Including giving up his position in the Home Office.
Whatever it took.
Johanna stared ather reflection in the looking glass in the guest bedchamber she had been given at Lark House. Several days had passed since the explosion at Scotland Yard. She had lingered for as long as her pride would allow. But just that morning, the doctor who had been tending to her injuries had removed the bandage on her head and had proclaimed her recovered.
If only the rest of her had recovered just as well as the stitches the doctor had sewn. Fortunately, the deepest laceration she had suffered had been near her nape, and she could disguise the injury with a creative hairstyle so that it would not affect her appearance on the stage.
Ah, the stage. For so long, it had been the only home she had known. The sole joy in her life. Until for a fleeting moment, she had been given a rare glimpse of truer happiness. But that had all been a chimera, had it not?
Yes it had, a cruel jest on the part of fate.
And now, the time had come for her to return to where she belonged. She had missed far too many performances ofThe Tempestas it stood. Mr. Saville had been kind enough to visit her at Lark House and to reassure her the role of Miranda would still be hers when she was well enough. He had also apologized for the part he had played in bringing her to London, telling her he would have brought her to London for a tour regardless of her connections to Drummond.
She had forgiven him, for she had no choice in the matter. She was relying upon him for her wages. He had told her that when her tour ended, he would like her to star in a new play he had written. He had left behind the script for her to read, and the role was perfect for her style of acting. The play itself was brilliantly written. She tried to be thrilled, as she should be, at the prospect of taking on the role.
But for the first time in the eleven years she had been working as an actress, her heart was not in it.
Because her heart was broken. Mangled irrevocably.
The Duke of Winchelsea had ruined her in every way.
She closed her eyes, exhaling on a painful sigh that had nothing to do with her injuries and everything to do with him. He had not returned to her bedside, and she had been grateful. For seeing him again would have been more than she could bear, she was sure.
Her only regret was that she would not get to see Verity again. The little girl had stolen her heart just as surely as her father had. Johanna would miss her.
A subtle knock at the chamber door disrupted her miserable musings.
“Enter,” she called.
Hazel swept inside with a hesitant smile, carrying a missive at her side. “Johanna, you are dressed.”
“Yes,” she said, smoothing a hand over the pale pink silk of her skirts. “Thank you for arranging for my trunks to arrive here from the Duke of Winchelsea’s home.”
“Winchelsea saw to it,” Hazel said solemnly, her gaze searching.
Over the course of her stay here at Lark House, Johanna had bonded with the unusual American duchess. She liked Hazel, and she could not shake the feeling that, in another time, if the circumstances had been different, they would have been great friends.
This was the first time Hazel had mentioned Winchelsea since that awful first day.
“Perhaps you can convey my gratitude to him on my behalf,” she managed, employing all her skills as an actress to feign indifference.
To pretend as if the mere mention of Felix did not tear her apart inside.
Hazel moved closer, watching her in a contemplative fashion. “Maybe you could tell him yourself.”
“No,” she denied quickly. Too quickly, and she knew it. “I have no interest in seeing or speaking to the Duke of Winchelsea ever again.”
That was a lie.
What she wouldn’t give to see him again.
To touch him.
To kiss him.
What she wouldn’t give for everything he had told her to have been real and true.
“He is a good man,” Hazel said softly. “I do not think I am mistaken in believing you have feelings for him.”
