Page 55 of The Gentleman Was Right
On the contrary, they seemed to lie in wait for her to return.
With her sister still at the Greydon townhouse and her husband asleep, there was no one to distract her as she requested tea and then drank two cups in rapid succession. She poured a third, picked up a scone, and ate it in quick, efficient bites. Barely pausing to breathe, she nibbled a second scone, gulped her third cup of tea, and rose from her seat.
Running away might be foolish, but a brief respite from her thoughts was necessary if she was going to reestablish the distance she needed between Edward and herself.
She knew just what she could do to distract herself—collect Isabelle and hope that seeing her sister again would help restore her balance. Peering through the window at the heavy mist that shrouded the street, she concluded that it wasn’t ideal weather for an outing that was meant to improve her mood, but it would have to do.
She had a quick word with the housekeeper, grabbed her cloak, pulled her hood up over her head, and ventured into the damp morning air.
Even in the rain London was a noisy city, but the noise was just a backdrop to her thoughts. Because she was busy reminding herself that passion did not equal love, she barely registered the sounds from outside and couldn’t stop herself from fidgeting in the chilly hack as it clattered its way to the Earl of Greydon’s townhouse.
* * *
Edward didn’t have expectations for the morning after his wedding, but if he had, he would have been disappointed, because when he awoke, he was alone in Violet’s bed.
His clothes were scattered about the room, and his wife was nowhere in sight.
Stomach rumbling, he sat up and looked around. He had no knowledge of Violet’s routines, and he had no idea where she went when she woke up, so he had no choice but to rise and go in search of her. Stretching his arms over his head to try to loosen some of the soreness that had settled in his limbs after a night of lovemaking, he forced himself to get up.
The rain beating upon the window gave no indication of the hour, but his stomach rumbled a second time, reminding him that he required sustenance. He hadn’t eaten anything since tea the previous day and neither had Violet. She had probably awoken as famished as he was.
Wearing nothing but a sheet, he started searching for his clothes. Since he didn’t know where his trunks had been taken, he didn’t have anything to wear other than his wedding attire. He wandered about the room, piling each article he unearthed in a heap on the bed.
Once he’d located everything, he dressed as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the state of his garments. His waistcoat and jacket were missing, his cravat was badly rumpled, and his shirt was full of creases. Frowning, he attempted to smooth his curls before turning to the mirror in the corner to inspect himself.
A hesitant glance confirmed that he looked positively ghastly.
He had never considered himself particularly vain, but as he surveyed his appearance from top to bottom, he had no choice but to conclude that he cared quite a bit more than he’d thought he did about how he looked. His previous lack of vanity seemed to be directly related to the fact that he normally had access to pristinely pressed clothing that was precisely tailored to his form, and that he was rarely forced to ready himself without the aid of warm water.
When he sniffed, the unmistakable scent of sex tickled his nose. It was possible that the smell lingered in the air or on the bedding, but it was just as likely that it clung to his body.
He sighed as his stomach rumbled again.
There was nothing else to be done. He couldn’t hide in this bedchamber and lament his untidy state forever, so he crossed the floor and pulled open the door.
When he stepped into the hallway, he found it empty, with no sounds filtering through the tidy space. Since he had no way of knowing who else was in the house or where Violet had disappeared to, he retraced his steps from the previous afternoon.
When he arrived in the sitting room, he didn’t find his missing jacket or waistcoat, nor did he find the remnants of the tea he and Violet had shared.
He wasn’t sure why, but he wandered further into the room as if he could conjure Violet if only he looked harder. A voice from the doorway startled him. “Sir.” He turned to find a short round woman with a cap upon her head and a direct unblinking stare. “If you’ll follow me, Miss Violet requested a full breakfast for you before she went out.”
“Out?”
She nodded once. “She is fetching her sister.”
She was what?He had assumed they would collect Isabelle together. Why on earth had she gone without him?
“When did she depart?” he asked as casually as he could manage.
The woman frowned. “Not more than half an hour ago.”
“Did she say when she intended to return?”
“Miss Violet does not explain herself to the staff,” she replied.
He blinked at her clipped tone, and then trying to ignore his sudden panic at why Violet had left him, he smiled broadly. “Forgive me. I’m a bit discombobulated this morning. We haven’t even been properly introduced. I am Edward Grey, Violet’s husband. And you are?”
Her demeanor did not change. “Mrs. Swanson, housekeeper.”
