“I was unware,” he admitted bitterly.
He had not been exaggerating when he had told Denning they had been through too much together for formality. He was Denning’s employer, it was true, but in their time abroad, Denning had proven himself friend as well as servant.
“I am sorry, my lord.” Denning’s tone was subdued.
“As am I.” He clenched his jaw, struggling to make sense of this unexpected blow.
Was Nell that spooked by what they had shared that she was bolting like a horse? Was she that much of a coward? Had he pierced her armor that thoroughly?
Or, worse, had she ultimately decided she was choosing Sidmouth? Had he moved too quickly? Damn it all to perdition, he had thought he had been making significant gains with her. For the first time since his return, she had remained in his bed. She had fallen asleep in his arms.
What had gone wrong?
“I am given to understand that her ladyship was intent upon returning to London,” Denning offered hesitantly.
London.
Good God. Everything within Jack went cold. Because he knew precisely what she would be seeking in London:Sidmouth.
The coldness turned to numbness.
Nell had chosen Sidmouth over him.
After everything that had passed between them. After all they had shared—the passion, the emotion, the confessions.
Bloody, fucking hell.
No. He refused to believe it. Mayhap she had returned to London to part ways with Sidmouth at last. Long overdue, that.
“Has her ladyship left me a note?” he asked at last, surprised at the false calm in his voice.
To hear himself speak, he would never know he was on the verge of losing his bloody mind.
Nellie, why would you do this to me? To us?
Denning cleared his throat. “I would be more than happy to inquire on your lordship’s behalf.”
To hell with having a shave.
To hell with everything and anything save claiming his woman and finding out why the devil she had left him.
“Please,” he agreed with a nod. “Do so, Denning.”
With a bow, his valet took his leave.
Jack was alone again. Alone with his thoughts, with his worries, all his fears. He told himself there would be a note as he stalked the length of his chamber. Then he stalked back down once more and told himself there would be none, that her leaving him was the ultimate answer, more explanatory than any words could ever be.
He paced his chamber thrice, the door connecting his chamber to the marchioness’s apartments looming like a siren.
“Curse it,” he grumbled at last, out of patience.
He threw open the door and stalked into her chamber. The room still smelled of her. Exotic florals and Nell. The bed was neatly made, the entire chamber tidy and organized, almost as if she had never been there.
But she had been there.
And she was lodged painfully, firmly within his heart just as she had always been.
He prowled her chamber, looking for signs of her, searching for a note. At last, just when he had been about to give up, he saw a folded scrap of paper on her writing desk bearing his name in her extravagant script.
