Page 69 of My Darling Mr. Darling

“Oh, lord,” Alex said, throwing back the remainder of his brandy and signaling for another glass. “Mother will never let me hear the end of it. Am I to be the only bachelor left in the whole of London?” He gave a dramatic shudder, pulling a face of distaste. “Soon my social schedule will be overrun with christenings and the like.”

Grey slanted him an odd look. “Don’t tell me you would pass up a chance to play Godfather; I won’t believe it.”

“Imeant,” John interjected, directing his comment toward Grey, “that I am going to ask her to be my wife in truth. Tocome hometo the townhouse.”

“Hm,” Grey said, stroking his thumb across his chin. “I suppose it could work. Clearly, you can’t keep up anaffaireright beneath the denizens of London’s collective noses. Sooner or later, it’s bound to come out.”

Alex choked on his fresh glass of brandy. “Anaffaire?Whataffaire?” Slouching in his seat in a manner that made his waistcoat bunch up in an unsightly bulge, he added morosely, “Nobody tells me anything anymore.”

“Because it’s none of your damned business,” John gritted out. Somehow it did not surprise him that Grey had known about his covert assignations with Violet, though that did not negate the embarrassment that crept over him. “And it’s hardly relevant to the matter at hand, regardless. I’m not asking youropinion on my marriage.”

Grey tapped his fingers along the side of his glass. “Well,” he said, “do you intend to allow her to continue her work with Serena? You know as well as I that women in business are often frowned upon—and as I have it on good authority that you’ll someday ascend to an earldom, Violet has every right to know that your changed social expectations won’t necessitate a grand sacrifice on her part.” He sipped his brandy, musing, “They love their work. It would crush the both of them to lose it.” Unspoken was the fact thatGreywould crush anyone responsible for destroying his wife’s dream.

“I admire her dedication to her work. I would never force her to give it up,” John said. And it wastrue—it was one of the things that he liked best about her. That they had commonalities that extended beyond idle chit chat. That the future held the distinct possibility that there would be days where they both arrived home after work and shared the details of their days at work; that he could advise her, and she could advise him, and rarely would their talk be limited to the choosing of paper hangings for the library, or the pattern of a new rug. It was an intimacy that most husbands would not share with their wives—perhaps even that most would notwantto—but it was one he wished to share with Violet.

“Very well,” Grey said, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “I’ll allow it.”

“How generous of you,” John said, a bite of sarcasm in his voice. “I hadn’t realized I was asking yourpermission.”

“Be reasonable,” Alex said, slouching over his glass of brandy, his hair tumbling into his face. “Someone’sgot to speak for your wife. Might as well be Grey, given their connection.”

The condescending statement sent a frisson of outrage trembling through John. “Violetspeaks for Violet,” he said, as Alex’s brows rose straight toward his hairline at the vitriol in his voice. “She doesn’t require anyone to speak on her behalf.Hersis the only opinion that matters.”

Swiping a hand out, Grey smacked Alex lightly on the back of his head, earning himself a glare in return. “You might be a duke, but that doesn’t exempt you from idiocy,” he said. “One of these days, you’ll learn how very little you truly know.” To John, he said, “I’m glad you recognize it. Last time we had a similar conversation, you were singing a different tune. What has changed?”

Sinking back in his chair, John allowed the question to permeate his brain, and reflected. At last, he answered, “Ihave.”

∞∞∞

Violet emerged from the carriage in the mews behind John’s townhouse, hidden from view in the clinging shadows. Though lights blazed in most of the surrounding windows, it could not penetrate this far into the dark, and so her reputation was safe.

The night was clear; the air fresh and mild and lightly perfumed with the cloying scent of roses, and she entered through the garden gate, digging the key from her pocket which would unlock the terrace door. All appeared quiet within—but perhaps John was already waiting for her.

Somehow the whole house felt lighter, the darkness within less oppressive. As if, now that she had decided what it was she wanted for herself, the house had endeavored to make itself more inviting. Almost as if it was welcoming her home. One day, not too very far into the future, thiswouldbe her home once again.

It had been years since she had last dreamed of anything for herself, because she had never thought she would have a future to dream of. But as she crept up the stairs, she allowed herself a few small dreams—a family portrait, just there, hanging upon the wall at the top of the stairs, beside the one of her father. Laughter emanating from the office, where John worked at his desk as one of their children played upon the floor with a set of building blocks. Breakfast in bed on the mornings neither she nor John had anywhere else to be.

They were tiny dreams, perhaps, but they werehers, and more than anything else she cherished the sweet, warm glow of them deep in her heart.

There was no light shining beneath John’s door to suggest he was present, and Violet pushed open the door and ducked her head inside, but the pressing darkness assailed her. Stifling her discomfort, she headed for the window to throw open the curtains and admit what little light she could to facilitate her search through the drawer in the nightstand for candles and a tinderbox. The slide of the drawer had the candles rolling into her outstretched fingers, and she collected them and laid them out as best she could in the near perfect dark. But as she reached inside once again to root around for the tinder box, her fingers brushed the cold leather of a folio, just like those that wreathed the walls of John’s office.

What could be so important that he would store it somewhere other than his office?

Her fingers found the tinder box at last; she pulled it from the drawer and wrestled with the flint, striking until at last the kindling caught with enough force to allow for the lighting of the candles. Once she had them arrayed on the nightstand—stalwart little soldiers bravely pushing back the veil of night—she dove once more into the drawer to retrieve the folio, then sat down upon the bed to read.

And when words likeannulmentandsettlementsprang up off of the page to her unwary eyes, each one of her fragile dreams popped like a soap bubble and died in her chest.

Chapter Twenty Six

John hadn’t meant to stay out quite so late, but after having downed a healthy measure of brandy to drown the butterflies that had taken up residence in his stomach, he had been thankful for Grey’s and Alex’s companionship, which had gone a long way toward soothing his rattled nerves. He had passed some crucial test of sorts, he supposed, and Grey had relaxed his guard significantly, opining that he had merely been waiting for John toact like a husbandat last. And Alex—after he’d spent a few minutes bemoaning his imminent abandonment to solitary bachelorhood—had come around to offering his begrudging congratulations, such as they were.

He had probably kept Violet waiting for some time, now. And to arrive home reeking of brandy on top of it? No doubt he’d owe her an apology, or several—which struck him as exactly the sort of thing he was looking forward to in the future.

Someone to come home to. Someone to chide him for keeping her waiting.

Wentworth surprised him by opening the door before he could reach for it. The butler’s sparse hair was in disarray, and he clutched his robe tightly to his chest as he backed away from the door to admit John.

“My God, man. What are you doing up at this hour?” John glanced up to peer at the sky, but the glinting stars shone down unobstructed by even the tiniest sliver of cloud cover. “It doesn’t look like rain,” he said.