Madam
The older woman knew, somehow, of his reconciliation with Camille.
Renard stared at the note, the happiness of the past week leeching away into a spreading numbness that left him feeling nothing but the icy-cold floors underfoot. Fate had made its final decision.
He folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope with care, his actions slow, his thoughts a riot of chaos.
For years, every night since his parents’ passing, he’d gone in search of his death, and every morning, he’d met the light, forced to suffer another day as a walking, empty vessel. Until he’d found that light in the dark, fierce and clever, holding a rock to hold off ruin and death as if they’d never touch her without consent, as if she’d deny the ugly truth of how some monsters took and never got what they deserved.
He wouldn’t regret. Not one second. His actions and secrets had led to this moment. To the woman in his bed. His duchess who now bore his name.
He’d waited on a chair’s edge every morning at breakfast since confessing his past to Madam Clarice, prepared for the bold headline on the front ofThe Daily Newsthat would destroy his family’s name and reputation.
Back in public view, his name and new wife would be on the lips of every gossip and worth a great penny to a Madam who coined in secrets; his reprieve was over. His cousin-heir would leap at the news and use the scandal to bolster his suit for the title.
“You’re frowning,” Camille said sleepily from the bed.
Renard tucked the letter into his waistband and smiled. “I was thinking.” He went to her side of the bed and sat so he could place a kiss on her forehead. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, my love, and dream of our life together.”
“Hmm.” Her lashes were already fluttering closed. “Together...”
Renard’s heart squeezed at the sight of her, perfect and lovely, sleeping peacefully after a long night of sex. She was his heart and his soul. He glanced down at her silhouette under the sheet, imagining she carried their child.
He prayed it was so. Prayed it with a piety and fear he hadn’t felt since the day she’d left.Let her be with child.
If their vigorous coupling—the twenty or so since they’d reconciled—wasn’t enough to sprout the seed and he did lose his claim to his title, then his new brother-in-law would see to her care. He knew it as he knew Hamish would treasure his beloved sister, Charlotte, a sister who deserved to hear the truth from him and not the gossip rags.
Renard laid a hand over his heart and prayed some more, for Charlotte’s happiness and understanding. He wouldn’t pray for more time. Time was a measure of beginning and ending and had no hold on the bonds in his life. Love was unending and forever, and the goodbye he must face now would not be an end to anything. He swore it like an oath to God.
He kissed her lips this time, softly as to not wake her. Afterwards, he wrote a few words on a slip of paper and left it on the nightstand beside his wife before he went to the connecting chamber door to dress. He looked back once to etch the image of his duchess in his mind, his saving grace and partner.
To the angel in his bed or any who might be looking down upon him from on high, he whispered with sincere gratitude, “Thank you.”
And he left.
*
Camille left herdreams reluctantly. Stretching across silken sheets, she smiled at the light filtering through the curtains. She was warm and the day was bright.
And she was happy.
She knew it was more a particular person contributing to her happiness and not the comfort—though it was impressive—of her surroundings: the thick rugs covering the cold, wooden floors, the plush mattress beneath her body stuffed with the softest of down, the floral wallpaper done in a welcoming background of sky blue.
Camille rolled over to give her husband a show of gratitude, but the bed lay empty.
She sat up, bringing the sheets to her chest. “Renard?”
The dressing chamber door stood ajar.
She padded over to peek inside, the sheet doing nothing to ward off the chill. The room too was empty.
She checked behind the door and even glanced under the bed before she sat on its edge, at a loss. If the man had gone to break his fast, the least he could have done was wake her. Perhaps he was being gallant and hoped to surprise her with pastries in bed.
Camille smiled to herself and was prepared to dig back under the covers and feign sleep when a piece of parchment on her nightstand caught her eye. Opening it, Camille frowned.
The letters were so jumbled and the paper so ink-flecked, Camille gave herself a headache making out the words. When she did, her heart stopped.
Someone knows my secret. I must leave to make amends. Meet me at the Cock ’n Hen when you can.
