was not at home. But Tom was not inclined to wait another moment more. Wordlessly, he pushed past the domestic.
“My lord!” the servant dared chastise, chasing after him as if he suspected Tom intended to filch the sterling. “Lady Southwick is not within. I insist you return later.”
Tom ignored the admonition. “You may as well tell me where she is as it will spare me the trouble of searching each chamber.”
“But my lady is not at home,” the butler protested, sounding quite alarmed.
A happy bark and the scampering of paws over the polished floor told him Hyacinth was not far. Lady came racing to him, sliding to a halt at his feet, panting in excitement as she looked up at him.
“Lady!” came Hyacinth’s husky call from deeper within the townhome. “Where have you gone?”
He sank to his haunches and patted her pug’s silken head. Lady barked again, as if she were attempting to impart some bit of canine wisdom, and then she rose on her hind legs to plant her two front paws upon his chest. She licked his nose.
“It would seem her ladyship is indeed at home,” he told the butler, raising a brow. “I do believe we have been here before. It smacks of the familiar.”
On the last occasion he had been denied access to Hyacinth, Tom had simply taken matters into his own hands and weaseled his way in through the broken garden gate. He would do so again if he must, but he was hoping he would not have to play the thief once more.
“Lady!” Hyacinth whisked out of a chamber just ahead, dressed impeccably in a flowing gown of cucumber silk.
She stopped when she saw him.
Tom gave Lady another head scratch before rising to his full height.
“My Lady Southwick.” He sketched a bow, pleased with himself for the cool sangfroid in his voice.
Inside, his heart was pounding. Emotion roiled, but he would not rail at her before the butler.
“Forgive me,” apologized the servant at his back. “I informed his lordship you were not at home but—”
“I knew otherwise,” Tom finished smoothly without removing his gaze from Hyacinth’s.
Just as vibrant and glorious as he had recalled. The blue of a summer sky. Damn her. How had she intended to bear his child without telling him? To disappear into the countryside with nary a word, just as she had slipped from the house that night in St. John’s Wood?
He clung to his anger now, praying it would see him through what he must do.
Her countenance was unreadable. Her stare flitted over Tom’s shoulder, settling upon the butler. “Thank you, Pennington. I am happy to see Lord Sidmouth. If you could see a tray of refreshments sent to the salon?”
“Of course, my lady,” intoned the butler, sounding as grim as Tom felt.
Tom was here.
Hyacinth’s hands shook as she preceded him into the salon, Lady following closely at her skirts. The little traitorous wretch had been too happy to see him. Hyacinth could hardly fault her, however. Her heart had surged when she had crossed the threshold to find him there, effortlessly handsome in that way of his, petting her pug as if here—beneath the same roof as her—was where he belonged.
When of course, he did not. What was the reason for his call?
The day had begun in promising fashion. The illness which ordinarily assailed her each morning had not been as pronounced. The sun was shining, chasing away the rains of the day before. She had made plans to pack up the house. Her heart was no longer as laden with fear over the future. Instead, she had found a calming sense of peace. The prospect of becoming a mother—once so seemingly impossible—had finally settled into her.
But Tom’s sudden appearance took all the serenity with which she had begun the day and dashed it to a thousand jagged shards.
Lady leapt to her favorite settee, curled up in the fashion of a feline, and blinked, her chocolate eyes big and drooped. Apparently, the day had been too much for her already. Once more, Hyacinth knew the feeling.
Unlike her beloved companion, however, she did not sit in the salon. She was far too on edge. Instead, she moved to the window, telling herself she must be calm and collected, that she must not show any signs of the war waging within her. Her view of the overgrown gardens, the roses with fat blossoms bowed as if hanging their heads in shame after the punishing rains of the day before, mocked