It's nothing, he told himself as he wiped his watering eyes. It's not that, for God's sake.
But he still rose to his knees to stare down at the small spots. Nothing really, hardly even n
oticeable. But definitely there. Probably she'd started her menses.
Yes, of course. And that was why she'd left before he woke.
"Of course," he said aloud, relieved at the simple answer. His pounding heart began to slow. Emma was a widow, after all, not a maid. And she hadn't behaved as if. ..
His heart turned over with its eagerness to thump faster again.
He remembered the way she'd knelt before him, ready and completely unsure. Remembered the stunning tightness of her body, even as desperate and wet as she'd been. And her strangled gasp, the painful bite of her fingernails digging into his skin. The way she'd frozen beneath him for long seconds.
"No." His own voice, full of certainty, did nothing to quell the confusion. He glanced down to his cock, to the faint streak of dried blood that marked it. "No."
It simply wasn't possible, even if she had been married to an old man. The woman had ordered him to perform for her; she was no innocent, blushing miss.
Hart jumped naked from the bed and snapped the bellpull tight. He was rifling through stacks of clean shirts when his valet entered and sounded as if he choked on his own spit.
"Your Grace!"
"I need to get dressed. Now." He needed answers, answers to so many things. And he wasn't going to find them in his own bedchambers. Although . ..
"When did Lady Denmore leave?"
"Sir?"
"What time did she leave here, and don't pretend at disÂcretion."
"Of course, Your Grace. She departed just before three."
Three. So she'd left soon after he'd fallen asleep. Snuck away. Fled. Escaped. But surely not.
Ten minutes later he left his perspiring valet behind and raced to mount his most nimble horse. It was much quicker than his carriage in the midday traffic. And so he found himÂself, not an hour after waking to thoughts of her, standing inside her open door, staring at the lonely dance of dust motes floating in the sun.
He'd already raced upstairs, already torn through every room. The few paltry pieces of furniture were covered. The drawers were empty. She was gone. Gone farther than he'd even imagined.
"I tried to tell ye," a small voice said from his side. Hart glanced stupidly down to see Stimp, hands clutching a hat, face scrunched up in worry.
Hart shook his echoing head. "Pardon?"
"They left 'fore dawn. When I found out, I tried to see ye."
His mind was turning, turning . . . so slow that Hart could see every single painful, unwelcome thought. "Where have they gone?"
Stimp just shrugged. His eyes darted up to Hart and then away. "Sorry, guv."
Sorry. I'm sorry, she'd keened so prettily. She, who must have been lying with every damned word she'd breathed.
The painful thoughts faded beneath a welcome onslaught of rage.
"Help me search," he snapped, startling Stimp into a jump. "They must have left something behind, and I will damn well find it. And then I will find her."
Chapter 18
Nothing. Two weeks and there was nothing left of her. Nothing but talk of her wickedness and scandalized glee that she'd flown from town to avoid the shame of it all.
Hart clenched his jaw and glared at the pristine white of the paper laid before him.