Page 77 of My Darling Mr. Darling

The truth was that she had already forgiven him. She had forgiven him the moment he had rejected her love, because there was noblameto be assigned—it was not his fault that he had not loved her in the way she loved him, just as it was not her fault that shedid. It was not athingshe was owed, to be set into her hand as if in recompense for the ruin he’d made, however unintentionally, of her life.

Of course she had forgiven him. But the fact remained that she needed more than he had offered to her. She neededlove—and she would not accept anything less. She only hoped that he would not pass off to her yet another handful of disappointments, because she did not think she could bear it. Having spent a surfeit of emotion over him already, she was in no hurry to pass another evening crying onto Serena’s shoulder—this time, hecould be the one to pour out the contents of his heart…whatever they happened to be.

∞∞∞

John muttered a blistering curse beneath his breath as he knelt on the cold stone and fished through the tools in his pocket in the scant silvery light of the moon. Which had worked last time? He couldn’t recall—and he could barelyseethem, except in thin slivers of glinting metal struck by moonlight. Violet had made lock picking look so easy, whereas he felt certain that he would rouse the entire household in short order with all of his rattling and scraping.

It had taken just a few minutes to pick the lock the last time; he was sure of it. Had the locks been changed out? Had Grey jammed the lock with something, just to be contrary?

“What are you doing?”

John’s head jerked up, and he slammed the top of his skull against the brass door handle, swearing vividly. Pressing the heel of his hand to the injured spot, he turned to see Violet hanging half out of the window, watching him with her arms folded over the sill. He hadn’t even heard it slide open, so much noise had he been making. Neither had he noticed the glow of the candle behind her, resting atop a table.

“Picking the lock,” he muttered, abashed. “Rather unsuccessfully, if you must know.”

She tilted her head, silhouetted by the candlelight, which shone through the fine lace hemming the sleeves of her gown. “Why?”

John sat back upon his heels with a sigh. “I had something to give to you. Are you going to let me in?”

“I think not.” She rested her chin upon her folded arms, shifting to see him better. “There is something quite satisfying about watching a man struggle with something.”

Shewouldbe difficult. “Ihavestruggled,” he muttered beneath his breath as he scraped through the tools once more, trying to recollect which ones he had already tried and which ones he hadn’t. “Do you suppose we could talk, then? While Istruggle?”

“By all means,” she said lightly, and he heard the rustle of her skirts as she settled in. The rustle that was too pronounced, too severe, to be a simple nightdress or a wrapper. “You talk. I’ll listen.”

“You were going out?” he inquired, fitting a tool into the lock—which again failed to turn. “You’re dressed for it.”

A shrug. “I was summoned,” she said. “There was a message for me in the paper.” Her unbound hair spilled over her arm, a curtain of sable gleaming in the darkness. “I was on my way out when I heard someone clumsily attempting to break in.”

Despite the jab, something tight and painful that had been wrapped around his heart relaxed. He took a breath, and it felt like the first full one he’d drawn in a week. She had been coming to see him. So shewasprepared to hear him out, then—he hadn’t ruined everything all over again; at least notentirely.

The lock could wait. He shoved the tools back into his pocket and climbed to his feet, then approached the window to crouch before it, slapping his palms on either side of Violet’s arms. “You were wrong, you know,” he said.

She tilted her chin up in silent inquiry, her brows arched.

“You can’t find dandelions just anywhere,” he said. “I searched the garden for a full hour, but it turns out that any gardener worth his salt plucks them out immediately.” He slid his hand into the pocket of his coat. “By chance Ididfind this poor specimen”—he pressed a bedraggled, scruffy little bud onto the sill beside her elbow—“growing up between some cobblestones on my walk over, but it seems to have been stepped on more than once.”

The corner of her mouth pulled up in a half-smile; she caught the stem in her fingers, holding it up before her eyes, though she could doubtless only see the pitifully bent petals. It was a far cry from an elegant bouquet of roses, but he thought she must at least prefer it to the daisies. “You came to give me a dandelion?” she asked.

“No; I picked the dandelion on my way over. I came to give you this back,” he said, and pulled the small portrait of Rosamund Townsend out from beneath his arm.

“You stole my mother’s portrait?” Her eyes narrowed, shooting him a poisonous glare.

“Borrowed,” he stressed. “Temporarily. I always meant to give it back. I would have asked, but we weren’t precisely speaking at the time.” And if hehadattempted such a thing, he had little doubt she would have sweetly called for Davis and had him ejected.

“So you stole it instead.” Her hands curled around the portrait, reclaiming it. She gazed down at the painting, angling it toward the moonlight, her thumb brushing the painted surface. “I missed it, you know. It sits on my bedside table.” Her lashes fluttered, casting deeper shadows on her cheeks.

“I know,” he said, because that was precisely where he had snatched it from. His fingers touched her arm, slid up to her wrist. “You were coming to see me?”

“It seemed the least I could do.” Another non-committal response—but then she had committed herself enough before now, and it had hardly gone as she might’ve hoped.

“The least you could have done was nothing,” he said. “I had assumed you would. It’s been a week.” His thumb stroked the side of her wrist, and he noted that she gave no move to pull away. “Why now?”

“Your friend the duke paid me a visit. Told me I ought to read the paper. Today was the first I knew to look for a message.” Another shrug. “If I had seen it before, I might’ve come earlier. Possibly.”

“Alex? But I never told him I’d placed—”The duchess. Ofcourse. “He’s a meddler, same as his mother.” He huffed out an exasperated breath. “She came to see me. I thought if I placed a wedding announcement in the paper, it might induce you to come to me,” he said. “Instead, I brought the wrath of the duchess down upon my head. She was furious I’d gotten married and hadn’t seen fit to tell her.”

“Oh?”