Page 60 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Shedidhave a dimple. The very same dimple her mother had. It was only that she had never noticed it until now. It was only that she had never had occasion to smile like that until now.

“I had it brought up from Kent,” John said, noting the direction of her gaze. “To remind me.”

“Of what?” The words were curiously raw, hoarse.

“That you were out there somewhere,” he said. “Waiting to be found.”

∞∞∞

Violet was singing in the bath. Though the sound was blunted by the two layers of doors—bed chamber and office—between them, and was further disguised by the fact that she couldn’t have carried a tune if she had had a bucket to put it in, still John found it strangely…charming.

There was something comforting about it—reassuring, almost. Perhaps it wasn’t even the singing itself, but the fact that it attested to her presence within the house. Even if she didn’t intend to stay.

His pen dripped a dollop of ink upon the page of the contract laid out before him, and he swore beneath his breath, blotting it away as best he could with the handkerchief he had tucked into his pocket. So Violet’s presence might be slightly injurious to his concentration—it was a minor complication at best. And if a few of his documents suffered for it, well, that was simply a price he would have to pay.

Ifshe did elect to stay. If he could convince her, somehow, that their marriage was worth salvaging. He thought of the petition for annulment he had tucked away in his nightstand drawer, and experienced a frisson of guilt that he had never presented it as an option to her—that he had never evenwantedto present it as an option. She would have leapt at it once—would she now?

There was a brief period of silence, a subtle splash—then her singing resumed, this time a bawdy tavern song that had been popular during his time at Cambridge, rife with innuendo. A laugh worked its way up from his chest, and he realized that this was what his life could be: full of laughter, ribald tavern songs, and a beautiful, maddening wife who would keep him from becoming too staid, too serious—until now he had not realized how very close he had teetered toward the edge of becoming all business, no pleasure.

This was what his life could have beenyearsago. And Townsend had known it all along.

Gradually her singing died out, but even that could not shake him from his good mood—for it meant only that she was readying herself to go about her day, and he felt certain that at the very least she would come to wish him good day before she left.

There was the scuffle of footsteps outside the door, a faintly desperate scratching sound, and then the doorknob was turning.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Wentworth said, his face drawn in a harried, fractious expression. “But—”

“I’ll announce myself,” came a sour voice from the corridor. “For God’s sake, man. He’s my damned grandson; I don’t require an engraved invitation to pay a simple social call.” The door swung open, and John’s stomach pitched to his toes.

“Grandfather,” he said tightly, rising to his feet. “What an…unexpected surprise.”

The Earl of Haverford’s ludicrous mustache dripped over lips that twitched with disdain, his bushy brows lowering over narrowed brown eyes that were so like his own.Toolike his own for John’s comfort. “Your uncle’s funeral was yesterday morning. Your absence was noted,” the earl said, his lip curling in distaste as his gaze sheared across the desk strewn with papers; an unmistakable sign ofbusinessbeing conducted.

“I was unaware that your son had passed away. I’m sorry for your loss.” The flat, monotone reply left little doubt as to the true nature of his feelings. He had never even met his uncle; the man had fallen in line with the earl’s petty vendetta against his younger son and had shown no interest at all in John’s welfare, nor even his very existence.

The earl made a scathing sound deep in his throat. “If you had bothered to read my letter—”

“I beg your pardon,” John interrupted. “Need I remind you that I was disinherited? Or is your mind starting to go in your old age?”

The earl’s face flushed an unhealthy purplish hue, his ruddy cheeks hollowing with the force of his indignation. “Unfortunately,” he hissed, “one cannotdisinheritone’s heir presumptive, and your uncle—may God rest his soul—left this world with only a passel of girls from his wife. Much as it pains me to say, it is time that past grievances were put to rest. You will one day become the next Earl of Haverford. It is time for you to cease pretending at this wretched business of…ofbusiness. You have responsibilities to your name, to the title you will one day inherit.”

“That fact that we share a family name is an accident of birth, and one I don’t intend to allow to influence my decisions in any way,” John said, over the earl’s incensed sputtering. “When you pop off this mortal coil, rest assured that your estate will be left in good,capablehands. I can assure you that your tenants will do so, considering I’d never squander the rents at the card tables and then neglect to make necessary repairs to their homesteads.” He busied himself with collecting the papers before him into a neat stack, tucking them inside a folio. “I can think of no reason why I ought to subject myself to your presence otherwise.”

Over the earl’s unintelligible sound of shock and horror, John heard a crusty laugh from the hall, where Wentworth lingered still. He’d made an admirable attempt to disguise the sound as a cough, but John was not fooled—and neither was the earl, who leveled a quelling glance through the crack in the door.

“That will be all, Wentworth,” John said. “No need to embarrass his lordship more than he’s already embarrassed himself. He can show himself out.” The door closed silently, and the soft sound of footsteps retreated down the hall.

“You…you…” The words emerged on a wrathful snarl from the earl’s tight lips. “You’re just like your damned father. He had too much of his mother in him, too little regard for tradition, forfamily.” He spat the word, spittle accompanying the vicious hiss. “You’re an embarrassment to our noble lineage.”

It was only a pale echo of the words that had shadowed him through his childhood; the hateful words had long since ceased to wound him as they once had. “Then we can have nothing more to say to one another,” John said, tucking the folio within a drawer of his desk. “If you would be so kind as to see yourself out.” Hopefully before the earl gave into apoplexy and keeled over right upon the floor of John’s office, which would hardly be pleasant to deal with.

Those bushy brows jumped in fury to be so summarily dismissed. “We’ll talk again when you are prepared to be civil,” the earl snarled, turning on his heel. But he paused before he reached the door, his eyes cutting toward the chair tucked into the corner, near a bookcase lined in folios.

Where a small walking boot rested, turned over onto its side, alongside a single silk stocking. John couldn’t imagine where the other boot and stocking had gotten to, but he hadn’t particularly cared at the timewherehe had flung them—only that he had removed them from Violet’s body as swiftly as possible.

The earl’s hands clenched and unclenched, stretching the fine material of his gloves. There was a sneer in his voice when he spoke. “I can only guess what manner of woman goes about without her stockings or shoes, but for your own edification you should know that one does not entertain ladies of ill repute in one’s own house,” he said. “Should your inclinations run towardthatsort of woman, you will at least have the decency to conduct youraffaireswith discretion after you have married.”

John gave a snort of laughter. “You aren’t in any position to—” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean,after I have married?”