Chapter Nine
Asennight hadpassed. The worst sennight of Alistair’s life. He sat in Lydia’s chamber, contemplating how wrong everything seemed without her, as he stared upon the gift he had commissioned.
It was a telescope, designed and crafted by William Herschel himself.
Positioned at the window she no longer stood at, in the chamber she no longer inhabited, in the home that seemed like a prison cell without her, the telescope awaited her return. Along with Alistair. A return that, given her absence of communication following her flight, seemed increasingly impossible.
The first day she was gone, he had consumed enough whisky to convince himself she would return after her temper and hurt abated. The second day, he woke on the floor of his spinning study next to an empty decanter, his head pounding, and he had realized that the whisky had made him a fool. By the third day, he’d been unable to attempt to speak with her, so he sent her a note that was returned unopened. On the fourth, fifth, and sixth days, he called upon her at Revelstoke’s townhome where, on each occasion, he had been informed that his wife was not at home.
Yesterday, for the first time, Rand had appeared whilst he cooled his heels awaiting Lydia’s certain rebuff. Rand had taken one look at him and whistled low.
“Christ but you look like utter shite, Warwick,” his friend—perhaps former friend, given the circumstances—had observed unkindly.
“I feel like it,” he had acknowledged with grim candor. “So, it is just as well that I look the part.”
“I am sorry for what I said, if you must know.” Rand bowed his head, studying his boots, his jaw tense. “I have been stewing ever since I found out about your debts, convinced you had made my sister the sacrificial lamb upon your altar. My baser nature got the better of me, I am afraid.”
“It would not be the first time,” he joked ineffectually, attempting to lighten the air. After all, he had considered Rand the brother he never had. That he had mucked up everything, alienating the two people he loved most in the world, killed him. “Will you speak with her on my behalf, Rand?”
His friend eyed him warily. “I will make no promises, but you may say your piece.”
“Tell her that I love her, and that I shall wait for her, however long it takes,” he said, unashamed to humble himself before Rand or anyone else. He wanted all the polite world to know that he was hopelessly in love with his duchess. But most of all, he wanted her to believe it. To believe in him again.
Rand eyed him intently, much as one might an intruder one suspected had pilfered the family silver. “You truly do love her, don’t you?”
Emotion clogging his throat, Alistair simply inclined his head. “With everything in me, and so much that it frightens me. My life without her is like a night sky stripped of its stars.”
Afraid he would say more, he had gone. The ride back to his empty townhome had been silent with recrimination. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Lydia. Reminded she was gone, and why she had left.
Because of him.
Today marked the eighth day since he had seen or spoken, touched, or kissed his wife. The candle of his hope had begun to sputter. Unlike his father, Alistair was not—nor had he ever been—a denizen of the green baize. He did not game, did not gamble, could not abide chance. But he knew enough of it to understand that fortune was no longer on his side.
Sitting here, mooning over her, wishing she were here, would not make it so. The room still smelled of her, by God. Violets, those graceful, delicate spring beauties. Fitting she chose them as her scent, for like violets, Lydia was strong enough to withstand a harsh environment, to bloom with beauty despite all opposition.
His mind traveled back to the night she had gathered up a sheet like a peasant woman and stolen out of their home with her family. She had left him with nary a backward glance, head held high, all the way to the carriage. And he had been left alone, helpless, impotent with both rage and guilt. As much as he wanted to smash his fist into Rand’s nose, he also wanted to blacken his own eye for causing Lydia the hurt he had seen in her face before she left him.
He wished he had taken her in his arms, kissed her senseless, refused to let her leave. Now that she had, it seemed he would never get her back unless he forced the matter. But he had caused her enough pain already, more than he would have ever wished, and so he would not bring her back to his side against her will.
She would have to come to him herself. Because she wanted to. Because, like him, she could not bear to spend another day without being in his arms and in his bed. Because she loved him. And all that, he thought with a bitter chuckle, seemed about as likely as a star falling into his lap.
“Alistair.”
His entire body went rigid at that voice, so mellifluous and beloved. The voice he had longed to hear and had imagined he heard in the midst of the night when he woke frustrated and alone.
Lydia’s.
He shot off the bed, turning to find her standing just within the threshold of the chamber, resplendent in a purple evening gown. Silk violets were tucked into her hair. She was so lovely he lost the ability to speak for a full minute. All he could do was stare at her, inhale the sight of her as if she were air, necessary and delicious, filling his lungs. Giving him life. And she was. She did, simply bybeing. She was that bloody essential to him.
Why was she here? Hope fluttered within him, but he forced it down lest he become bitterly disappointed. He swallowed. “Lydia.”
Her brother hadbeen right. Alistair looked awful. Dark circles marred the tender flesh beneath his blue eyes. He had not shaved since she had seen him last, and a dark beard cloaked his firm, wide jaw, hiding the precious expanse of skin where she knew by heart his dimples would appear if he smiled genuinely enough. Though it had only been a week since she had fled to mend her wounded heart, his already lean frame seemed a bit sparer. He wore no cravat, coat, or waistcoat, and gone was the polished Corinthian she had come to expect.
The version of Warwick before her seemed wilder. He took two steps toward her before stopping, seeming to collect his thoughts. She knew she ought to say something—anything—but she had not quite prepared for the sensations that buffeted her upon seeing him again.
“Alistair,” she returned, equally wary as she watched him.
His buff breeches made it impossible not to notice his long legs, those muscled thighs. He was so tall, so strong. She longed to bury her face in his throat, kiss the masculine protrusion of his Adam’s apple, to make her way across his jaw, press her mouth to each one of his dimples. But she fell into his eyes, for they were burning and bright and greedy as they fixated upon her, and gleaming with love.
