Chapter Thirty-Eight
Despite the unpleasant cramping in her stomach, Eliza was in high spirits as she returned home from tea with Alice.
A great weight had lifted from her shoulders. Sebastian knew her secret—knew, and forgave her. And though she had much to do to repair the damage it had done to their marriage, last night’s lovemaking made her confident that all was not lost.
It took her a moment to realize Sebastian was not home. She frowned, puzzled, before giving a shrug of her shoulders. He had not said he would be out when she had kissed him goodbye that morning, but she knew him to be easily bored and habitually in search of companionship. Likely he had gone to White’s to meet with Colonel Kent.
Well, no matter. There was always work to be done.
She left the door open to her study so that she might hear Sebastian when he returned. Alice had developed an intense craving for strawberries, and Eliza thought Sebastian would be pleased to hear that his greenhouse was of use to her. With a sigh of contentment, she settled into the Chippendale chair in her study.
She picked up her pen and was soon engrossed in her work. Two hours passed quickly before she laid aside her writing and looked again to the open door. The sound of booted footsteps on marble echoed in the distance—Sebastian must have arrived. She tilted her head and held her breath, straining to hear his voice. But she heard nothing more and leaned back, disappointed.
The anticipation caught her by surprise. If someone had told her even six months ago that she would await her husband with such eagerness—and that her husband would be Wessex—she would have thought them mad. Yet here she was, doing just that.
She was happy.
It was not the life she had so often dreamed of. Had that dream come to fruition, she might even at this moment have found herself in a similar position—at a desk, her words on the paper before her, satisfied of spirit, and yes, happy. She had no doubt that she would have been very happy at Hyacinth Cottage with Riya.
Sebastian would likely have been married by now to either Lady Louisa, Lady Abigail, or Lady Jane. She would have seen him only in passing during events of the Season, not as a friend who sought her out. Eliza shuddered at the thought. How awful that would be!
Thank God, thank God, for that wonderful damning kiss that had altered the course of their lives and entwined them together. She would have been happy at Hyacinth Cottage—there were so many ways to be happy, after all—but love was a deep, soul-stirring joy she had never dreamed of.
It was a bittersweet gladness, for love did not blind her to what she had lost. She could not claim her life was entirely her own now. They belonged to each other as much as to themselves. She was his and he was hers, to face life together hand in hand.
Neither did love completely eradicate her fears of the future. She did not want to die, and she was not silly enough to believe that love could save her from a fate that cursed so many women. If there had been a way to prevent that risk without vacating Sebastian’s bed altogether, she would have seized it desperately with both hands. Alas, there was no such method, and living with Sebastian had made celibacy entirely unappealing.
No, love had not assuaged her fears, but it had made them more bearable, somehow. If death did claim her, then at least she would have these days with Sebastian first. And for now, anyway, she could put the worry away for another month.
Eliza stood to light another lamp. The room had grown darker with the setting of the sun—what little there was of it.
Where was he?
She rang for a footman. Johns entered almost immediately, as though he had been expecting her call.
“Where is His Grace?” she asked. “Did he leave any word for me regarding his whereabouts?”
“He left this morning for Perivale, my lady. I believe he left a letter saying as much.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Perivale? But why? Has something happened?”
“There is a letter—”
“Give it to me.”
“I believe he left it in your chamber, my lady.”
She spun on her toes, bunching her skirts in her fist as she dashed up the stairs. There, on the crisp white linens of her bed, was a folded paper. She seized it and a small pearl dropped in her hand, which she instantly recognized as the button to her favorite pair of gloves. One that had been missing for months now. Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she turned her attention to the more urgent matter of his letter.
She stared in consternation at the words, so neatly written out. He had forgone his usual habit of carelessly scribbled half words, as though he feared that his regular style risked too much in the way of miscommunication. He needn’t have bothered. His meaning was perfectly clear, regardless of spelling.
He had left her.
The coward.
She clenched the pearl button in her fist. “Johns!” she bellowed.
He appeared before his name had left her lips. “Yes, my lady.”
“When did he leave?”
“Not half an hour after you, my lady.”
She hesitated. Perivale Hall was a few hours’ journey from London. Likely he had arrived just as night fell. Even if she left now, she would not arrive until after midnight. The roads were good, but travel was always dangerous at night. He greatly deserved a tongue-lashing, but she would not risk life and limb to deliver it.
“Have the carriage ready in the morning,” she said. “We will leave after breakfast.”
Johns looked greatly relieved. “For Perivale Hall, my lady?”
“Yes— No.” An idea, a wonderfully brilliant idea, occurred to her. “For Hyacinth Cottage.”
Sebastian would get everything he deserved, she would see to that.
But he must suffer first.