He told himself that, as Sanderson had pointed out, that wouldn’t apply to Therese. She was the sort who worked through difficulties and managed. Sadly, worry was an unreasoning beast, and it had taken dogged root in his mind.
To counter it, he reminded himself of her temper. Although it didn’t erupt often, when it did, it manifested with elemental force; on several occasions over the years, he’d had to hold her back from some reckless action…
Was that why she’d run for the Priory? In the grip of her temper, had she, perhaps, concluded that he’d raised her hopes regarding love purely on a whim, only to cruelly dash them by consorting with another woman?
He forced himself to face the prospect that she might have decided to cut him out of her life.
It was a battle to haul himself away from the abyss that notion conjured. He managed it only by reminding himself—again—that Therese was far more likely to confront any demons that dared block her path rather than run screaming from them.
He allowed his gaze to roam her face and, deliberately steering his mind in what he hoped would be a more profitable direction, wondered how best to proceed when she awoke. That left him reviewing what he’d wanted to achieve in starting down the track of openly acknowledging that their marriage was a love-match. Put simply, he’d done it because he’d wanted more; he’d wanted to claim what he’d realized was there to be claimed.
He’d wanted all the benefits other Cynster couples had seized and made theirs, with their love for each other openly acknowledged and embraced by both husband and wife.
That initial motive might have been selfish, but he’d known even then that, once she understood that the possibility was there, Therese would want to claim that prize every bit as avidly as he.
Wanting more; it all boiled down to that. Looking back over the past weeks, cataloguing her encouraging reactions, he felt confident that she, too, yearned to achieve the same, utterly compelling goal.
A shared purpose, then, one focused on recrafting their union from what it had been into what it could be, which encompassed and promised so much more.
When she woke, he would have to convince her of that—of their “shared purpose” and all aspects of that “more.” To do so, he would need to reveal all, the complete and undisguised truth of their marriage.
Under his unwavering gaze, her lashes fluttered. Her lids tightened as if she was about to open her eyes.
Hope surging, he sat up, but before he could reach out and take her hand, her lids eased, and her lashes stilled, and she sank into deep slumber once more.
With his gaze locked on her face, he waited, but she didn’t stir again.
He sighed and slumped back in the armchair.
No more prevarication, no more oblique and ambiguous utterances.
If he had to bare his soul to convince her of the truth—that he had always loved her as she’d loved him—he would. That was all the plan he needed.
Consciousness returned to Therese in a long, slow slide as if she—her mind—was falling into place after having been absent for quite some time.
She was warm and comfortable; for long moments, she didn’t move, then slowly, she raised her lids.
The first thing she saw was entirely unexpected. A dragon statue…no, it was the dragon figurine she’d seen on the first day of the exhibition!
She blinked and focused on the dragon, poised to launch into the air, flames curving from its nostrils, its wings spread wide. She drank in the superb craftsmanship, displayed not just in the golden shape but also in the exceptional coloring of the iridescent enamel scales and the glittering jewels artfully embedded here and there, scattering the light.
Unable to help herself, she freed a hand from the covers and reached out to turn the figurine so she could admire the coloration on the dragon’s back. The colors coruscated like living fire—yellows, oranges, and every shade of red.
Running a fingertip down the dragon’s spine, she smiled. Then she wondered how it came to be there. She knew Victoria had noticed the little dragon, even before Therese had; she’d seen Victoria ahead of her, examining the statue, and she’d assumed Prince Albert would buy it for the queen. Apparently not; after all, there had been many exquisite items displayed to catch the queen’s eye.
Still smiling, Therese remembered talking to the Russian jeweler. Among other things, he’d assured her the figurine was one of a kind. Yet here it was; she stroked the dragon again, confirming that it was in no way a figment of her imagination. At the exhibition, while she’d admired the statue, Devlin had been watching and waiting on her a few yards away. Given it was on the table by her bed, presumably he had bought it for her.
Her smile deepened; her birthday was nearing, and he must have remembered…
But why give it to her now?
She blinked, then blinked again as more-recent memories flooded into her brain. Events unfurled in a rush, then a torrent.
She remembered the crash. Remembered what followed. In her mind’s eye, she saw Devlin walking through the chaos of the aftermath toward her and experienced again the huge upswell of relief…before she’d weakened and fallen.
Her last visual memory was of Devlin’s face—of his relief, so deep and utterly unshuttered on first seeing her, being overtaken by, then erased by, concern for her.
Her last tactile memory was of his strong arms catching her as she’d sagged toward the ground.
She frowned. Why had she been on the train? Had they been traveling to the Priory? She couldn’t remember…then the murky mists clouding her memory thinned, and she did.
She remembered it all.
How she and Devlin had grown closer, how happy she’d been about that, what he’d said early that morning, and what she had said in reply…then she’d seen him with the woman in Covent Garden. The emotions that had erupted in that moment remained sharp and clear, but now lacked the power they’d earlier possessed, the immediacy and urgency and sheer painfulness that had derailed her mind and sent her running in full-blown retreat.
In hindsight, her reasons for taking the train to the Priory were no longer as obvious, as convincing and compelling, as she’d thought they’d been.
She blinked and refocused on the dragon. The spine had warmed where her finger had been stroking.
Why was it there?
Puzzled, she glanced around, confirming that she was, as she’d assumed, in her own bed. The room was dim, with the curtains tightly drawn, but the quality of the light seeping past them told her it was full daylight outside.
Frowning, she returned her gaze to the figurine, then looked past it. Shrouded in gloom, Devlin sat slumped in an armchair.
His eyes were closed, and his chin rested on his neckcloth. His hands were clasped over his waist, and his chest rose and fell in a slow, regular rhythm; he was fast asleep, but that wasn’t what caused her to stare. His coat was rumpled and smudged, his linen looked limp, his hair bore evidence of him having raked his hand through it multiple times, leaving it badly tousled, and his chin bore the dark shadow of a beard.
He looked more disreputable than she’d ever seen him, as if he hadn’t left the room since, presumably, he’d carried her there.
She straightened her legs and turned the other way—to check if there was anyone else present—only to feel a stabbing pain at the back of her head. Raising her other hand, she encountered a bandage. Gingerly, she traced the band, then warily prodded the wound it covered and quickly thought better of that. Carefully, she returned to her side and her previous, unpainful position.