“Your Grace?” her maid asked tentatively. “Do you not approve?”
Her breath grew shallow as grief sank its claws into her.
Daria’s heart proved unworthy of Gregory. And perhaps the Lord knew that, and gave her this cross to bear.
For Daria hated the nameless, faceless lady who’d steal the heart Daria hadn’t been able to coax.
Wrapping her arms about her middle, Daria hung tightly to herself.
“Your Grace?” Daria only half-heard her maid’s frantic call of her name and the echo of rushing footfalls.
Daria wanted all of her husband. She didn’t want to share him with anyone, even when she was a ghost and gone. She wanted their spirits to go on together.
She wanted every living moment with him. She wanted his laughter. His smiles. His arms around her. His body, buried deep within her. The sough of his breath against every inch of her skin. His casual caresses. The ones that burned.
The wound that would never heal ripped clear open as it did over and over, not because of Gregory’s cruelty, but because of his kindness.
Her husband with a glance and hours of knowing her, gathered things about Daria hadn’t about herself.
What he’d said struck sharp in the moment, but afterwards, it’d been as if a mourning veil had been lifted.
She’d been reborn, when she’d not even known she hadn’t been living.
Dimly registering her maid’s absence.
She caught sight of her face in the mirror.
“Oh, hell.”
Scrambling to her feet, Daria grabbed a linen square. Blowing her nose hard, she grabbed a clean scrap and wiped the remnants from her face.
She knew where her maid was gone.
The thunderous noise of footfalls announced her husband’s arrival before Gregory himself did.
Her husband exploded into the room; his features blazed with darkness. His chest rising and falling he did a fast sweep and found her.
Using the heel of his boot he shoved the door shut behind him, and sprinted over, catching Daria by her arms. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice hoarsened; fear tangled with rage.
“…I can only give you what I’m capable of, Daria…I like you I… care about you…”
Daria closed her eyes; a fresh tremble took hold.
Gregory dragged her into his arms. “What is it, love?” he pleaded, running his hands over her; searching for a hurt he wouldn’t find, because it was buried deep inside her breast. “Daria?”
He didn’t love her. But he cared and deeply.
Daria wrenched herself from her torpor. Wrapping her arms around him, she clung tight. “I am fine.”
“Liar.” The harsh rasp of breath hot against her cheek—soothing. Steadying.
Being in his arms, only in his arms, made her feel this way.
“I’m not.”
He stilled.
“Remember, Gregory,” she said, as his breathing settled into a smoother rhythm with hers. “I don’t bother with lying.”
