Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(87)

But he remained unyielding, even if he allowed her touch. “This sister of yours. Tell me about her.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected him to dwell on, but neither was he pushing her away, so she supposed that, at least, was something. “Bridget was born out of wedlock soon after my parents married. Father was on business in Ireland. Her mother worked at a tavern. When I learned she was here in London, I was overjoyed. I had always longed to meet her, you see.”

“She’s a shop girl.”

“Yes. I wanted her to leave her position and stay with Aunt Caroline, but she refused. My father… he wouldn’t acknowledge her or help her in any way.” She took a breath, searching his eyes. “I wanted to tell you about her before. I was hoping she might live with us. But then, you were both gone. I’m worried about her, Sebastian. Mr. McGuire told me she’s involved with the Fenians.”

Sebastian’s gaze sharpened. He caught her hand, removed it from his face. “What else did McGuire tell you?”

She focused on their linked hands, the heat of his skin burning into hers. He had not let her go. “He said she was in danger, that somehow she’d gotten caught up with the dynamitards. Why do you ask?”

All her suspicions crowded down on her in that moment. His abrupt departure, the odd note she’d discovered, the length of time he’d been away, the darkness and secrecy she’d always sensed in him. Georgiana’s words echoed eerily in her mind. Dizzy. She felt so dizzy.

My husband isn’t hunting game, Daisy… it’s something to do with the Fenians… there was a name on one of the letters.

The name on the letter had been Daisy’s.

The day after Sebastian left, the papers had been filled with news of a foiled Fenian bomb plot. The bomb had been discovered prior to detonation. The people clamored for answers and reassurance. The government’s response had remained a secret, but it stood to reason that it would not show its hand to the players seated at its table. No, the Crown would keep its emissaries enshrouded in secrecy, all the better to gain the advantage over their foe. Secrecy such as a husband who disappeared without word.

Dear God.

The chamber spun around her. A rushing sounded in her ears, her breath going shallow. She couldn’t seem to suck enough air into her lungs. Or perhaps it was too much air. Little pinpricks of light marred her vision. She tried to pull free of Sebastian’s grasp, but he refused to release her.

“You’re a spy,” she accused.

He stared at her, not denying her charge.

And then her world went black.





Bloody, bloody hell.

Sebastian caught Daisy against his chest before she pitched backward and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor. With little effort, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the chamber, laying her on his bed. His mind spinning, he patted her pale cheeks.

“Daisy, love.” His fingers found her pulse, steady and thrumming in her throat. Her chest rose and fell in normal breaths. Christ, she had fainted. And in the moment he watched the bloom fade from her cheeks, her eyes going wide as she issued that lone, correct allegation, he had known.

His instinct had not been wrong. The heated interlude he’d shared with her had pierced the haze of jealousy fogging his brain, had undone him in a way nothing else could. He’d removed himself to his chamber, trying to gain some perspective, to objectively study the situation and facts. But she had just lowered the gavel for him.

She was telling the truth. Not even the greatest actress alive could have managed to feign the shock on her face, the ghostly pallor her skin had taken on, the weightless fall. There was no mistaking the limp feeling of an unconscious body to anyone who had ever known it.

Daisy was not a Fenian plotter. The Irish shop girl she’d been in contact with was her bloody sister born on the wrong side of the blanket. The jagged pieces of truth formed together into a perfect puzzle. He ran his hands over her now, rubbing her arms, urging her to wake. For the first time since his return, he allowed himself to relish the feeling of her, warm and soft. Reassuring. Beloved.

He believed her. Believed everything. Her innocence, her recklessness in trying to force his return, her love for him. Guilt slammed through him with the force of a runaway carriage. He had doubted her. Lied to her. Used her. Abandoned her when he should have never left her side.

He was not worthy of her love, and she was lying supine, out cold, so bloody still and pale it scared him. “Daisy, come back to me,” he said, patting her cheek again.

A low moan issued from her parted lips. Golden lashes fluttered on her cheeks. Her eyes opened, startling and verdant. “Sebastian?”

“Buttercup.” He pressed a fervent kiss to her brow. “Thank God.”

Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, tentative at first as she became lucid once more. Then she clutched him, her fingers digging through the fabric of his shirt. “Who are you?”

Christ if he knew. Right now, in this moment, he was a man who loved the woman before him. A man who had wronged her in the name of duty. A man who very much wanted to atone for his sins.

He lowered himself onto the bed alongside her, framing her face in his hands. Somehow, he needed to unburden himself to her. He owed her his honesty. Owed her so much more. “Sebastian Fairmont, Eighth Duke of Trent, Marquis of Sunbury, and other lesser titles.”