Page 32 of My Darling Mr. Darling

That cool sensation that had skittered down her spine, those tears that had stung her eyes—that had beenrelief. Something hard and tight that had been wrapped around her heart like a fist these last years had simply—relaxed. The storm in her head, in her heart, had, for a glorious few seconds, gone utterly quiet.

It had been a kind of death, to hear herself so exposed. But it had also been a rebirth. Every ugly thing she had done, every terrible lie she had told and lived and breathed—they had all felt like stains upon her soul. After a while, she had simply collected them. What was one more lie, one more theft, one more wicked deed when weighed against the sum she had already amassed? But they had weigheduponher nonetheless.

There had been so many tangled lies drifting about in her head that she had long been unable to discern what the truth was. She had lived in fear of anyone discovering how tainted her soul was, how burdened her conscience—she had withdrawn from everyone like a feral animal, frightened and snappish. Determined never to let anyone close enough to truly see her.

Even Edward—the footman he’d mentioned—had not come close enough to crack through the icy veneer in which she had shrouded herself. She wouldn’t have called it anaffaire. A tryst, perhaps. A liaison, even. It had been only a few simple moments of weakness, because it had been so long since she had been touched with any affection. And there had been too much worry in it to let it grow into anything more. Maids were turned out if they were caught carrying on, and a child would have meant a sharp and steep descent into the poorhouse.

She had already fallen so far.

Except her private plunge—the personal hell she had held cradled in her chest—had not been private at all. Mr. Darling had witnessed it. Witnessed, andcelebrated. And not with the vindictive joy of a man who had successfully brought low a hated foe, but with pride.Pride, when he’d had her humiliation sitting in the palm of his hand, a perfect dagger to thrust into her breast.

She had expected condemnation to come on swift wings. She hadnotexpected absolution. Certainly she had never expected it fromhim.

Her own untouched glass of wine beckoned, and she snatched it up as well. She had spent so many years hating the man who was her husband—and he had forgiven her that, too. How was she meant to reconcile that with the loathing that had become second nature to her? The fear that had followed her from place to place, position to position? What did it mean if he were not the monster she had always believed him to be?

Strange, how forgiveness could cut deeper than scorn. Already she felt lighter, as if the staggering weight of the guilt she had carried had lessened to merely burdensome. But the accompanying nakedness—the horrible reality of being known so intimately—was nearly unbearable.

An odd, strangled sob caught in her throat, and she swallowed it back down with another mouthful of wine. And another. The bottle just there—and she reached next for that.

Mr. Darling had left her with too many thoughts and a mountain of dishes that would have to be washed before morning, lest his late-night visit be discovered. The wine would blunt the sharp edges of those thoughts until she’d cleared away the evidence of his presence.

But even the blessed blur found at the bottom of the bottle could not erase the lingering burn of that kiss, and she found herself laying her palm across her forehead—but she did not know whether it was to scrub it away or press it into her skin.

Chapter Twelve

“Why do I feel like a child about to be called out upon the carpet?” John inquired as he entered Grey’s office the following morning to find the man seated behind his desk, wearing an expression that could best be described as imperious.

“I don’t know, John. Have you a guilty conscience, perhaps?” It was a leading question, one which made it entirely clear that he was already fully aware of what had transpired last evening—if not the details, then at least the essentials. Which was that John had not, precisely, followed their agreement to the letter.

“Violet?” John asked, sinking into a chair. But she had not seemed the sort to carry tales.

Grey shook his head, steepling his fingers in a calculating manner that John had no doubt had brought lesser men to their knees with dread. “If she has had complaints, she’s not breathed a word of them to Mouse,” he said. “The house is watched at all hours. I don’t take chances with my wife’s safety or happiness. Naturally, you were observed.”

Naturally. He’d climbed through a bloody window for nothing, then. “If Violet has had no complaints, I can’t see why you should have.”

Grey’s brows rose. “I don’t believe I said that I had complaints.”

“Then why the hell have you summoned me here at an ungodly hour of the morning?” John gritted out between clenched teeth.

“To congratulate you,” Grey said. “My man tells me she let you in through the window. That’s a half-step away from a door. However did you manage it?”

“Bribery,” John snapped. “For which you may thank your wife. Serena had her on sickroom fare, and Violet does not favor beef tea and porridge.”

“Ah. Bought for the price of a decent meal.” Grey relaxed his posture, reclining in his chair. “It’s cheaper than some men get wives, I suppose. Mine cost a bloody fortune, in fact.”

John let out an exasperated breath. “If only it were so simple. She hates me.” It hadn’thurt, exactly. He’d expected as much. It was more that it was a perfect confirmation of everything he’d imagined of her; the consequences of his actions come home to roost. She was entitled to her hatred. She’d earned that right. No; he’dgivenher that right. But he did not like that he had driven her to it.

“Well, then, you’ll be wanting this back.” From a desk drawer, Grey withdrew a folio and slid it across the surface of the desk. The agreement John had had drafted for a settlement in the event of an annulment. “It’s very generous. I found no fault with it.”

“Of course it’s generous. She has more right to the business than I have.” He pulled the folio off the desk, held it in his hand. It was just simple leather, just a few dozen pages contained therein. There was no reason for it to weigh upon him as heavily as it did.

“But you’ve worked for it,” Grey said. “Put your heart and soul into that company, to the best of my knowledge. It’s several times more profitable than it was in her father’s day. If you gave her the full value of the company at the time of her father’s death, it would be less than a quarter of what she’d retain beneath that agreement. You’d surrender so much to her?”

He could have told Grey that between the two of them, he had little doubt that Violet had worked harder. Though the wages she had been paid for her labor would not be a fraction of what he possessed, it didn’t mean her labor held less value. It didn’t meanshewas worth less, that she deserved less. But that felt private—Violet’s past was not a mystery for Grey to go mucking through. Her experiences were hers alone. Perhaps his, to a far lesser extent. But not his toshare.

Instead he sighed and held aloft the folio. “I didn’t tell her about this,” he admitted.

Grey canted his head to the right. “Why not? It would have been an expedient way to be rid of her. Unless…” He leaned back, an insightful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ah. You don’t want to be rid of her.”