22. CHAPTER 22
H e left while she was still sleeping.
Not because he wanted to. But he knew that if he stayed in that bed another minute, with her warmth against his side and her hair spread across his pillow, he wouldn't leave at all.
He eased the covers aside. Drew his arm from beneath her neck, and then stood there, looking at her. She murmured and turned her face into the pillow where he had been.
The light through the curtains caught the faint bruise his mouth had left on her collarbone. The curve of her hip tempted him from beneath the sheet. She had one leg drawn up as if she were still reaching for him.
Walk away.
He picked his way out of the bedroom on bare feet and removed his rumpled shirt, his fingers stiff and stupid with the buttons. Instead of tossing it aside, he brought it to his nose. It still carried their mingled scents. He stood with his back against the wall and his eyes closed.
Without waiting for his valet, he drew on a clean shirt and a dressing gown and headed to his study.
His desk waited. The correspondence had accumulated during two days of absence. He sat and poured coffee from the pot Prowse left for him every morning.
On to the agents' dispatches.
After reading the first one, his jaw tightened.
The second was worse .
He flung it onto the desk and shoved back from the chair.
Another cold trail. A reliable source had sighted Alfred in Calais three weeks ago. The physical description matched. An agent had followed the trail to a boarding house on Rue de la Gare. But by the time they arrived, the room was empty. No trace of his cousin.
The second dispatch came from Brussels. A banker had processed a withdrawal matching the sum Alfred had taken. The account had been closed the same day. The banker remembered the transaction but not the man's face.
Dalton crossed to the window. The sea lay flat and gray under a dawn sky. Somewhere out there his cousin was spending the money Dalton had given him, enjoying the freedom Dalton had purchased with his wife's survival, and laughing.
Not at the escape. Alfred had always been clever enough to escape. He would be laughing at the fact that Dalton had let him.
The holding cell. Thirty thousand pounds.
Sailing into the unknown. Every one of those concessions had seemed rational at the time.
It had been the price of finding Vivienne, and he would pay it again.
But rationality did not blunt the professional shame of having released a traitor because the traitor had found the one lever that moved him.
Every day he remained free was another day the network had time to restructure, to sever connections, to bury evidence.
He was running the pursuit from the edge of England by letter and telegraph, and it was not enough. London was the center. He needed to be there. In his Whitehall office, making decisions, not learning about them three days later by post.
And there was the other matter.
The detective.
He had tried to meet with Hargreaves during his visit to London, only to learn the man had retired and moved to the country. Nathaniel had promised to find him. Vivienne's safety might well depend on it.
Every thread led to London. Duty, justice, and the safety of the men who served under him .
And yet.
He turned from the window and looked at the door. Beyond it, up the stairs, down the corridor: Vivienne. Sleeping in a bed that still smelled of them both.
Every moment in this house with her was an exercise in restraint that made seven years of celibacy look simple.
But she needed time. Time before she re-entered society.
Time to figure out who she was. He had seen the way she flushed afterward, not only with pleasure but with the bewilderment of a woman rediscovering appetites she didn't know she had.
And if he was honest with himself, he was not certain he could touch her again and stop.
He sat back down and worked to keep his hands busy and his mind from wandering upstairs. It worked until the work ran out. Until there was no more correspondence to write, nothing else he could do from here. Then the temptation to slip back into bed with her overtook him.
He went back to his bedchamber. She still slept.
Her fist curled under her chin, lips slightly parted.
So peaceful that he was loath to disturb her.
He dressed in his riding clothes and left the house instead.
A good gallop over his land was the exertion he needed to burn off his restless energy.
He met with his steward, visited tenants, and rode until both he and the horse were tired.
It was late afternoon when he returned home, with just enough time to bathe and change for dinner. Judging by the anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing her again, mere hours after leaving her bed, the ride had not cured him, only steadied him.
He was crossing the entrance hall, shedding his riding gloves and jacket, when Prowse met him.
"Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Your Grace."
"And the duchess?"
"Her Grace has retired to her bedchamber with a headache and begs to be excused."
