“We all wear masks when it suits us.” The marquis inclined his head. “You will find me here should you wish to peruse my story books again.”
* * *
During the journey back to Bruton Street, Damian’s mind was plagued with doubt. Surprisingly, his concern did not stem from his own feelings on marriage—he wanted Scarlett more than he’d wanted anything his whole damn life.
But did she want a rogue with a tarnished reputation?
Or was he destined to a similar fate as his father?
Once home, his anxious heart thumped in his chest as he mounted the stairs. He paused at the bedchamber door, recited a romantic declaration in his head and tapped lightly before entering.
Scarlett was not asleep in bed.
She was not in bed, not in the room.
He went to investigate the room next door, found it empty, her valise missing.
Returning to his chamber, he rang the servants’ bell but then noticed the letter and leather pouch on the night table.
Dread’s icy hand settled on his shoulder, leaving him frozen. Immobile. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he anticipated the worst. His heart pumped a painful beat in his throat. Hours earlier, he had thrust deep into her body, been so close to declaring his love. Was she thinking about writing her letter when she kissed him so passionately? Was she planning the best way to say goodbye?
But then another thought struck him—one far more terrifying.
He yanked the pull again.
A maid entered. One glance at the empty bed brought some confusion.
“Has Lady Steele taken ill, taken a turn for the worse?” Panic squeezed its fingers around his throat. Many people died days after receiving a blow to the head.
Through trembling lips, the maid said, “No, sir, she was tucked in bed the last time I checked.”
Relief flooded his chest.
“Then do you happen to know if she has left the house?” Of course she had left the house. Why else would she scribble a note?
“I’ll speak to Welton, sir, see if her ladyship mentioned an outing.”
“No matter.” Welton would have conveyed the message when he greeted Damian in the hallway. Equally, he would have broken the bad news to his master should the lady have perished during his brief absence. “You may go about your duties.”
The maid curtsied and left.
Damian stared at the letter. Hell’s teeth! He’d fought duels at dawn, survived a stab wound to the leg, a shot to the arm. So why was he scared of words scrawled on a slip of paper?
Marching over to the night table, he snatched the unsealed note, peeled back the folds and scanned the lines. One word—love—drew his gaze further down the page.
Uncertainty and insecurity have plagued me my whole life. I have learnt to hide behind a mask, a facade. Deep down I’m a coward, far from perfect. But I know one thing with absolute clarity—I’m in love with you, Wycliff, madly in love, and there is nothing to be done about it.
The next few words were smudged, as if her tears had dropped onto the paper.
I pray you feel the same. I pray you will come rescue me, that we will not waste another three years in abject misery. In the meantime, please accept this token as a symbol of my abiding affection. Know that I have never stopped thinking about the day I might return it to you.
Damian placed the note on the bed and picked up the leather pouch. It felt heavier than expected. Loosening the drawstring, he delved inside. The moment his fingers settled on the cold metal, he knew what it was.
His heart skipped a beat.
A rush of euphoria flooded his chest as he withdrew his mother’s gold necklace and cross. “Maria,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the symbol representing the only other woman he had ever loved. “You sent me an angel that night.”
He stood for a moment and let the light of love touch his soul. Then he untied his cravat and fastened the chain around his neck.