unless…”
He allowed his words to trail away, not wanting to say her name. Not wanting all the emotions that inevitably followed.
“Have you written Her Grace a letter?” Hutchens asked.
Dozens of them, all unsent. Some of them more pathetic than others. All of them filled with helpless yearning for the woman he so desperately loved.
“No,” he said succinctly.
“Ah.”
King’s eyes narrowed on his valet. “What does that mean?”
“It means nothing, Your Grace. It was only a comment.”
“You may bloody well save your fucking comments, Hutchens,” he snarled. “That will be all.”
“But, Your Grace, we haven’t finished your preparations,” his valet objected.
“Leave me,” he ordered. “Or I shall give you the sack.”
Hutchens bowed, his expression going stiff and stoic. “Of course, Your Grace.”
King waited until he was alone again before he turned to a vase one of the maids must have brought up. It was filled with roses. And roses reminded him of Verity. Without thought, he picked them up, vase and all, and hurled them into the fireplace.
The shattering porcelain did nothing to quell the emptiness and anger inside him. He stared at the ruined vase and flowers, a few lone petals scattered about, and felt nothing. Verity was still gone. And he didn’t yet know if he had lost her forever.
There was nothing he could do but give her the time and distance she had asked for.
And wait.