"A headache?"
He went cold inside, remembering what Harrison had said about how feeding her too much information at once could be detrimental to her health. And what had he done? Revealed their entire history of unusual sexual exploits. Tied her. Pushed her too far.
"Why was I not notified at once?"
"You were not at home, Your Grace."
Ah yes. He had left in the morning. Like a coward. And now she had a headache.
He ran up the staircase.
"Push dinner back, Prowse. Have a footman ready to fetch the doctor."
"Her Grace insisted it was nothing serious, Your Grace. That she needed rest, and you were not to be disturbed."
But the butler's words faded as he rushed down the hallway toward her bedchamber. Bloody hell, why did he have to leave the house today? He should have remained close to her. Assuaged any doubts and fears she had upon waking. He should have been there for her. Instead, he had run away.
The corridor blurred. Plans, correspondence, Alfred, London — nothing mattered but the door at the end of the passage and the woman behind it.
He reached the door. Gave a perfunctory knock but didn't wait for the reply. Turning the handle, he entered the chamber.
She was curled on her side, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her middle. Pale. The sight of her racked with pain hit him square in the chest.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing." She did not uncurl. "I just don't feel well. It'll pass."
"If you're not well, there is something the matter. I'll send for the doctor."
"No!" The sharpness took him aback. She softened. "There's no need. It's only..." A pause. Her cheeks flushed pink. "A female complaint. It's happened before. I'll be fine in a day or two."
Understanding dawned, and with it a relief so deep it almost buckled his knees. She was not suffering any ill effects from their encounter or the revelations. This kind of affliction he knew about.
"You have your monthly," he said. As if he were remarking on the weather .
Her eyes widened. The pink deepened to crimson. At least it brought color to her face.
"You know about that?"
"I know a great many things about you, Vivi. I also know how to make it better. Wait for me. I shall return promptly."
He left before she could protest. His stride was quick, eating the space between her bedchamber and the kitchens. He found Mrs. Trevena and gave her instructions to prepare the duchess's special tea. He also ordered a hot bath. As hot as she could stand.
A few minutes later, he returned to her room.
"I've ordered your tea," he said from the doorway. "And a hot bath. The water's being boiled."
"Thank you." Her voice was strained. She was still curled into herself, hands pressed against her lower abdomen.
"If we were in London, I'd draw the bath myself. The house there has hot water plumbed to the taps. Here it takes a bit longer." He brought a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. "But the footmen will be quick," he said, aware that he was babbling like an idiot.
A maid arrived with the tea tray. He supported her as she sat, and brought the cup to her. She held it close enough to inhale the aroma, and some of the tension loosened around her eyes. She wrapped both hands around it and took a careful sip.
He watched her shoulders relax and the pain ease from her brow. When the cup was empty, she lay back down and drew her legs back up. He took the cup from her hands before it fell.
A knock came from the bathing chamber door. The footman announced that the bath was ready.
Dalton came back to her. "Come. I'll help you."
"There's no need — "
But he was already lifting her, one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and the protest died against his shoulder. He was too aware of every place she pressed against him. He carried her through the connecting door into the bathing chamber .
She looked at the bath with naked longing.
"Shall I stand you on the rug and help you undress, or put you in as you are?"
She blinked. "I thought you were going to leave me to bathe in private."
He raised an eyebrow. "Nightgown it is."
He lowered her into the water, and she stopped objecting the moment the heat closed around her. Her eyes shut. Her breath left her in a long, unsteady exhale.
He sat on the edge of the bath, near her hip, and said nothing. Let the silence and the heat loosen her tension.
Then: "There is something else I can do. If you want it."
Her eyes opened.
"I'll try anything," she said. "Paul used to prepare remedies, but nothing worked well."
"I hope to God he didn't try this particular remedy," Dalton said, "or I'll have to break his hand."
Her eyes widened.
"I'm joking. I wouldn't actually break his hand. Just his fingers. Two of them. Perhaps three."
"That's not — he has been nothing but kind — "
"I don't want to discuss Dr. Harrison." He held her gaze. "Do you want my remedy or not?"
