“I do not need a honeymoon,” said his sweet wife. “You know that, Decker.”
He tore his gaze from the letter which felt as if it were burning his hands, taking in the sight of the woman he had married. This morning, she was wearing a navy-blue silk that complemented her dark hair and creamy skin to perfection. His obsession for her had not dimmed. If anything, it had continued to spark and burn. They had made love again last night after sharing a bath, and then again this morning as the sun rose.
“Your patience is admirable, my dear,” he forced himself to say. “But just as soon as the repairs are made, we will escape London, I promise.”
Her confession yesterday returned to him then.
I love you.
Only one other woman had spoken those words to him in his life, and she had written the letter that was still clutched desperately in his hand. His knuckles ached, and he was wrinkling the paper.
What a devil he was. He had not wanted to hear those words. Had not been ready for them. And he had stiffened, frozen in her embrace. She had hastened to correct herself, but he was not fooled. Jo fancied herself in love with him. They had not spoken of it again, and he was happier that way. It was for the best. He did not believe in love. He had been disabused of that fantastical emotion’s existence ten years ago, when he had been little more than a lad in leading strings.
Jo sent him a small smile. “I like it here well enough. There is no need to escape on my behalf.”
He had hurt her, he thought, with his reaction. She deserved better than him. But he was not convinced he could offer her anything more than pleasure. Ever. Hell, he could not tell her what was in his hands, coward that he was. Or banish it from his life as he ought. No, he was going to read the dratted thing.
He wanted to know what Nora had to say, and yet he did not.
“I am glad you are content here, my dear,” he told Jo, before turning his attention back to the letter. “But I insist you deserve a honeymoon. A trip to Dover will be just the thing.”
His heart pounded and his hands shook as he opened it.
Dearest Eli,
Undoubtedly, you will not welcome word from me. I expect you ought to detest me for the manner in which we last parted. I cannot blame either sentiment, as both are equally well-deserved. However, I am writing to you in the hope you will read this letter rather than sending it directly to the rubbish heap.
I would like to beg your forgiveness for my defection. My actions were those of a petulant child, a girl who feared her father’s wrath and who was not strong enough to withstand his threat of severing all familial connections with me were I to wed a man who was not of his choosing. Please know there has not been one day, in all the days between now and the day I last saw you, that I did not think of you.
I am writing you now as a widow. You may not know that my husband, Lord Tinley, has unfortunately met his reward a year ago. Having observed my mourning period, I felt the time was right to contact you and let you know how sorry I am for the events of our past. I hope to see you again, Eli. I never stopped loving you.
I wish I had been strong enough to deserve your love then.
Yours in regret,
Nora, Viscountess Tinley
Decker felt as if the breath had been robbed from his lungs. They burned. His stomach clenched. His reaction to the words, swirling before him, was visceral. An acute combination of rage, resentment, anguish, and outrage filled him.
How dare she contact him, after all this time, and now, when he had a wife, in such a manner?
How dare she tell him she had never stopped loving him?
Fury won the battle for supremacy within. He crushed the letter in his fist and rose from his chair with such abrupt haste, the chair tumbled backward. Decker did not give a damn. He was going to burn this piece of tripe. And then he was going to piss on the ashes when it was nothing but a smoldering heap, just as she had left him.