Annalise watched him go, a burning sob rising in her throat. She brought her knees to her chest and covered her mouth with both hands as if she could stop the sound from spilling out. She rolled to her side and buried her face in the bed. A mistake. His scent was everywhere.
Tears rolled hotly down her cheeks unchecked, their salty taste finding a way beneath her hands to her lips. She couldn’t help herself. She turned her face into the bed and breathed him in, desperate to memorize this last smell of him.
It was better this way. Better that she hadn’t told him everything. He’d been too shocked to press her for more details. She had seen that in his face. Perhaps he would hate her now. Hate her and put her from his mind.
If he knew all of it, that Bloodsworth had tried to kill her . . . that he was the one responsible for sending Snyder after her, he would be duty-bound to keep her safe. Again. His honor would demand it. He’d never let her return to her husband. But now he would.
She was another man’s wife. She had kept that all-important fact from him and that’s all he could see at the moment.
Fighting back tears, she pushed up from the bed. She moved mechanically, changing clothes, using the basin of water to clean herself. She splashed water again and again on her face, as if that would somehow wash away the pain.
Staring at herself in the looking glass, water dripping from her chin and nose, she marveled at how different she looked from the girl who had wed Bloodsworth months ago. No longer so frightened. There was strength in the lines of her face. Resolve in her brown eyes. She would not return to her husband as the vulnerable girl he had tossed into the water and left for dead.
Dressed in fresh clothes, she moved toward the vanity. Sinking down on a stool, she tidied her hair, sweeping the brown mass into a simple knot.
This time she wouldn’t bring anything with her. The clothes she had here didn’t belong to her. Nothing here belonged to her. Claiming her cloak from where Owen tossed it to the floor, she swept it around her and departed the room.
The door to the library was cracked and she heard the clink of a glass inside. She paused outside of it, envisioning Owen sipping from a glass of brandy. She longed to go to him, but the memory of his face, so stricken and horrified when she told him she was married, gave her pause. This was better. No need for him to glimpse her face. He might see the truth.
She loved him.
Totally. Completely. Unapologetically.
She could go to Bloodsworth because of him. Because she knew love. Her love for him made her stronger. Better. Strong enough to confront Bloodsworth. Strong enough to stop hiding. Especially since doing so would keep Owen safe. The risk would be hers alone. As it should be. She alone would confront her husband. Looking away, she hurried past the library door.
On the bottom floor one of the grooms stepped forward to intercept her as she opened the front door. “Miss Anna? Do you need the carriage brought around?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes, please.” Why not? It was no secret she was going . . . and no secret where.
In moments she was moving across Town. The streets were crowded with conveyances—members of the ton out for an evening of diversion. By the time she reached the duke’s Mayfair residence, dusk had fallen. The house was ablaze with lights, and she surmised her husband was entertaining for the night.
She didn’t knock.
One should not knock at the door of her own home, after all. A groom turned, startled, as she entered the vast foyer.
“See here—” he began.
She held up a hand, angling her chin just so. “Do you not recognize me?”
Even before their nuptials, she had visited the house countless times.
The servant frowned, scrutinizing her. Then he gaped, recognition lighting his face. “Miss Hadley? I m-mean, Your Grace?”
“Where’s my husband?”
The groom motioned vaguely. “He’s in the dining room. He and his guests only just sat down.”
She nodded. “Very good. Thank you.”
“Shall I escort you, You Grace?”
“I know the way.” She walked past him with sure strides straight into the proverbial lion’s den.
She has left again. I thought you should like to know, my lord.”
Owen looked up from his glass of brandy. “Thank you for that report, Mrs. Kirkpatrick.” He did not even bother to keep the withering sarcasm from his tone. He was in a foul mood and she approached him at her own peril.
“Edmond drove her to the Duke of Bloodsworth residence in Mayfair,” the housekeeper added, unfazed as she stared at him with such expectation. As if she was waiting for him to rise and do something. Go after her, he supposed.
“Again, thank you, Mrs. Kirkpatrick. That will be all.”
Pursing her lips, she nodded and swept back out of his library.
He finished his brandy in one long swallow. Annalise had wasted little time returning to her husband. As was right, he grudgingly acknowledged. She belonged to Bloodsworth. Standing, he sent his glass crashing into the wall. It exploded into a thousand pieces.
She should be with her husband. The man who had wed her before God. Who had lost her . . . and let her end up broken along the shore of a river.
And now Annalise was back in his hands. Bloody hell. No. No, she was not.
Not if he had anything to say about it.
Charging from the room, he stormed out of the house, suddenly not caring what was right or wrong. He only knew she belonged with him.