Page 58 of One Wicked Secret
He removed the personal items one by one, every muscle in his gut clenching. A velvet choker and hair comb. A handkerchief embroidered with her monogram that smelled of her because Carver had kept a bottle of her perfume. A simple verse she had signed.
In shadows we meet, where no eyes can see,
A passion forbidden, yet it calls to me.
In every touch, a secret we keep,
A fire so fierce, it burns while I sleep.
“Did you write this verse?” he asked, his throat tight, afraid he was being played for a fool.
She took the paper, hesitated, and gave a stiff shake of her head. “Of course not. It’s an abysmal attempt at romantic poetry.”
“But that looks like your signature,” he said, jealousy writhing in his veins, preventing him from thinking objectively. “Carver was a handsome man. I could see why an impressionable young woman might enjoy a flirtation with him. Especially if she was being forced to marry a man like Lord Denby.”
A blush rose to her cheeks. “Daniel, I didn’t write a love poem for Mr Carver. It’s not hard to forge someone’s signature.”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m simply saying I would understand if you had, given the circumstances.”
Sadness and frustration warred in her eyes. “May I speak plainly?”
“Please do.”
She looked at him keenly. “The kiss we shared earlier should leave no doubt in your mind.” Her gaze softened. “I’ve never been interested in other men. It’s always been you. No one but you.”
Chapter Eleven
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight, yet Daniel had not come to bed. Elsa sat propped against a mound of pillows, her plain cotton nightgown a far cry from the delicate lace and ribbon-trimmed garments meant to please a husband.
Signora Conti had made her final rounds, the jingle of her chatelaine fading as she retreated to her quarters in the basement.
Nausea twisted in Elsa’s stomach, the same cramping pain she’d endured on her wedding night. Everything about this moment was familiar. The endless waiting, the candle burning low, the unbearable silence stretching as she lay alone in the marriage bed.
What excuse would Daniel give this time? Had the contents of Mr Carver’s grooming case fed his suspicions? Was the banal romantic verse the final straw?
She’d thought about little else during their visit to Mr Daventry’s office, their last errand of the day. The gentleman asked about her injured arm and advised her to rest. Was that why her husband stayed away?
Perhaps distrust had caused his desire to wane.
Perhaps life would never be as perfect as the dream.
She settled into bed, hugging the feather pillow, not Daniel’s muscular arm, and breathed deeply to ease her troubled mind.
Many minutes passed before the softtinkon the window broke the stillness. The sound stirred a memory of the first night Daniel lured her from the house to the moonlit garden—his whispers full of promise, his presence stealing her breath.
She pulled back the bedcovers and hurried to the window, her heart racing. A peek through the curtains revealed endless shadows and a cloudy sky.
Then she heard him calling her: “Elsa! Elsa!”
Daniel appeared beneath her window in his shirtsleeves, the fine lawn open at the neck, and beckoned her to join him in the garden.
Excitement fluttered in her belly.
Stronger now than ever before.
She slipped on her wrapper, a practical garment made for comfort rather than style, slid her feet into her slippers and crept downstairs.
He was waiting by the open terrace doors, looking ruggedly handsome. His dark gaze swept over her unbound hair, lingered on her parted lips, then dropped to where her nipples pressed against the cotton, taut in the cool evening air.
