…
Rayne rested his head against the edge of the bath. Still-steaming water curled the hair at the base of his neck, but the calming heat did little to expel his anger.
More persistent than dirt, that sentiment. More pervasive. More permanent.
His garbled fury served as a harsh reminder—he hadn’t truly changed. He wasn’t even certain what, exactly, had fanned his rage’s ever-burning flame.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if the staff had known he was coming—not even if they expected him to arrive with a woman. Word often traveled faster than visitors themselves—not unusual in the least. And the residents of Periwinkle Gate were particularly protective of one another…for good reason.
But they hadn’t simply expected him. They’d expected Julia, too. They’d expected them bothon the way to their wedding.
And to add insult to what could have been a jest on Farring’s part, Julia had started behaving as she did—guilty—proving no innocent explanation existed.
Theexplanation, he was sure,involved a plot devised by one reckless minx and a former friend who possessed tortoiseshell glasses, often smelled of pipe smoke, and was prone to flashing a deceptively wholesome grin…a grin that could make the most harebrained of schemes seemperfectlyreasonable.
Farring.
Rayne was only left to wonder which party had acted first. Had Julia gone to Farring for help, or had Farring convinced her to embark on this crazed scheme? Either way, they had worked together to force him into embracing a life that, when he’d set out from Southford, he’d had every intention of discarding for good.
Over the last few days, he’d held to Julia—often literally—as if she were the only thing he could trust.
But he couldn’t trust her at all, could he?
She hadn’t come on this journey because she wanted to elope. She’d been lying all along. Worse still, he’d been about to take the greatest risk of his life and ask her to marry him, to crack open his heart, to tell her his fears and hopes, to confess that every sliver of his monstrous, shattered heart was etched with her name.
An experience he’d calllove—if he’d any idea how to define something he’d never known.
He rubbed a bar of soap across his chest, spreading suds across his matted hair. The soap smelled of lavender, just like Julia.
He closed his fingers around the soap so tightly the bar flew from his hand. The small square dinged against copper, splashed between his knees, and then disappeared beneath the water. The water rippled to stillness just before the soap reemerged.
Thud. Thud. Thud.He tapped the back of his head against the tub. The bath wasn’t helping. He held his hands up.Wrinkled.Just like he expected. He’d lingered too long, waiting…hopinghis anger would subside.
Lord only knew what trouble Julia had gotten into by now.
She’d do anything—say anything—to get what she wanted. Take her nonexistent betrothed, for instance. He’d repeatedly maligned poor Edmund Alistair Clarke, and the man didn’t even exist.
Scenes from the past few days flashed through his mind as if he were flipping the pages of an artist’s sketchbook. Julia, after the wedding in the billiards room, her face sweetly upturned. Julia, wide-eyed and panting against that dammed stairwell—asking him if he meant her harm. Julia, curled against his body on a pile of earth-scented hay. Julia, answeringI’d like to thinksowhen he’d asked her if he had a reason to stay.
He plunged beneath the water’s surface, holding his breath. He shook his head back and forth, spreading his locks as he swished. Underwater, everything muted, as if the whole world had suddenly slowed. Here, he was weightless.
Submerged in warmth.
Then, a low reverberation clanged in his ears—some object knocking hard against the tub. He emerged from the water with a gasp, hair clinging to his cheeks. Instinctively, he stood, feeling for a towel as water rained down over his eyes, his chest, his arms, and his thighs. He wiped away the wet.
Julia. Of course.
She backed up against the wall, her mooned gaze definitelynotfixed to his face.
Her curls were as damp as his own. And she was wrapped in the bedgown from earlier, only this time, absent a shift. The wrap barely covered her torso…which he didn’t immediately notice because she held his clothes—allof them, not just the ones he’d taken off, buteverythinghe’d packed in his valise—tightly against her chest.
“What in heavens—?”
“I’m taking your clothes to be washed.” Her words rushed out.
“Leaving me nothing to wear?”
Her gaze met his. “Do you object?”
