The Return of the Duke - Grace Callaway Page 0,108

she overexerted herself doing her duty to this family.”

Remorse constricted his chest. “I’ll check in on her.”

“Are the flowers for Fancy?” Toby beamed at him.

“Yes.” And because his wife had helped him build a bridge to his kin, he thought to ask, “Do you think she will like the violets?”

“She will.” Although Eleanor’s tone was serious as usual, her new white frock with pink ribbons made her appear more her age. “All ladies like flowers…except me.”

“You do not like flowers?” he asked.

“I prefer books. Flowers last a moment, books forever.”

“I shall remember your advice the next time I get Fancy a gift,” he said, amused.

“You don’t have to worry,” Toby reassured him. “Fancy isn’t hard to please. She even liked the picture I drew of Bertrand, and I’m not a very good artist. I could only fit three of his four legs onto the paper.”

Talking about Fancy, seeing the changes she had sown with her warmth and love, made Severin all the more impatient to get to her.

“Come along, children,” his aunt said briskly “Your brother has matters to attend to.”

“Thank you, Aunt Esther.” Severin paused. “For everything you have done for this family.”

Emotion flashed in her eyes, which she quickly covered up by herding his siblings along.

Finally, Severin was free to go to his wife. Arriving at her bedchamber, he felt as nervous as a bridegroom. Gripping the flowers in one hand, he knocked softly. He did it again, louder when there was no response.

When silence still greeted him, he wondered if he should leave her to rest. He should, probably, for as his aunt had said, his wife had exerted herself last night…but, hell, he couldn’t wait.

Finding the door locked, he went into his own chamber. The knob to their private door turned in his hand and, heart thudding with anticipation, he entered his wife’s room, still darkened from the drawn drapes. He headed toward her bed.

“Chérie?” he said softly, not wanting to startle her. “Are you awake?”

No reply. Arriving at the bed, he saw it was empty.

“Fancy?” he called, heading to her sitting room.

It, too, was unoccupied.

Brows drawn, he circled his gaze around the room…and then he saw it. On her escritoire, the ruby ring and necklace he’d given her sat atop a folded piece of paper. Dropping the flowers, he strode over, pushing aside the expensive paperweights to grab the note. A vise clamped around his heart when he saw that it was written in Fancy’s painstaking hand and blotched…by her tears.

Knight,

* * *

Seeing you with Imogen, I know now that you cannot give me the marriage I want. The love and respect that I deserve. No matter how hard I try, I will never be her—and I should not have to be. There is only one solution, and I’m sorry for the pain it will cause the children. I will miss them. Please do not come after me.

* * *

Take care of yourself,

Fancy

* * *

P.S. Please tell Toby to take good care of Bertrand.

Pain lashed Severin, his scar an agonizing burn. Once again, his world was torn apart, but this time he had caused the damage. Fancy had given him everything, and he had repaid her with callousness.

“Don’t leave me, Fancy,” he said in an anguished whisper.

But she had left him…because he deserved to be left.

Heat singed his eyes, and he closed them briefly, letting the pain and helplessness flood him. Letting the loss of his beloved permeate every fiber of his being. Everything he felt now and the grief of his past merged as one, and when he opened his eyes, his vision was burning but clear.

He had no idea where his wife had gone.

No idea where to begin looking.

But he would move heaven and earth to find her and win her back.

35

“Fancy, I be wanting a word with you.”

“Yes, Da?” Fancy asked.

She paused in the act of making dough in the kitchen of the caravan. Her brothers had brought home a brace of plump pheasants that had “wandered” from a neighboring lord’s estate, and she was getting rid of the evidence by making a big pie for supper.

Her father sat down at the table where she was working.

“’Ow long be you planning to ’ide from your ’usband, petal?” he asked.

The mention of Knight brought a piercing pain. In the week since she had found her way to Derbyshire, where her family always camped this time of year, she’d tried not to think about her husband at all, burying her sorrow in work. Her