Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(94)

How refreshing to indulge in laughter. For a brief moment, it distracted her from thoughts of Sebastian. But in the next breath, the pain was there, beating in her heart, for Lilliputians reminded her of the gift he’d once given her.

A favorite for a favorite.

She would never stop loving him. But she needed time, time to find herself. Everything she’d known had been torn asunder, and so many of the people closest to her—Sebastian included—had deceived her. This time of healing was for her body, her mind, and her heart.

Or at least, that was her most fervent hope.





5th June, 1881



Dearest Daisy,

I have resigned my position, effective immediately. The only position I wish to occupy is that of your husband. When and if you are ready, I await you here. Also, if it is friendship you require, may I offer my services? Given that I’m no longer a covert operative, I fear that gutting the Earl of Bolton may land me in Newgate.

Yours,

Sebastian





She hadn’t answered the first two letters he’d sent her.

Sebastian sat at the desk in his study, and it was still intricately carved and polished smooth. It surface remained organized with the meticulous precision he preferred. Everything was the same. For the familiarity of it, nothing might have changed. His secretary had stacked his most recent correspondence in three neat piles in the upper right quadrant. The lower held his pen. The left held the letters Daisy had sent him, all opened, all read at least half a dozen times.

Her words were windows to her.

He could read them and so easily know what she’d experienced as she’d written them. And so, while all the small pieces of his life ostensibly remained the same, everything had changed.

He had changed.

Griffin had railed against him, begged him not to retire from the League. And he had anyway. His years of service were done. The life he wanted was a life with Daisy. He wanted her back. He wanted their babe. He wanted love and laughter and happiness well into the next bloody century. He wanted to fill Thornsby Hall with children and love and contentment. He would even bring the mongrel.

Hugo, as he was called, wandered about the study, offering a judicious sniff here and there. He’d been sitting by the door for the last half hour, staring Sebastian down, until he’d given up on that game and begun to wander.

He watched the dog sniff, prance to the center of the carpet. “Oh, bloody hell, Hugo. No!”

And raise his leg.

“Damn it.”

Some time and some cleanup efforts later, Sebastian set pen to paper to write Daisy another letter. She had asked for time and space, and he had honored her wishes. But damn it, he was still going to fight for her. And if he had anything to say about it, he was going to win her.





7th June, 1881





Buttercup,

The Axminster is quite lovely, but I’m afraid your beast has besmirched it on no less than three occasions. All aforementioned outrages occurred in my study. I do think he loathes me. Furthermore, eight shillings a yard seems a trifle profligate as I’m reasonably certain the going rate is six.

Your beast and I both miss you profoundly.

Yours,

Sebastian





Daisy pressed a hand to her mouth as she read Sebastian’s latest letter, suppressing her unexpected mirth.

“What’s so humorous? Do tell.” Today, Georgiana held a midnight-black kitten in her arms. He was purring loudly, snoozing so soundly that his tiny mouth had fallen open.

“Hugo is marking his territory on the new Axminster.” She grinned.

“Serves him right, doesn’t it, Kitty Quixote?” Georgiana gave him a chin scratch, but he kept purring and snoozing just the same.

It was Daisy’s turn to raise a brow. “I’m not sure which is more egregious, Lady Philomena Whiskers or Kitty Quixote.”

“I can’t be sure.” Her friend’s tone was musing, thoughtful. “One could say we’re all tilting at windmills at one point or another, no? Perhaps the only thing that’s egregious is the crime of taking ourselves too seriously. What do you think, Daisy dear?”

A smile equal parts sad and reserved curved Georgiana’s lips. The scandal she’d wrought with Daisy hadn’t roused her husband. He hadn’t charged back to England from New York, determined to fight for her heart. He had continued to ignore her. Georgiana was a strong woman, but even Daisy could see that the duke’s indifference hurt her.

“I think I’m growing more confused by the day,” she admitted.





11th June, 1881





Dearest Buttercup,

You were right about my scars. They aren’t from a fire when I was a lad. An anarchist set fire to a merchant’s building in Cheapside during one of my missions, and I was fortunate to escape with only burns on my arms and hands. The anarchist didn’t prove nearly as lucky.

Additionally, I applaud your replacement of the portrait of the Third Duke of Trent, Lord Privy Seal. His wig alone was enough to make a man bilious.

Ever yours,

Sebastian





He paced the confines of the library, Hugo trotting at his heels. The room smelled of leather and paper and oiled wood. Familiar, comforting. Books were organized by subject now. He’d discovered that in his peripatetic journey. Down one row of books, up another. Daisy had made sense of each title, organizing every bound volume to her liking. Not a spine was out of place.