“Milady, you look quite pale. Shall I fetch Lord Arlington?”
“No!” she cried, then, covering her mouth with one hand, all but ran from the kitchen and up the two flights of stairs, desperate to reach her bedchamber as tears spilled down her cheeks.
She’d brought him here, claimed marriage, fabricated tales, all in the name of helping Teddy recover. What had she done?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Teddy stood inthe center of the guest chamber before the easel he’d had Danvers commandeer for him several days ago from one of Georgina’s cupboards. He surveyed the sketch, satisfaction lancing through him at the outcome, and deemed it complete. Perhaps his best yet.
He rubbed his eyes, gritty and bleary from staring at his sketch pad, and made for the basin where he scoured the charcoal from his fingers. Only then did he notice how his shoulders ached from maintaining what amounted to one position for what had to be hours now.
Unrolling his shirtsleeves, he glanced around the chamber, at the numerous sketches he’d scattered atop the bed and chest of drawers, then gazed with regret at the forgotten tea service abandoned on the small inlaid table.
What time was it?
Rounding the bed, he sidled past the easel and made for the doors to the balcony which he’d shut thanks to the ocean breeze’s tendency to riffle the pages of his pad and loose sketches. He pulled one of the doors ajar, and breathed in the fresh night air that rushed over him andrustled the card stock behind him.
A plethora of stars shone in the skies above, and not a glimmer of sunlight. He’d missed supper, obviously, and hadn’t sent word to Georgina that he wouldn’t be down for dinner. Likely, she’d be miffed. In truth, he hadn’t planned to miss, he’d simply been caught up—in memory after memory, and transferring said memories to paper, in case he forgot again.
Not that they’d been fully fleshed-out memories. More like images and impressions that began flooding his consciousness that afternoon following his lovemaking session with Georgina.
He thought of her now, as she’d looked last when he’d glimpsed her slouched atop the blue sofa, hair mussed, bodice gaping from his handiwork to reveal her stays and the magnificent bounty of creamy cleavage spilling over the top. He’d left her there, quite determined not to allow her to become thechinkhis father had warned him about.
“Sorry, old man,” he muttered, his voice rusty after hours of disuse, “it looks like I’m destined to disappoint.”
Assuming the earl knew Georgina, he likely also knew Teddy could never hope avoid her becoming a weakness. Likely, his greatest weakness.
And yet, he’d left her to join the army, and then had stayed gone long after he’d supposedly intended to return.Why?
He started to shut the door, motivated by a vague notion of going in search of sustenance and his wife, and not necessarily in that order, when a muffled noise coming from the direction of his wife’s bedchamber caught his attention—and not in a pleasant way.
He stepped out to the balcony, the cold stone tiles icy against his bare feet, and crossed to her doors. No light came from within the master bedchamber. It was doubtful she was inside, as the hour was early for her to turn in. She was more likely in her receiving room, reading, or amusing herself in some other way.Still.
He grasped the cold metal door lever. It turned easily in his hand.With a feeling of foreboding, he pulled the door outward, fighting against the steady breeze, then slipped inside.
He closed the door with care to prevent it slamming, plunging himself into not only darkness, but a deafening silence after just a few moments outside, surrounded by the gusting air and roar of the ocean.
No candles burned, no oil lamps glowed, and the coals had been allowed to go dim. The air smelled of Georgina and the delicate rose petal infusion that ever clung to her skin and hair, but she was clearly not present.
He nearly let himself back out when a rustling sound, fabric brushing fabric as someone shifted atop the large bed, reached his ears. Then came a distinct sniffle and shuddering exhale.
Alarm spiked through him, urging his feet to move. Was Georgina ill? Why had no one informed him?
“Teddy?”
“Yes, darling. Are you all right?” He reached the foot of the bed on the side nearest the doors and gripped the cold wooden post. Squinting, he could just make out his wife lying atop the bedcovers on the other side.
“Yes,” came her muffled reply. “Go away.”
The decidedly un-Georgina-like answer took him aback. He had no intention of obeying the directive, of course.
“I can’t see a bloody thing,” he muttered. “Kindly direct me to a matchbook.”
“No,” she said. “Leave me.”
Like hell. Stretching out his hands, he made for the marble mantel where, if he recalled correctly, a candelabra sat, along with a box of sulfur-tipped matches.
After a moment, he managed to light the candles. Their dancing golden flames threw long shadows across the room and illuminated the woman lying face down, dressed in what appeared to be a frothy dinner gown.
