“He didn’t need to know.”
He supposed Nick’s thrashing could wait. “Why didn’t you quit the spy work?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“It taught me something.”
Bile rose at the very thought, at its pragmatic necessity.
“The world would always be bigger and stronger than me, but I could be quicker and smarter.”
He took in her words, giving them the consideration they deserved, for they had the sound of a mantra. These were the words that ruled her life. Her person was small and petite, and as beautiful as he’d imagined, but also strong, the muscles showing beneath her skin. Even her stomach was ridged. She’d created this body so as to use its every advantage, to protect herself.
“Hortense, you’re my wife now. I’ll take care of you.” They were the only words he had, and they felt ineffectual, worthless.
How could he make her see?
By proving it. Which would take time. In the more immediate future, he could do something else.
He reached out and gathered her in his arms. At first, she tensed against him, but he held her secure, determined to hold on for as long as it took. At last, she released a breath and relaxed, her cheek soft against his chest as his arms fully encircled her.
No one would ever hurt her again. He wouldn’t speak the words aloud, for she wouldn’t believe him. He would show her with action.
Inside his embrace, he felt her breath grow even and regular in the cadence of sleep.
It felt like surrender and like the sweetest gift.
One he wouldn’t take for granted.
He found her left hand and gently turned it over. Cutting across the palm, from pinky to thumb, was the knife scar, jagged and red. Instinctively, he pressed it to his mouth, protectiveness—ferocity—rearing up in him. Never again would she have to defend herself thusly.
Never again.
Chapter Nineteen
Sir Bacon lifteda leg against a purple willow bush, and Hortense experienced no small amount of satisfaction, even glancing around the garden in case someone witnessed this not insignificant triumph. The fifth morning in a row he’d made it all night without piddling indoors.
She would have to return him soon, now that she knew Lady Fortescue had arrived back in Town. Surprisingly, she didn’t especially look forward to it. Somehow, Sir Bacon had grown into a fond companion. She rather liked it in the night when he hopped into her bed and curled his little body into the crook of her legs.
Not last night, though.
Last night, she hadn’t been in her bed.
She’d been in bed with Jamie and had stayed there until the sky turned pink with the first rays of dawn.
And there she’d left the marquess—her husband. She’d simply been unready to face him in the light of the new day. Not just yet.
So, she’d treaded the succession of Aubusson carpets to her bed, and lay there awake, staring up at the ceiling until Smith arrived, bearing a tray of toast and tea. She’d only taken her fourth or fifth sip when the maid returned with box stacked upon box, each imprinted with the insigniaGalante: Dressmakers Extraordinaire.
After selecting a day dress—the ivory muslin printed with a lovely twining leaf motif—she submitted to Smith’s ministrations on her hair. The woman she viewed in the mirror looked exactly her part—fashionable marchioness—and was utterly unlike the Hortense she’d known since, well, since she’d become Hortense.
Marchioness of Clare.
And not in name only.
She shook her head as if she could as easily shake the truth of last night away.
