Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(67)

“Good morning to you, Your Grace,” Abigail greeted.

“It is a fine day, isn’t it?” Daisy returned her smile in spite of the turmoil of her emotions. There was no sense in dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Both existed, an unavoidable axis of her life.

Abigail held up a folded sheet of paper that bore a seal. “His Grace directed this to be delivered to you.”

How odd, Daisy thought as she accepted the note. A brief, na?ve hope flitted through her that it was a declaration of his love. She opened it to scan its contents. A love letter, it most assuredly was not.

Dearest Daisy,

A matter most private and urgent has necessitated my immediate departure from London. I shall return as soon as possible.

Yours, regretfully,

Sebastian

She read the note six times before her shocked mind finally began to absorb the words it contained. Her eyes kept returning to two in particular: immediate departure. Departure. Immediate. They played in her mind like a taunting song, sending a cold, hard knot of dread into her stomach.

She swayed, catching her balance on the footboard of her bed.

Sebastian was… gone?

“His Grace has left?” she asked her lady’s maid, feeling disoriented, as if she’d woken from a long sleep and couldn’t make sense of where she was.

“Earlier this morning, Your Grace,” Abigail confirmed with a cheerful smile, as though Daisy’s heart wasn’t breaking right then and there in her chest.

She had told him she loved him, and the next morning, he had left her with nothing more than a two-sentence note. He hadn’t even woken her before he’d gone, had disappeared from her bed in the predawn light and ridden out of her life with no explanation. A private and urgent matter. What did that even mean? Where had he gone, and when in heaven’s name would he return?

“Your Grace?”

Abigail’s voice reached her as though from the opposite end of a long hallway. Daisy blinked. The note fell from her fingers, sailing to the floor. Tears stung her eyes, and a queasy sensation stole over her.

“Your Grace? Is something amiss?” Abigail asked again. “You’ve gone pale.”

Sebastian had left her.

He was gone.

And she was going to be ill.

She raced across the chamber, just barely making it to the chamber pot before casting up her accounts.





24th March, 1881





Dearest Sebastian,

I hope that this letter finds you in good health. A week has passed and I’ve still yet to receive word from you. The note you left behind was rather terse and imprecise. Indeed, you neglected to mention just how long your absence would be and what your destination was. At your leisure, might you apprise me? I do hope you won’t be away for long.

Your loving wife,

Daisy



An entire week passed without word from Sebastian. Each day seemed more interminable than the last. Daisy felt like a sleepwalker, going through the motions of the passing hours without being aware of what she was doing. She met with Mrs. Robbins to plan menus and oversee the household as though nothing was wrong. She greeted Giles at breakfast. She continued organizing the library.

But the house was dreadfully quiet and cavernous without Sebastian. She missed him at dinner. She went into his chamber just to smell the lingering scent of him, walked into his study in the hopes she’d find him there. At night, she longed for him and hated herself for the weakness. She had no one to laugh with, no one to surprise her with kisses or meet her gaze in a wicked glance over the table.

It was unshakeable, this feeling she had as if a part of her had gone missing. She wanted that part of her back. Two weeks after a lifetime of waiting had not been enough. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of it, to rail against him, to find him—wherever he’d gone—and bring him back to her.

But she also wanted to deliver the most blistering, crushing dressing down in the history of dressings down. She wanted to demand that he face her, that he explain to her how he could have disappeared from her life as suddenly as he’d entered it. How could he have left her like this, leaving her to think she meant less than nothing to him? Had he gone to a mistress? Had he left because she’d confessed her feelings?

The questions plagued her, day after day. She woke up and wondered. Traveled through the day in meaningless attempts to distract herself, all while wondering. Laid down to bed at night, wishing he was with her, wondering still. Where was he? When would he return?

As the first week of his absence melded into the second, the sadness permeating Daisy began to harden into resolve. On Monday morning, she and Mrs. Robbins sat together for their customary planning of the week ahead.

“Would you care for some Root’s Cuca Cocoa, Your Grace?” the kindly housekeeper asked. Her hair was steel gray, and fine laughter lines bracketed her eyes and mouth. She was sincere and kind, and always smelled of fresh soap and powder.

Daisy had come to appreciate her steadfast presence, but she could hear quite plainly the sympathy steeping the elder woman’s voice. It was the same sympathy she’d seen in Giles’ expression when she’d asked if he knew where His Grace had gone or when he might return. I’m afraid not, Your Grace. Though I’m sure he shall return as soon as he’s able. Such matters do occasionally call His Grace away.