“I was not feeling myself,” she said coolly.
His gaze traveled over her, lingering upon the pillow beneath her leg before snapping back to hers. “Your leg is hurting?”
His concern seemed unfeigned, and it, too, pricked her heart. “It is aching a little more than ordinary after I spent a great deal of yesterday upon my feet.”
Searle’s frown deepened. “Why were you upon your feet?”
She stared at him, unwilling to make the admission. “Will you not seat yourself for this interview, my lord? I little wish to continue looking up at you.”
Her voice was sharper than she intended, but she was feeling sharper today, rather like a knife which had just been honed. Perhaps it was what she needed to gird herself. To defend herself and her heart, both. Why, oh why, did this man have the power to affect her as no other before him ever had?
He sat on the fainting couch in the seating area of her apartments, opposite her, looking distinctly out of place amidst the gilt and femininity of her chamber. “You did not answer my question. Why were you upon your feet so much?”
For a moment, Leonora considered fabricating a less mortifying answer, but in the end, what could she say? That she had been dancing all evening?
“I was worried about you,” she admitted. “I was pacing, awaiting your return, my silly imagination conjuring up all manner of unfortunate incidents which could have kept you from returning.”
The harsh lines of his face relaxed, softening into an expression she had only seen on his face during their times of intimacy in the past, tenderness. He cocked his head, considering her solemnly. “And what manner of nefarious ends did you imagine for me, Leonie?”
Again, the sound of his name for her, uttered in his sinful voice, performed untold feats upon her ability to resist him. “A carriage accident, or a fire at your club. A pickpocket attempting to rob you and then delivering a mortal wound when you resisted, as of course you would.”
“Ah, Leonie. Once again, you prove I am not worthy of you.” He paused before issuing a self-condemning sigh. “The truth is far worse than any of those fictional scenes, though I must say, I take offense you do not think me capable of defending myself against being murdered by a lowly London street thief. But I shall tell you what delayed me just the same.”
Here it was. She braced herself, wondering if he was about to admit he had taken on a paramour. Leonora stroked Caesar’s fur with more vigor than necessary, causing him to rise, give his body a solid shake, and leap to the floor. He strode over to Searle, sniffing his calves and shoes. “Little traitor,” she grumbled at the canine.
“Good fellow,” Searle murmured, patting his head. “Although indeed, I, too, must question your judgment.” He paused, glancing back at Leonora and wincing. “I was at my club.”
“Mr. Kirkwood’s club?” she queried, sitting up straighter at the revelation. She had been at home, worrying over him, fretting for hours, and he had beenat his club? The scoundrel.
“The same.” He inclined his head. “I am afraid I partook of too much of Mr. Kirkwood’s fine Scottish whisky, and I…devil take it, Leonie, I got thoroughly soused, and Mr. Kirkwood lent me a room to restore myself to some semblance of order before returning home. I am not proud of my actions, but there is the truth for you, plainly and simply.”
Her dudgeon had returned in spades. Fury lanced through her, making her spine stiffen. “Why would you do such a thing? Is it the source of your nightmares? Does the part of your past at war that haunts you drive you to drink?”
He went rigid at her reference to his nightmares, which he refused to acknowledge. She had been hoping having Caesar would soothe him as the Duchess of Whitley claimed the pup she had given her husband had done for him. Not a panacea, but a means of ameliorating the anguish, at least.
But instead, he had spent the entirety of the day drinking spirits in such a great quantity, Freddy’s beleaguered husband had been forced to give him a chamber to compose himself. And even upon his return, he had still smelled of liquor.
“I do not wish to speak of my time at war,” he said slowly, as if he fought to keep his voice even and calm. “Iwill notspeak of it. Not with you, not with anyone. But I can promise you that what occurred yesterday will not happen again. And I can also do my best to earn your forgiveness, beginning now.”
Leonora watched as Caesar huddled ever closer to Searle, pressing his snout into the marquess’s open palm and sniffing deeply, then licking. She noted her husband had not stopped stroking the pup’s fur or scratching his head ever since Caesar had defected to him.
Of course, she could not force Searle to share the painful details of his time at war with her. She could not fathom what he must have endured, and she had no doubt his suffering informed the man he was now, complex and enigmatic, hot then cold, always somehow beyond her comprehension.
“Why yesterday?” she could not help asking, the words leaving her before she could think better of them. They had spent an almost enchanted sennight together, and then he had disappeared. She could not help but to wonder if it was something she had done, something she had said, which had driven him from her side, propelling him to seek mindlessness at the bottom of a whisky bottle.
He swallowed, and she saw the dip of his Adam’s apple before it disappeared beneath his cravat. She loved his throat, such a place of vulnerability, laden with his masculine scent, and the urge to bury her face there and inhale deeply hit her with a pang. Angry as she was with him, she nevertheless found resisting him difficult. He was her weakness, and her heart knew it. So, too, did her traitorous body.
This man was hers, and she was his. Sometimes, it seemed as if a deeper, heretofore undiscovered part of herself had always understood she belonged to this man. Fate. Destiny. Whatever the word, whatever the name, the effect he had upon her was unlike anyone and anything else. She could not deny it. Could not deny him, for that matter.
“The way I desire you, Leonie,” he rasped. His vibrant gaze met hers, verdant with flecks of cinnamon and gold. “It terrifies me. Makes me weak. I have never felt for another woman even an inkling of the feelings you inspire within me. And I…I thought I had lost my ability to feel anything a long time ago.”
She bit her lower lip, stifling a sob that had risen within her. A sob for his pain. Her fingers knew the ridges of the scars marking his back. He had been brutally flogged, burned, and only the Lord and Searle knew what other excruciating indignities had befallen him.
“I am your wife now, Searle.” She paused, summoning her courage for what she truly wished to say. “If you seek anything, let it be me.”
His jaw tensed, his expression freezing over, and she knew she had said too much. He was proud, untouchable. He did not want her aid or her sympathy.
“You know what I want from you, wife.” His voice, too, had gone as cold and remote as the rest of him.
