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The imperious lift of her chin and haughty expression on her lovely face clued him into her identity. She was also vaguely familiar. “Your Grace, I presume?”
She tossed back her hair, and he saw that the duchess wore no shoes, only silken stockings. “You presume correctly, Lord Wycliffe. Gentlemen are not allowed on the premises.”
“I will leave, as soon as you reveal the whereabouts of my countess.”
“I am not aware—”
“Prue would not have left without informing her…friends. Please do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”
The duchess gave him a critical once over.
“Are we to have this conversation in the hallway?” he snapped.
“Yes,” she said with a mocking smile. “I am sure when Prue is ready, she will send the appropriate correspondence informing you of her whereabouts.”
“I must see my wife today.”
Her gaze narrowed. “And why is that Lord Wycliffe?”
“There are important things that she must know that cannot wait.”
“What are those things?”
“None of your business, duchess,” he said flatly.
She flushed in apparent mortification. “How can I tell you where she is when I do not know if you will cause her hurt by—”
“I would never deliberately hurt my wife in either words or deed. They are things that will let her know she is entirely necessary to my existence, and without her happiness and love, I am just a shadow of a man. I do not want her to sleep even one night believing things that are not true.”
The duchess graced him with a radiant smile while a few ladies who had paused on the stairs in various states of deshabille squealed.
Bloody hell. Oscar had forgotten their frozen and inquisitive audience. He carefully did not look at them to preserve their modesty, even though the quick glance earlier had only shown loose hair and bare feet.
“She is off to Kent to stay at a charming and peaceful cottage my husband owns. She is only ahead of you by an hour at most. I shall get the directions for you.”
The duchess then hurried away, still not inviting him to sit. He thought her refreshingly rude and honest. A few minutes later, he galloped down the streets of London and toward his wife.
Prue did notlike that she was running away from facing Oscar for another night. It had proved too difficult to protect her heart when he took her into his bed and ravished her until she was limp with exhausted pleasure. How could she get inured to the man if she was around him daily and assaulted with such sensual pleasures? It was better she shut up her feelings away from the man, without his every touch and kiss hammering at the wall she had fought so determinedly to erect. She had been trying to give him what he wanted, to be his correct countess who would smile and make polite conversation and never expect anything more from him. They had married for their mutual benefit, and he had her money, and she had the title he had bestowed on her when they married. She would do nothing to disgrace him, but she valued her dowry and his title less than a loving heart. She no longer found herself prepared to accept such a sterile existence. Better by far for them to live their own lives apart. Then she could grieve for the love that would never be and eventually her heart would harden and stop yearning for him and his caresses.
Even accepting all this, every jostle of the carriage over the ground reminded her that she was leaving him and would be apart from him. Perhaps for a few months, perhaps for longer, perhaps it would be forever. Her departure was necessary, and its reasons were sensible, she told herself over and over. She doubted that Oscar would miss her or even try to understand her reasons. Still, she had to leave and would take the time to heal herself. It was the correct decision, she told herself once more. Then the wretched tears would flow again.
She stiffened her spine as the carriage slowed. Brushing aside the carriage curtains, she barely made out the outline of a large figure on a horse riding alongside them. Her heart lurched at the thought they might have encountered a highwayman blasted through her.
“What is it, my lady?” her maid asked.
“I am not certain why we are slowing, Martha; surely we have not reached our destination already.”
Reaching over, she took up the cane, which held a hidden sword and firmly gripped it. The carriage stopped, and the door swung open, to reveal her husband, who faltered into profound stillness at finding the tip of a rapier at his throat.
“I should have known skewering a man was a part of your repertoire.”
That dry wit had her heart stuttering and a warm feeling settled deep and low in her belly. Her heart raced exquisitely as her joy at seeing him merged with the agonizing pain and loss at leaving him. She could not fully separate the tangled enigma of emotions she felt for the dratted man.
“I thought you might be a highwayman,” she said defiantly, lowering the blade. She could not bear to look at him while she sheathed the rapier and asked, “Oscar, what are you doing?”
He hauled himself into the carriage to sit opposite her. A glance at her maid saw Martha scurrying from the carriage and closing the door behind her.
“Oscar, I—”