"What is it?"
She already suspected. He could see it in the pulse jumping at the base of her throat.
"A massage."
"A massage won't help with this — "
"That depends on what's being massaged. I could tell you. But I'd much rather show you."
Her lips parted. Closed. He could almost read her thoughts, attempting to work out what he was offering.
"Yes, a massage there. I promise it will help. You used to swear it was the best remedy against your monthly pains. "
"You used to do this for me before?"
He smiled. "All the time."
She shook her head slowly. "You must be jesting. That's — "
"I promise it's something we have done before. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'll stop the moment you tell me to. Stop fretting, Vivi. I'm offering comfort. Relief."
He saw the moment she capitulated. The offer of relief weighed more than the promise of pleasure. But it didn't matter. He would give her both.
"Very well, then. Let's do it."
"Lean back."
She obeyed slowly, her shoulders settling against the porcelain, her spine unlocking.
"Draw your knees up. Let them fall apart."
"I don't think — "
"Vivi. Do it." Her body responded instinctively to the command.
She drew her knees up. Opened them.
"Good girl."
He shifted closer and slid his hand beneath the surface. The wet nightgown drifted around his wrist. His palm found her knee, and he drew it wider, his thumb tracing the soft inside of her thigh. Moving higher.
She did not stop him.
His fingers found the cloth between her thighs and eased it aside. She tensed — her whole body contracting, her hand gripping the edge of the bath.
"Relax," he ordered.
"There might be — " She turned her face away. "Blood."
"Vivi." He waited until she looked at him. "Do you think I care about a little blood?"
She searched his face. Her grip on the bath loosened.
"That's better. Give in to it."
The first stroke drew a gasp from her that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
Her knees fell wider, and he worked in no hurry, reading responses he had memorized years ago: the hitch in her breath when his thumb found the right pressure, the way her hips tilted toward his hand, the small sound at the back of her throat that meant more , and there , and don't stop .
Her body eased into his strokes. She met his eyes, and the last of her self-consciousness fell away. Her hand released the bath and found his wrist, holding it as if afraid he might leave her.
He slid one finger inside her. She moaned and bore down against his hand. He withdrew. Her grip tightened, keeping him there. He gave her two fingers, and she took them with a roll of her hips that undid him. Sleek. Tight.
She moved against him without shame or thought. His thumb circled her while his fingers curled inside her, finding the place that made her breath catch and break, and he watched her build toward it.
She came with a cry that rang off the tiled walls. Her body clenched around his fingers, and her eyes went unfocused, lips parted, head tipped back against the porcelain as the orgasm moved through her.
He stayed. Held steady. Felt every last tremor until it passed, and she went limp in the water, flushed and breathing hard.
When she pulled at his wrist, he withdrew. Went to the washstand. Rinsed his hands. Dried them. Came back to her and pushed the damp hair from her face and kissed her forehead.
"Better?"
"Yes." Her voice was thick and a little bewildered. "Thank you."
"The pleasure," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended, "was mine."
L ater — after he had lifted her from the bath and wrapped her in towels and carried her to the bed, after a second cup of tea and a hot-water bottle and the blankets tucked around her, after she had dozed off with her hand curled around his — Vivienne lay in the half-dark and let her mind do what it wanted.
Which was, of course, to think about him.
How does he do that?
It was not merely what he had done. It was how naturally it had come to him. How he had known exactly what she needed.
The tea. The bath drawn at the right temperature. His hand moving beneath the water with a certainty that unwound her worst cramps. A husband's knowledge of his wife's body.
Paul had healed her. She would never forget that. He had set her broken bones and treated her fevers and tended her through seven years of headaches and nightmares with steady kindness. But Paul had cared for her body. Dalton knew it.
If she had married Paul, she might have had kindness and peace. But not this deep knowing.
This man who remembered her body before she remembered her own name. Who ordered her tea without asking, carried her when she hurt, and touched her as though he remembered every secret she had forgotten.
If there is someone who can help me piece together who I am, it is him.