Page 59 of My Darling Mr. Darling

The despair that had buried itself deep in her heart melted away like snow in full sun, and she squeezed John’s fingers in hers like they were a lifeline, an anchor to this world where darkness meant only night, and not a descent back into her hellish past.

With the clasp of John’s hand in hers and the pressure of his arm at her back, Violet slid back into a peaceful, dreamless sleep—perhaps the most restful of her life—and slept straight through the morning and well into the afternoon for the first time in years.

Chapter Twenty Two

“Vi.”

The whisper pierced the cloud of sleep fogging her mind, but she twitched it away with an annoyed flutter of her hand, burying her head beneath the cluster of pillows. Still, something intruded upon her slumber—the bed beside her sank with the weight of a body, and the blankets tossed over her shoulders slid inexorably toward her waist, peeled slowly back by phantom fingers.

“Vi,” that terrible voice said again. “It’s grown quite late.”

“Harrumph.” It was hardly the most eloquent of replies, but snatching at the receding edges of her pleasant dreams was a phenomenally difficult undertaking, and was becoming more so with each passing moment. She lashed out one arm at the offending hand that was slowly denuding her of her cocoon of blankets, connecting solidly with a hair-roughened arm.

“Are you frequently so ill-tempered upon waking?” Light, teasing fingers tripped up her spine, provoking a shiver. “It seems an important thing to know.”

A guttural growl rose in her throat; an answer in itself. “For God’s sake, let mesleep,” she hissed, squirming away.

“If you like,” he said. “Had you planned to stay for dinner, then?”

Dinner? She cracked an eye open. “What time is it?”

“Near to four.” His hand had resettled at the small of her back, warm and strong, and so distracting that it took a long moment to realize what it was that he’d said.

“Four?” She floundered up, shoving pillows away, and wrenching herself upright. “You should have woken me hours ago!” Her gown had been moved at some point, from the floor to the top of the dresser, and she charged for it.

“Ididtry, but you were dead to the world. I thought it kinder to let you sleep.” John caught her before she could dive out of the bed for her gown. “Slow down. You’ve no classes today. Why must you rush?” His fingers were loose around her wrist, but they rubbed over her pulse in a way that sent an odd skirl of sensation skittering up her arm. “I called for a bath before I came to wake you. The water is heating now, and the footmen will be up with the tub at any moment. Surely you won’t put their work to waste.”

As lovely as a bath sounded… “I can’t. I haven’t the time.” One hand anchored the sheet around her bosom, but John was sitting on the end of it, and she couldn’t quite tug it out from under him. “Serena hasn’t any other engagement this evening, so she’ll be over. I have tobethere.” Or else Serena would wonder where she was, and likely draw her own conclusions. And for such a mutton-headed ninny, Serena was often…alarmingly astute. Already she had her suspicions.

John seemed to understand her concern; an abashed smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, well, as to that…I’m afraid you’ll have to contend with her inquisition sooner or later. I sent one of the maids over to your residence earlier this morning for a change of clothing for you.” He released her wrist to grab her folded gown, shaking it out to display the wrinkles that had set into the fabric, necessitating the need for fresh garments. “Unfortunately, Serena was already present at the time, and in the process of interrogating the staff as to your whereabouts. She nearly leapt down poor Megan’s throat.” His head canted to one side. “You didn’t take the carriage? Or tell any of your staff where you were going?”

“I hadn’t intended to be out all night,” Violet said, fidgeting beneath the severe gaze he leveled upon her. “It was late, too late to bother rousing the coachman, when I could walk in the time it would have taken to ready the carriage. I thought I would certainly be back before it began to rain. There was no need to inform anyone.”

“Of course there is a need. London—even the best neighborhoods of it—isn’t safe for a woman alone. If you must go out unescorted, at least have the courtesy to inform your staff of your intentions.” His jaw had tensed as if he had wanted to say much more than that, but had wisely bitten back the rest of it.

Violet’s hackles rose; her fingers clutched at the sheet, her chin tilted up in defiance. “I have been answerable only to myself for years. If you think—”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving a sigh. “You’ll notice I did not suggest you ought to informmeof your plans, only that you should informsomeone. I ask only because—damnit all, I will worry for you otherwise.”

The soft-spoken admission effectively removed the winds of righteous indignation from Violet’s sails. Her knees buckled beneath her, and her bottom landed with athumponto the mattress beside him. She said, “Oh.” The tangles of her hair obscured her face as she ducked her head, somewhere between embarrassed and regretful. “I suppose I thought—it’s only that no one ever—” Her fingers plucked awkwardly at a loose thread on the blanket that was bunched up between them. “No one has worried for me in years,” she said.

“Vi, I have worried for you every day for the last eight years. I don’t expect you to beanswerableto me; only to…remember that you are not alone anymore.” His arm settled around her waist, the fine linen of his shirtsleeve cool against her back. “No man is an island.”

Violet wrinkled her nose. “Descartes?”

John laughed. “What self-respecting Englishwoman doesn’t recognize John Donne?” His hand cupped her bare shoulder, slid down her arm, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. “You might consider giving me the benefit of the doubt occasionally. Perhaps simply start by assuming that my intentions are not nefarious.”

She curled her toes into the rug situated beside the bed. “How could I possibly know the nature of your intentions?”

“You could begin by asking.”

But she wasn’t certain that she wanted to know, because whatever his intentions were, her life would change. For the moment she inhabited a nebulous state of existence, carrying on anaffairewith herhusband; a logical absurdity. She was only just becoming accustomed to the idea of being Violet once again. Of having a place within the world that belonged solely to her, when for so many years, shehadbeen an island…drifting, lost, uncharted.

It was new and a bit unsettling to realize that she could not continue on as she had. Not only because there were people who depended upon her now, whose friendship she did not wish to lose or to abuse, but because she did not think that she had it within herself to return to that life of terrible loneliness. Serena had spoiled her for it. So had Grey. And so had John, for better or worse.

Still, she couldn’t quite make the words come out, couldn’t will herself to confront yet anotherchangejust yet. Not until she was certain she wished to know the answer she would receive. She pursed her lips together and pitched her gaze up—

And her eyes landed upon a portrait hanging upon the wall. She had not noticed it last evening, but then she had had other things on her mind. She remembered sitting for it—when the artist had been able to cajole her to pose for long enough to form a rudimentary sketch. She’d always thought it a poor likeness at best, and for at least the last several years, ithadbeen. Nobody would have recognized the miserable woman she had been in the image of the cheeky girl rendered in oils on canvas. But somehow, some way, she had changed. Fallen out of her misery. Or it, perhaps, had fallen out ofher.