Marquess of Mayhem by Scarlett Scott

Author:Scarlett Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2019-07-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

SEARLE HAD FAILED to join her for dinner that evening, as had become their customary routine. Nor had he sent word of a delay or when she might expect him. Leonora had waited, postponing dinner and agitating Monsieur Talleyrand before finally relenting and dining in silence. The courses had been customarily exquisite, but they may as well have been crafted of ash for all Leonora tasted them.

After dinner, she had withdrawn to the drawing room where she sat in miserable silence, contemplating the pastoral oil scenes depicted upon the walls and stabbing her needlework more viciously than necessary as her ire climbed. Even poor little Caesar, who had cuddled up next to her, whined every few minutes, staring at her askance with his chocolate eyes, as if to ask where Searle was.

Finally, she had retreated to her chamber, requesting a bath to soothe her troubles away. It had proved a pleasant enough diversion but hardly restorative, and now, she was pacing the floor, dressed for bed but unable to rest for even a moment as her dudgeon increased with each tick of the mantle clock. Her hair was unbound, falling in heavy waves down her back, completely dry now, and still, her husband had yet to return.

Where had he gone?

And why had he not come back?

She completed what seemed her eightieth circumnavigation of the chamber, heedless of the ache in her leg, and at long last, she heard it, the soft closing of a chamber door. His chamber door, to be precise. Then footfalls, familiar in their cadence.

Her husband was home. Relief swelled within her, for in truth, she had begun to worry. But left with no knowledge of his whereabouts, she had precious little recourse. Not to mention her sudden, frenzied need for him to return to her side, coupled with the troubling realization she had made during her call to Freddy, had left her in an odd state of bemusement. She had not been certain if her apprehension sprang from her overzealous emotions where he was concerned or from a true need.

But now he had returned at last, her disquiet over his absence dashed, and in its place, the monster of her inner misery grew like a weed in a summer garden. Questions swirled, ones she almost dared not ask. Questions, perhaps, she did not have the right to ask.

Questions she could withhold no longer.

She knocked at the door joining their chambers, and when the familiar, deep rasp of his voice bid her to enter, she did, crossing the threshold into his domain. It occurred to her then that for the last week, he had been coming to her chamber rather than bringing her to his. Each night, he made love to her before returning to his own bed. A customary habit, she had reassured herself. No need to fret.

She stopped when she saw him, icy tendrils of dread curling around her heart and squeezing. He was the picture of the dissolute rakehell, wavy, dark hair mussed, his cravat hastily tied, as if by his own hand rather than a valet’s, his coat rumpled.

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