Lord Ruin by Carolyn Jewel Page B

covered half a sheet of paper. “From Hickenson.” He scanned the contents and swore. “Hell. The ruddy great fools.”
    “What?”
    “Some damn fool’s accused Lord Buckley of assaulting all those women.”
    “Buckley? That’s ridiculous.”
    “They want to hang him.”
    “No great loss if they do.”
    “Something’s up. They’re moving too quickly. Hell. The Judicial Committee is called to session. Castlereagh is after me for a meeting and Thrale means to stop the pensions bill.” He gestured to the waiting footman. “No reply. Tell the duchess we’re leaving immediately.”
    “Your grace.” The footman bowed deeply.
    Devon stopped the man with a formidable glare. “You can’t take Anne to London,” he told Ruan.
    “Why not?”
    “For God’s sake, at least let the gossip die down!”
    “So, I’ll just let Buckley hang.”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then what the hell am I to do with her?”
    “Send her to Satterfield.”
    “By herself?”
    “It’s close enough to town for you to at least maintain the fiction of a blissful marriage,” he said wryly. “Besides, you should have this nonsense about Buckley stopped within the week.”
    Ruan thought of all the matters his precipitous marriage jeopardized by his absence from town. Parliament was in session, he had appeals to hear, a dozen petitions to review, not to mention the Privy Council. No, he could not afford to be away. “No more than a fortnight, anyway. All right then. Have my horse brought round. Henry and Dobkin are to accompany me.”
    The footman waited for Devon’s nod before he bowed. “As you wish, your grace.”
    “What a bloody nuisance.” Ruan stood tapping his thigh. So far, marriage was every bit as inconvenient as he’d dreaded. “I suppose I ought to tell her the news myself.”
    “Yes,” Devon said. “I suppose you should.”

 
    Chapter Seven
      
    Ruan found Anne in his room, surrounded by his trunks. Neatly packed by the ever efficient Dobkin, they stood stacked and ready to be sent on to Satterfield. Well, now to London instead. She stood at the window, clutching the damask curtain, head bowed to the darkly rich material. Though he could feel the tension in her, she wasn’t crying. No flood of womanly tears. She simply stood there holding the curtain like a drowning man would a rope. “Miss Sinclair,” he said curtly because he very much disliked tears and quite plainly there would soon be tears aplenty. Then he remembered she wasn’t Miss Sinclair anymore. “Anne.”
    She slowly turned from the window. No sign of emotion marked her expression. He’d never thought of women as creatures capable of any particular control when under duress, but Anne’s composure impressed him. Those damned spectacles of hers made it impossible to see her eyes and even begin to guess what she was thinking. She curtseyed. “Your grace.” She wore her wedding gown, green satin old enough to have lost some of its sheen. He still disliked the color on her.
    “Urgent business calls me to London,” he said abruptly. “I leave within the hour.”
    “I understand.” She pushed her spectacles toward the bridge of her nose in a gesture he thought was pure habit.
    “I’m sending you to Satterfield.” He walked part way in, and half-leaned, half-sat against the larger of his trunks, wondering why she reminded him of Devon. The moment he and Dev met, he knew they’d be friends. He felt that now, the same unspoken, unquestionable certainty of compatibility. Which made no sense at all, but there it was.
    “Yes, of course,” she said. Her breath caught, refusing to give voice to the grief he now saw in her eyes.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “Ask me no questions . . .”
    “And I’ll tell you no fibs,” she concluded, a faint, wry smile curving her mouth.
    “Then no fibs between us, Anne. I am your husband. You may tell me anything. Anything at all.”
    She lifted her hands, palms up. “I keep thinking