Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(95)

He stalked the library again and again, taking in all the books waiting for her. Hundreds. Millions of words. So many stories, worlds, characters. All hers for the taking. Those books taunted him, because they waited for her return the same way that he did.

Each day, he wrote her, hoping it would be the day she could forgive him and return home. Each day, he was met with her silence. Not even a one-word response. Keeping his distance from her as she recovered had almost been his undoing, but he had wanted to observe her wishes above all else, even above his concern for her. Her father had robbed her of the power of choice for her entire life. She’d been through so much upheaval—learning that her father and her lady’s maid had been engaged in an affair, and that they’d been plotting together against her, that they’d framed her—he couldn’t begin to imagine.

He didn’t wish to add more stress and worry to her life. But she couldn’t remain encamped with the odd Duchess of Leeds forever. He wanted his wife back. He wanted a life with her.

He stilled, his eyes settling on one spine above all.

Gulliver’s Travels.

He wondered if she’d read it.

Hugo nudged his leg, making a needy canine sound and drawing his attention away. He lowered to his haunches, scratching the dog’s soft head. Warm, brown eyes stared into his.

“We need her back, don’t we, boy?”

Hugo licked his face, and that was the only answer he required.





15th June, 1881





My love,

Your doctor tells me you are fully healed and the babe continues to flourish. I am, and will ever be, awed by your strength.

I intend to leave for my estate, Thornsby Hall, in the morning. I’m overseeing improvements upon the library and several other rooms. Your beast will accompany me, though he would be wise to cease his alarming proclivity for carpet annihilation. I trust you are in good hands with Her Grace. Should you need to reach me, send word there.

After much pondering, I’ve postulated a theory that a one thirty-second Your Grace would consist of the opening of one’s mouth as if to form the sound of a “y” and nothing more. I’ve attempted it in a glass on several occasions, and I’m reasonably certain I am correct. You are welcome to debate the matter.

Yours as ever,

Sebastian

P.S. I love you.

P.S. I love you as I love the sun on my face, the breath in my lungs, the green grass of spring, a faultless summer sky. I love you so much that I ache with it.





Daisy finished reading Sebastian’s latest note.

Her heart was so full that it hurt.

“Daisy,” Georgiana said.

She looked up, eyes blurred by tears. Her friend held a small spaniel in her arms, just a wee pup. “What is his name?” she asked, because it was the only thing she could say without turning into a waterfall.

Her delicate condition was making her maudlin. But then, so was Sebastian.

“Puppenstein,” her friend answered, her tone serious.

“I love him,” Daisy blurted. “I cannot stop loving him, no matter how hard I try. He makes me laugh and he makes me cry, and he makes me want to wake up every morning with him and go to bed each night at his side.”

Georgiana blinked in exaggerated fashion. “Puppenstein? I had no idea you cared for him so much. He’s yours if you’d like.”

“No.” She shook her head, smiling like a fool. “Sebastian Fairmont, Eighth Duke of Trent.”

Georgiana patted her hand. “Then go to him.”





aisy found him in the library with Hugo.

They were seated on an overstuffed leather chair, Hugo curled up against Sebastian’s thigh, a book opened in his lap. Her lack of grace in entrance—thrusting the door open with so much force that it rattled off the wall of shelving behind it—had his head snapping up. Their gazes clashed and held.

She was out of breath from racing to him, but it hadn’t seemed she could reach him quickly enough once the decision had been made. The sight of his handsome face filled her with homecoming.

He stood, his expression fettered. “Daisy.”

Hugo barked and leapt down to bound across the chamber and leap upon her skirts. She sank to her knees, receiving the dog’s greeting of unadulterated canine delight, never taking her gaze from Sebastian. He remained still on the opposite side of the library, dressed to perfection in black trousers, a white shirt, and a black brocade waistcoat, no jacket. There was something delicious about him in shirtsleeves.

“Sebastian,” she greeted him at last, standing once more.

“Have you come for your beast, then?” His voice was guarded, quiet.

“No.”

“No?”

She moved toward him, drawn by the magnetism he exuded, by the necessity of being near him once again. How had she kept her distance for so long? It seemed unfathomable to her now as she stopped before him, tilting her head back to consider his rugged beauty.

“No,” she said again. “I’ve come to debate your theory.”

He quirked a brow, managing to somehow look autocratic and lovable all at once. “My theory?”

She smiled. “A one thirty-second Your Grace. I feel confident that it’s only the act of opening one’s mouth, not even the forming of a ‘y.’ One thirty-second is quite a small fraction, as you know.”