Page 92 of The Broken Marchioness
“Yer other hand.”
Allan looked down at his other hand to see his knuckles were bloodied. He hadn’t even noticed that; at one point, he must have switched which hand he was punching with. This hand was bloodied all the way across his knuckles.
“My house is closer. We’ll go there,” Stephen said then shook his head. “And let’s pray that a constable doesn’t come searching for you.”
“They will nae,” Gerard said again to Stephen, even managing to laugh. “Ye think this is the first-time men have come to blows in a gambling club? They’ll write it off as nothing. Stop worryin’ about that. Let’s just concentrate on where on earth Frederica could be if she is nae with Lord Wetherington.”
Allan nodded in agreement. He had been so certain that was where she would be. Though he was incredibly relieved that she was not with Lord Wetherington, and he was not hurting her, Allan was still back at square one.
“Ah, Freddie,” he muttered to himself. “Where the hell are you?”
* * *
“What are you doing?”
Frederica broke off from the letter she had been attempting to write. Night had fallen and she thought she was alone in Honora’s sitting room. She had been here for hours attempting to write a letter to Allan, with various drafts of the letter now screwed up into tiny balls cluttering the floor.
She turned to see Honora in the doorway, already dressed for bed with her hair loose around her shoulders and a shawl wrapped tightly around her arms.
“Are you writing a novel?” Honora asked in jest, walking into the room and sitting in a chair by the fire. It was a damp night, so they had lit the fire to keep themselves warm. It gave off a soothing orange glow though Frederica could find little comfort in it for the time being. “You have certainly got enough paper here for a book.”
Frederica wrinkled her nose as she looked at all of the discarded sheets.
“Sorry about this,” she whispered to Honora. Releasing the quill and placing it back down on the desk, she leaned back in her chair, sighing as she gazed at all the papers. “I keep trying to write a letter, but as you can see, I’m making poor progress.”
“To your husband?”
To hear the words made Frederica’s heart beat a little faster.
He is still my husband. I made a vow in church to him to be his wife and to love him forever.
At that moment, there was nothing she wished for more than to be able to keep her vow. She longed to run back to London, to be with Allan, to throw herself at his feet and apologize for everything, but she couldn’t.
To do so would be to put him in danger.
“What are you trying to tell him exactly?” Honora asked, peering at the pieces of paper littering the floor curiously, as if they were insects scuttling across the ground.
“I don’t really know.” Frederica’s words made Honora look up sharply. “That’s mad, isn’t it? All I know is that I want to speak to him, to talk to him. I think I would be happy if I was just sitting beside him, with no words between us. Isn’t that mad? What a ridiculous sort of longing!”
She wiped her eyes, trying to remove the sleep dust and feel more awake.
“It’s not mad, not at all,” Honora said, with evident fondness in her voice. “That’s love, sweetheart.”
Frederica lowered her hands from her face. This time, she didn’t bother denying it, either to Honora or herself. She just accepted it as a fact.
I am in love with him.
“When did it happen? How could it happen?” she whispered. “I was so busy trying to push him away, to keep my distance, and to not let myself run away with the idea of being happy?—”
“A ridiculous thing to attempt, but go on,” Honora ushered her.
“I just don’t understand how I could fall in love with him so quickly.”
“In my experience, love is not something you can prepare yourself for. It just happens, even when you’re not ready for it. It’s why they call itfallingin love, dearest,” Honora said with gentleness in her tone. “You don’t jump into it, you tumble in.”
* * *
“My brother fighting, eh?” Dorothy said with a laugh.
