waves.
Softening in the face of such genuine panic, Christian touched her shoulder. “Genevieve, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
She came awake with a shriek, wild-eyed, and jerked her hand out of the maid’s grasp.
He gentled his voice and took a step back. “No one will harm you. You’re safe.”
She stared at him without recognition. Her gaze traveled to the burly footman behind him, and then to the maid at his side, her eyes wide and unblinking. Beads of perspiration stood out on her skin and her breath came in labored gasps.
Christian softened his voice. “You’re at Tarrington Castle. You’re safe.”
Slowly, the crippling fear drained out of her and recognition entered her eyes. “Christian.”
She heaved a shuddering sigh and fixed vulnerable, frightened eyes upon him. Dark as chocolate and fringed with thick lashes, the despair mirrored in them nearly broke his heart. Bruises dotted her arms and face, probably from the river. He’d found bruises on his own body, and he hadn’t been in the river as long as she.
He should give her privacy to release her grief. And he didn’t want to be here this close to her. She’d betrayed him. Her misery was for jilting him. Yet he could not leave her to face her demons alone.
Christian nodded to the footman and maid in dismissal before turning back to her. She wept bone-weary sobs as she sat hugging her knees. Grief and terror poured out of her and washed over him, leaving him breathless and shaken. Christian stood, appallingly helpless, at her bedside. Clearly, there was nothing he could do. Nor should he feel obligated to do anything. He headed for the door.
“Don’t leave, I beg you.” Her voice rasped with tears. She wiped her tears.
He hesitated. Looking small and vulnerable, she sniffled and continued to rub her hands over her eyes. With a sigh, he retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand and handed it to her.
“Thank you. Please forgive me for making such a scene. I often have nightmares ....”
Sympathy tapped the shoulder of his conscience. “Do you wish to tell me about your dream?”
She shook her head vigorously and pushed back at her loose hair. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy with Wickburgh, but her stark misery cut through him like a knife. If only he could do something for her, protect her ….
No. Caring about her again would be supremely stupid. He should avoid her while she remained here. And do everything possible to forget her.
She moistened her lips. “Thank you for your ... assistance. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”
“You didn’t. I was still up.”
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to a burning candle. “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning.”
“I was painting.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Your artist’s muse keeps you up at night?”
“Not usually.”
“You never showed me any of your paintings, but your sketches were lovely.”
He’d burned the sketchbook filled with drawings of Genevieve after she married Lord Wickburgh, one page at a time, each page curling and blackening like his heart.
He took a step toward the door. “It’s late. You must be fatigued.”
Her grave eyes fixed on him, so devoid of light and joy that they seemed to belong to a different person. What had happened to her?
“You, as well. Thank you for your concern.” Her stiff formal words failed to hide the pleading of her eyes, pleading him to help her, pleading him to protect her.
She sat in bed wearing nothing but a thin shift that did little to conceal her womanly curves. As if realizing her state of dishabille , she pulled the counterpane up and hugged it. Only then did Christian realize he’d left his waistcoat and frockcoat in his studio. He stood, half-dressed, in the bedroom of a woman. Not that she was any temptation. Still, his presence here was inappropriate.
“Rest, Genev—er Lady Wickburgh. You’re safe here.”
He wouldn’t let down his guard enough to trust her,
Softening in the face of such genuine panic, Christian touched her shoulder. “Genevieve, wake up. You’re dreaming.”
She came awake with a shriek, wild-eyed, and jerked her hand out of the maid’s grasp.
He gentled his voice and took a step back. “No one will harm you. You’re safe.”
She stared at him without recognition. Her gaze traveled to the burly footman behind him, and then to the maid at his side, her eyes wide and unblinking. Beads of perspiration stood out on her skin and her breath came in labored gasps.
Christian softened his voice. “You’re at Tarrington Castle. You’re safe.”
Slowly, the crippling fear drained out of her and recognition entered her eyes. “Christian.”
She heaved a shuddering sigh and fixed vulnerable, frightened eyes upon him. Dark as chocolate and fringed with thick lashes, the despair mirrored in them nearly broke his heart. Bruises dotted her arms and face, probably from the river. He’d found bruises on his own body, and he hadn’t been in the river as long as she.
He should give her privacy to release her grief. And he didn’t want to be here this close to her. She’d betrayed him. Her misery was for jilting him. Yet he could not leave her to face her demons alone.
Christian nodded to the footman and maid in dismissal before turning back to her. She wept bone-weary sobs as she sat hugging her knees. Grief and terror poured out of her and washed over him, leaving him breathless and shaken. Christian stood, appallingly helpless, at her bedside. Clearly, there was nothing he could do. Nor should he feel obligated to do anything. He headed for the door.
“Don’t leave, I beg you.” Her voice rasped with tears. She wiped her tears.
He hesitated. Looking small and vulnerable, she sniffled and continued to rub her hands over her eyes. With a sigh, he retrieved a handkerchief from the nightstand and handed it to her.
“Thank you. Please forgive me for making such a scene. I often have nightmares ....”
Sympathy tapped the shoulder of his conscience. “Do you wish to tell me about your dream?”
She shook her head vigorously and pushed back at her loose hair. He’d known she wouldn’t be happy with Wickburgh, but her stark misery cut through him like a knife. If only he could do something for her, protect her ….
No. Caring about her again would be supremely stupid. He should avoid her while she remained here. And do everything possible to forget her.
She moistened her lips. “Thank you for your ... assistance. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour.”
“You didn’t. I was still up.”
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to a burning candle. “It’s nearly four o’clock in the morning.”
“I was painting.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Your artist’s muse keeps you up at night?”
“Not usually.”
“You never showed me any of your paintings, but your sketches were lovely.”
He’d burned the sketchbook filled with drawings of Genevieve after she married Lord Wickburgh, one page at a time, each page curling and blackening like his heart.
He took a step toward the door. “It’s late. You must be fatigued.”
Her grave eyes fixed on him, so devoid of light and joy that they seemed to belong to a different person. What had happened to her?
“You, as well. Thank you for your concern.” Her stiff formal words failed to hide the pleading of her eyes, pleading him to help her, pleading him to protect her.
She sat in bed wearing nothing but a thin shift that did little to conceal her womanly curves. As if realizing her state of dishabille , she pulled the counterpane up and hugged it. Only then did Christian realize he’d left his waistcoat and frockcoat in his studio. He stood, half-dressed, in the bedroom of a woman. Not that she was any temptation. Still, his presence here was inappropriate.
“Rest, Genev—er Lady Wickburgh. You’re safe here.”
He wouldn’t let down his guard enough to trust her,
Similar Books
