///
She'd even acquired a new cat from its depths, a stray orange tom she found wandering among the hydrangea bushes one morning. An offered dish of milk and he'd been her bosom beau ever since. She'd decided to call him Ranunculus because Buttercup was far too feminine a name for such a large and impressive male. She gazed at him now where he slept in the sunshine, basking like a small potentate in the heat of the day.
If only she could take the same delight. Instead, the humid, mid-August air pressed upon her like a wet, woolen blanket. Mayhap that was the cause of her blue devils.
That and Jack. But she refused to dwell on him.
Her hands squeezed into fists on her lap as she willed away the ache in her breast.
Since the day they'd parted, she'd heard nothing from him. Her only contact had been a few letters forwarded by his man of business-and all those had been from friends and family, including Meg, Mallory and Ava.
So far, she hadn't been able to bring herself to divulge the details of her separation from Jack. And from the tenor of the missives she'd received, she gleaned that he hadn't either.
The news would have to be shared soon though, she knew, but for the time being, she'd glossed over such particulars in her letters of reply in favor of more cheerful subjects.
As for Jack, the only thing she knew for certain was that he had not returned to London. Otherwise, she had no knowledge of his whereabouts.
Probably at a party in the country. Drinking, gaming and wenching with nary a thought for me.
Her stomach churned at the notion. But such circumstances were inevitable now. They'd said their good-byes. Their lives were now their own and she would be well-advised to get on with hers.
If only I could, she mused, casting another glance at her currently dismal painting. She was debating whether to forge onward with another attempt when a wave of exhaustion swept through her.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and prayed it would pass.
Over the past several days, she'd been struggling with what seemed like a case of the summer ague. Yet oddly enough, she had no fever, and her symptoms seemed to come and go with no apparent rhyme or reason.
In general, the worst of her malaise struck in the morning, when she would wake and be forced to fly from the bed in search of the nearest basin. Once she'd emptied her stomach in great shuddering heaves, she would crawl back into bed, then sleep like the dead. Usually, by the time she awakened, her queasiness would be gone, in its place a ravenous hunger that demanded immediate appeasement.
Then there was her weariness, bouts of irresistible sleepiness that would come over her at the most unlikely and inconvenient times of the day. One noontime, in fact, she'd gone into the library to get a book and ended up spending the whole afternoon curled up asleep on the sofa.
She supposed she ought to consult a physician, but she hated the bother of it, telling herself her present affliction would soon pass.
Only it didn't seem to be going away, not given her current tiredness.
Laying down her paintbrush, she wiped her fingers on a handkerchief, then stood.
Her head swam in a sudden, dizzying circle, blood thrumming in audible beats between her ears. Reaching out, she gripped the table edge and held on, fighting the blackness that threatened to engulf her. Swaying, she willed the vertigo to pass lest she crumple into an unconscious heap.
Stars above, what kind of malady do I have? she wondered as the worst of her dizziness began to fade. Not only was she periodically sick to her stomach and incredibly fatigued but now she was dizzy too!
For some reason, the thought of being dizzy triggered a memory of a comment Meg had made in one of her last letters.
… I'm so dizzy these days with the baby that poor Cade has taken to hovering around me, terrified I may fall at any moment. He needn't worry though, since I spend half my time veering toward the nearest piece of furniture, so I can take a nap.
Dizziness. Naps. The only thing Meg hadn't mentioned was being sick in the morning. Or put another way, she hadn't complained of morning sickness! And now that Grace considered it, her menses was late. Very, very late!
Oh, dear heavens, Grace realized, as she let out a whooshing breath and sat down hard on the chair.
I'm with child!
Jack came awake with a start and gazed bleary-eyed across the room, with its shelves of leather-bound books and glass-fronted cabinets full of knickknacks and antiquarian items.
For a few moments, his mind stayed blank. But then recognition set in.
The cottage, he thought.
He was in the cottage where he and Grace had spent their honeymoon. Inside the library where he'd passed so much time during that first dreadful week.
///
What insanity ever possessed me to come back here? he wondered for the hundredth time. I really should be carted off to Bedlam for such a stupid idea.
But after leaving Grace nearly a month ago, he'd been like a ship without a rudder, floundering and cast adrift. And so he'd come to the only place that made sense at the time. The only place he could be at peace.
Only he wasn't at peace.
He was in hell.
Every room overflowed with memories of Grace, as though she were a ghost who haunted him wherever he went. Everywhere, that is, but here in this library. During her brief residence, she'd rarely been in this room, so the memories weren't as strong. Because of that, he used the space as a refuge.
He supposed he ought to have packed his luggage and departed by now, but where would he go? He had no interest in staying at an inn. And even less in staying with friends. Unlike Cade, he'd never acquired an estate of his own, and he couldn't set foot in London for a couple more weeks. Besides, the town house would be even worse than this cottage, with far more memories of Grace to be endured.
Yawning, he rubbed a hand over the heavy growth of bristle lining his throat and cheeks. He hadn't shaved in days. He hadn't felt like it, spending most of his time wallowing in cheroots, long walks and solitude.
As for sleep, he got very little.
Each night he stubbornly forced himself to lie down on the mattress in the bedroom. But every time he closed his eyes, Grace was there. And once he started thinking about her, he couldn't stop, until finally he would come here to the library and sleep in the armchair.
Another man might have drowned his misery in the bottom of a brandy decanter. But after a brief infatuation with that particular poison, he'd given it up, realizing he felt worse rather than better. The only thing the alcohol did was give him a sore head, a churning gut and no real comfort at all.
Reaching into his pocket, he searched for his watch to see just how late the hour really was. Instead of the timepiece, however, his fingers brushed against a now familiar piece of jewelry that he'd taken to carrying.
He'd discovered it among some of his things before leaving London, and had slipped it into his pocket. Why he'd done it, he still didn't know. Maybe he'd hoped to give it to her when they parted. Maybe he'd needed to carry a piece of her with him after she was gone.
Drawing it out, he gazed at the heart-shaped amethyst pendant, running his thumb over the tiny miniature garden in the center.
He wondered if she liked her garden at her new house in Kent. He wondered if she liked living there. Did she miss her old life? Did she miss him?
Christ, what a pitiful idiot I've become.
If he had any sense, he'd leave this room, ride to the nearest tavern, find a willing woman and tup her until he couldn't think straight. Tup her, and as many more nameless females as it took to drive one long-legged redhead out of his mind.
And what about his heart?
Eventually, he would cut her out of that as well, he assured himself. He just needed time and the right sharp implement to do the job.
He was considering taking another one of his long, rambling walks through the nearby woods and fields when a rap sounded at the door.
His first instinct was to ignore it. Frankly, he was surprised that any of the servants had the nerve to disturb him. His humor was so foul most of the time that he'd scared off all the maids; none of them would come near any more. Only the housekeeper remained to see to his meals and tend to the necessary cleaning. And the one remaining footman wasn't too keen on him either-not after he'd thrown a plate of fried eggs at the fellow's head one particularly bad morning.
The knock came again.
He grumbled under his breath, tucking the pendant back into his pocket before he called out. "Yes. What is it?"
The door opened, but the man who entered wasn't the footman, as Jack expected. In fact, he didn't even recognize the stranger at first. But then, as the slender, sandy-haired man moved farther into the room, his identity came clear.
It was Terrence Cooke, Grace's friend and publisher.