The thought rose suddenly, sharp and accusatory. His parents had been dead for over two decades, their lives cut brutally short by the machinations of a greedy, selfish man, and still Godric had not delivered them the justice they deserved.
He had spent years planning, gathering information, building alliances, and yet Gregory Wightman still walked free. Still breathed the same air, still enjoyed the comforts of his ill-gotten gains, still lived while Godric's parents lay cold and rotten in their graves.
“Forgive me,” he murmured into the silence of the room, his fingers tightening around the glass. “I swear to you, I will see it done. No matter what it takes.”
The vow settled over him with familiar heaviness, grounding him in his purpose. This was what mattered. This was why he had returned to London, why he had insinuated himself back into society despite his distaste for its needlessly frivolous pursuits. Everything he did was to bring him closer to achieving this singular goal.
Everything.
And yet his mind, traitorous thing that it was, refused to cooperate. Instead of dwelling on the concise plans and strategies he had spent endless nights crafting, instead of reviewing the information Dante had gathered or considering his next move against Lord Gramfield, his thoughts wandered back to Nora.
To the way she had looked that afternoon, draped in pink chiffon like some faerie of nature and goodness. To the deep need to brush the soft curls of her hair aside so he could focus on the way her eyes glimmered as she rambled on and on about spring. To the flush that had colored her cheeks when she took his hand, the way her breath had caught ever so slightly.
Godric drained his glass and immediately poured another, as though he could drown the thoughts with enough strong spirits. It was foolish, this preoccupation with Cecil's younger sister. Dangerous, even. She was a distraction he could not afford, a complication in an already precarious situation.
And yet he could not stop thinking about her.
He remembered the way she had spoken about spring, her eyes bright with enthusiasm, her whole being seemingly lit from within. She had looked so alive, so full of hope and possibilities, and he had found himself captivated despite his best efforts to remain detached.
The urge to claim her rose within him again, that itchy, insistent need that had been plaguing him with increasing frequency. It was more than mere physical attraction, though God knew he wanted her in that way too. But it was something much deeper, more primal. The desire to make her his in every sense of the word, to hear her whisper his name, to see her undone and breathless beneath him.
He shifted in his chair, his body responding to the direction of his thoughts with predictable enthusiasm. This was madness. He needed to focus, needed to –
A knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, grateful for the distraction.
Dante stepped into the study, his expression grave. Godric's man of affairs was a tall, lean figure with sharp features and sharper eyes, a former soldier who had proven invaluable in Godric's pursuit of justice. If Dante looked troubled, it meant something significant had occurred.
“Your Grace,” Dante said with a respectful nod. “I have something to report.”
Godric gestured for him to continue, setting his glass aside and forcing his attention fully onto his man.
“It concerns Miss Wightman,” Dante said, and Godric felt his entire body tense, his mind threatening to crumble at the very idea of Nora being in trouble.
“What about her?” the duke inquired carefully.
“She has been seen leaving her house at night, Your Grace. Alone.”
The words landed like an attack he did not see coming. Godric rose from his chair slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the desk.
“Explain.”
Dante's expression remained carefully neutral as he continued. “The men you assigned to watch over her have observed her sneaking out on multiple occasions. She exits through the servants' entrance, taking great care to avoid detection. And, Your Grace, she is remarkably skilled at it. The men have lost her trail every time.”
“Lost her?” Godric's voice was dangerously quiet. “You are telling me that trained men – men I carefully and specifically chose for their competence and skill, have repeatedly lost track of a young woman wandering through London at night?”
“I am, Your Grace.” Dante did not flinch under Godric's glare. “Miss Wightman appears to employ various methods to evade surveillance. She is cunning and cautious, and she knows the city well. By the time our men realize they have lost sight of her, she has vanished completely.”
Godric's mind raced, concern warring with anger and a strange, unwanted admiration. Where on earth was she going? What could compel her to take such dangerous risks?
And why had she not told him?
The last question met an answer as rapidly as it surfaced.
Of course, she had not told him. Nora had been opposed to his interference from the start. She had maintained that she could handle herself, but it is quite apparent that perhaps she had been adamant to be left to her devices so she could carry on what was clearly a regular occurrence.
And he could not have that.
