“If only that bullet had grazed your mouth and given us all a rest,” he grumped.
“Quite so,” murmured the marquess, “a weak arm is very debilitating for a celebrated rogue. There are certain tasks I can only accomplish with my rig–”
“If a woman says she understands you, what does it mean?” Rakecombe barked abruptly. He’d rather kiss a snake than ask these two for advice, but it was driving him insane.
“Bloody hell, your wife said that?” demanded Winterbourne, frowning. “Why didn’t you say? It means get home quick and don’t spare the horses.” He looked Rakecombe straight in the eye. “Rule eight. It means trouble.”
∞∞∞
The Duke of Rakecombe slumped in his study, a bitter coldness seeping through his body as he re-read Aideen’s stark note once more.
Already the house felt her absence. No books were strewn over the drawing room table and a scent of polish had doused the violets. Deep silence had fallen.
She’d left him to visit Ireland.
Except the note didn’t say visit. It saidstay.
A peculiar sensation had caught in him when he’d first read her words, his heart skipping an odd pattern, his head woolly. Disbelief and anger. He’d stalked to her room, but the lady’s maid had been packing trunks to follow on, and he’d been informed that Her Grace had left three hours ago in the enclosed coach with two footmen, the guard and a maid.
Then the anger had swiftly departed, and not since Gwen’s death had he felt such…desolation.
Bitter coldness stealing into his limbs and snatching his breath.
She’d left him.
And the note merely said she would returnafter a while.
What did that mean? A week? A month? A goddamn year?
Why had he been such a clumpish lout this morning?
Why hadn’t he thanked her for saving his miserable skin?
Why hadn’t he got down on his bloody knees and told her he loved her, because the fear of losing her to Ireland forever was now more pertinent and real than losing her to death.
Death, as Bluey had suggested, could snatch a beloved at any time – unseen and unpreventable – but it washewho had driven Aideen to Ireland.
Him and his cursed fears.
Rawlins knocked and entered with a decanter.
“Leave it on the desk,” he snarled. “And I don’t want to see anyone.”
He tugged off his cravat and flung it across the study, but it caught on the statue of Orpheus. How bloody apt. Ireland may as well be the underworld.
After glugging a stiff measure in one, he stood and paced, squinting at the note.
Of course, he knew what Winterbourne would say. Go after her. Get off that stuffy arse and pursue her.
But the last line of her note precluded that.Do not follow me. I do not need you.
An ache, so painful he had to hold his chest, twisted inside him whenever he spied those brutal words.
Finally, he’d done what he had always meant to – frightened Aideen away with his cruel remarks and scowling glances, caused her to flee his distant nature and sullen countenance.
He hurled the empty brandy glass into the bare fireplace, the glass splintering and shattering like his heart.
Chapter Twenty-five
