He found a hapless piece of furniture and upended it. He pounded his fists into the mussed bed to avoid damaging the walls in the neatly restored chamber. But the bed smelled of roses and Violet’s sweet, musky cunny juices, and it only made him angrier. Angrier and desperate and filled with a gut-wrenching sense of despair.
In the face of her absence, his earlier concerns over growing to care for her too much were paltry. It was as if part of him was missing. The very best part of him. The only part of him that mattered.
How had he been too bloody blind to see it until it was too late?
He had to explain. To beg if he must. Where the hell could she have gone?
He straightened, took a deep breath, then stalked from the chamber, determined to find her. To find her and bring her back to him. She could not have gotten far. He took the staircase two steps at a time, leapt from the last six, and landed neatly. He sought out the domestics, some of whom confirmed Violet had fled from the edifice, leaving out the front door, and that furthermore, she had seemed greatly agitated when she left.
His heart in his throat, he raced through the double front doors, but all he saw on the other side was sunshine, lush grass, a blue sky, and the leaves of the trees gently swaying on the breeze. He saw not a sign of Violet. She was not even a speck in the distance. As far as he could see, the drive to Harlton Hall was empty.
The cloying scent of spring hit him in the lungs as he hastened to the stables, hoping to God someone within knew where she had gone. He sought out the head groom first. The man was wiry and blond, possessed of a perpetual grin that served to accentuate the space between his front teeth and the darkness of the others.
“Was Lady…” he caught and corrected himself, stopping before he began again. “Did you see Her Grace, the Duchess of Strathmore, here today?”
“Not here, Your Grace,” said the head groom. “From what I understand, one of the ladies in residence went for a walk down the drive.”
His blood went cold, even though it was a confirmation of what he had already expected. It meant Violet had indeed overheard his cavalier remarks, words that had never been intended for her. And instead of seeking him out, she had simply fled. She had left him without saying a word. Without giving him the chance to explain what he had said.
But how would he have explained it?
The words rolled through him now, sending shame and self-loathing to spiral in his gut, to twist him in knots.
Too late to annul the marriage. She may already be carrying my child. All the more reason for Arden to keep from arresting me.Christ, he had spoken of her as if she meant less than nothing to him, when the truth was, she meant everything.
The truth was, his heart beat for her. She had changed him. She had claimed him. And he had been so determined to avoid falling in love with her, he had failed to realize one important fact…
He was already in love with her.
There.He admitted it. He loved Violet. His Vi. His wife.
Helovedher.
And she had left him.
“How long ago did she leave?” he demanded.
“An hour, perhaps two,” responded the head groom. “Forgive me if I ought to have informed you, Your Grace.”
Damn it all to hell.
Too much time had passed, but if she was on foot, he could still find her and bring her back before it was too late. “Saddle your fastest horse for me, sir. I will return posthaste.”
He was going to find her if it was the last thing he did. But first, he had to seek out Carlisle, Ludlow, and O’Malley and reveal what a fool he was to them.
Chapter Eighteen
“Iwill seehim cast into Newgate immediately,” Lucien growled. “To hell with Home Office and what they want. The Duke of Strathmore is a traitor, and he is a cowardly, conniving bastard.”
Violet winced at the virulence in her brother’s tone. But as shattered as she felt, one thing had not altered: she still believed Griffin was an innocent man wrongly accused. Though it pained her to defend him after overhearing his cruel words earlier, she knew she must.
“I do not think he is guilty, Lucien.”
“Of course he is guilty,” Lucien all but spat. “He has been colluding with the Fenians, selling secrets, putting the lives of not only the League members, but England’s citizens, in grave danger. And when he was on the brink of imprisonment, he stole my own sister from my home and forced her to marry him in some ludicrous attempt to keep himself from gaol. I should kill him instead of arresting him. I damn well ought to squeeze the life from him with my bare hands.”
“He did not force me to wed him,” she admitted. “I went with him willingly, and I married him willingly.”
And welcomed him into her bed and heart both willingly as well, fool that she was.
