Page 72 of My Darling Mr. Darling
“And what is that, exactly?”
“Love.” Even saying the word made him wince.
“Idiot,” Grey said succinctly.
John thrust himself up on his elbows, shooting a glare up at Grey. “Don’t speak of her that way—”
“Nother, you great buffoon.You.” With the toe of one boot, Grey shoved John down to his back once more. “Don’t get up just yet. You look like you’re about to cast up your accounts, and I’d prefer that you do not do so all over my boots. Why did you tell her you didn’t love her?”
“Because I didn’t want to lie to her!” It sounded feeble, petulant even to himself—a paper-thin excuse that could be shredded by even the lightest breeze.
Grey crouched beside him, his hands balanced upon his thighs. “You’re an idiot,” he said again, enunciating the word so clearly as to be offensive. “What’s worse is that you’re lying toyourself. Haven’t you said how much you admire her?”
“OfcourseI admire her,” John said, his voice dipping into a derisive tone. “I told her that Iadoreher.”
“How, exactly, isadorationdifferent from love?” Grey clasped his hands together, his dark eyes shrewd, calculating. “Whatisit, precisely, but love under another name?”
John’s stomach gave an unpleasant gurgle, and he swallowed down a mouthful of bile. “Itis. It justis.” His fingers splayed out in entreaty, desperate to convince Grey of this. “Why couldn’t she be satisfied with it?”
“Why couldn’t you simply say the word youmeant?” Grey challenged.
“It’s not so simple—”
“It’sexactlyso simple,” Grey returned. “Why are the rules different for you? Need I remind you thatyoupressed me to court Serena? Why areyouany different?”
John pressed his hands to his eyes, which had begun to burn as if he’d spilled whisky in them.
“Why areyouso immune to the foibles of human emotion?” Grey pressed ruthlessly. “Why should allowances be made for—”
“Everyone leaves!” John roared at last, unable to bear the barrage of judgmental barbs that Grey would no doubt have continued to lob at him in perpetuity. “Everyone leaves,” he repeated. “It’s easier to bear this way.” It felt as if something in his very soul had rent open, mingled pain and relief spilling out of him in equal measure—like a lanced abscess bleeding freely for the first time in years. He thought of his parents, the duchess, Townsend—he had lost them all in one manner or another. Somewhere along the course of his life, he had simply closed himself off to that sort of emotion, too aware that to encourage the kind of closeness he had once felt would inevitably end in pain.
“Ah,” Grey said, and then held his silence for a full minute. At last he said, “Well, irrespective of what you choose to call it, Violet has left anyway.”
John pressed his fingers to his eyes, but they could not banish the image of Violet swimming behind them, that magnanimous smile caught on her lips, as if she could have forgiven him all manner of sins even as he had crushed her heart in his indifferent hands. A woman who had known precisely what she wanted, unwilling to settle for less than she deserved. She had accepted his rejection with such grace—a perfect lady to the bitter end.
“Is it easier?” Grey inquired. “If you call it anythingbutlove—is it easier to bear?”
“No.” The answer rasped out of his throat spontaneously, as if he had not made the conscious decision to speak it—and still it wastrue. Itwasn’teasier. It would never be easier. Violet had left, and she had taken something straight out of his soul when she had.
No—she had taken hisheartstraight out of his chest. And she wasn’t even aware of it, because he had told her differently. She had no reason not to believe him, no reason to hold out hope otherwise.
How calmly she had left last evening, full of every grace—steadfast in her determination, resolve unwavering. Everything he adored about her—everything helovedabout her—carrying her away from him, step by unyielding step.
“What am I meant to do now?” he whispered as Grey offered him a hand, pulling him carefully to his feet. John grasped the corner of his desk, struggling to remind himself that it was hisheadthat swayed, not the room. He nodded to the folio precariously perched upon the edge of his desk. “She wants an annulment.” Probably because an annulment was marginally easier to achieve—and less ruinous to one’s reputation—than a divorce, and no one would know that they weren’t precisely eligible for one any longer. “She revised the papers herself.”
It had been another blow to his conscience—that Violet hadn’t wantedanythingof him. Not the townhouse, nor the Kent estate, nor the generous percentage of her father’s business that he had been prepared to offer. Not even the funds that ought to have been hers from the beginning. She had refused them all. A clean cut, with no ties to bind them. She wanted only to be free.
Grey thumbed through the papers, his brows shooting up in surprise. “Well,” he said. “To my understanding, her desire for an annulment is contingent upon the fact that you don’t love her—which is immaterial, as I think we both can agree that youdo. Now, if you can only convince her toseeyou—”
“I’ve tried,” John said. “Saw her today, as a matter of fact.” It was at leasthalfof what had sent him up to his office, a decanter of whisky clutched in his fist. “Her class, you know. She very politely greeted me at the door, explained that my presence had become superfluous, and relieved me of the obligation to attend Serena’s dinner party.” And it had all been delivered with a serene smile, one that wordlessly assured him that she held no ill will toward him. She had wished him nothing but the best as she had closed the door gently but firmly in his face, and all the while that dour, bear of butler had scowled over her shoulder at him.
She intended to simply go on, as she always had. He was merely a minor stumbling block in her path. But in spite of him, she would pick herself up and continue on without him. Her love was an active thing, a choice she had made, a decision she had arrived at—but he had forced her to reevaluate it, and eventually she would let it slip through her fingers and release herself from it. She would not pine for him, or long for him in the depths of the night. She would, as she had so many times before, simply close the door on that unpleasant chapter of her life, and start anew. He had taught her how to do it—he hadforcedher into it.
“Well, that won’t do,” Grey said, setting aside the folio. “Serena’s expecting you. She’ll be devastated if you don’t attend. I’ll skin you alive if you makemywife weep.”
John was only half-certain that Grey had made the threat in jest. “That demon butler you hired will no doubt toss me out on my arse if I dare to darken their doorway again,” he said. “How, exactly, am I supposed to convince her that Idolove her?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Grey said, almost too cheerfully. “But I’m certain it will be entertaining nonetheless.” He dug into the pocket of his coat, and something jingled within. “I’ll offer you the same assistance Serena gave Violet, though.” He pressed a strange set of tools into John’s hand. “Be careful with them; they’re quite valuable. A bit of advice: the lock on the front door is difficult by design. I’d go with the terrace door, if I were you. Anddon’tget caught—Daviswilltoss you out on your arse. It’s exactly what I hired him for.”