by Anne Gracie
“I suppose not.” Rose hooked her train over her arm and walked slowly up the stairs.
Emm must have rung for her maid, Milly, for she appeared a few moments later. With discreet sympathy, Milly refrained from asking questions as she helped Rose out of her wedding outfit.
As the heavy silk brocade was lifted over Rose’s head, she felt a wave of . . . was it relief? She stared at the exquisite dress laid carefully across the end of her bed and felt not the slightest of regrets. Had she not wanted to marry the duke after all? Had she deluded herself?
Of course, she didn’t know about Thomas then.
“I think I’ll have a bath,” she told Milly. She’d had a bath this morning, but somehow it felt right to bathe again. She sighed at her own foolishness. Did she think she could wash away the events of the day and start over? But a bath still felt right.
Rose sat at her dressing table pulling flowers and pins from her hair while the maid bustled about organizing things. She felt strangely distant from that woman in the looking glass. Who was she now? No longer Lady Rose Rutherford. No longer the bride of the Duke of Everingham.
The bride, undone.
In a small wooden box in the corner of the dressing table lay a plain gold locket on a fine gold chain. Her wedding ring was inside it, along with a lock of Thomas’s hair.
She picked it up, let the locket dangle and spin on its chain for a long moment, then held it in her palm.
For the last four years it had hung between her breasts, hidden below her neckline of her clothes. She only ever took it off to bathe.
This morning—was it really only a few hours ago? It felt an age away—she’d wondered whether she should remove it for the wedding. Was it wrong to wear one man’s ring while marrying another—even when the first man was dead?
The duke had stressed that love wasn’t part of their arrangement, but even so, she’d decided it wouldn’t be right to wear it. She’d taken the locket off, kissed it—kissing Thomas good-bye for ever—and put it away.
Mrs. Beresford—well, actually she was still Lady Rose, only Beresford now instead of Rutherford. A married woman again. Not that she’d ever felt like a married woman. She’d gone from schoolgirl, to secretly married schoolgirl, then back to schoolgirl again.
The marriage must be annulled, of course.
Of course Aunt Agatha would want that, and possibly Cal—maybe everyone wanted it. But what did she want?
And what did Thomas want? Presumably he wanted her, wanted the marriage to go on. But after that “stop the wedding” he hadn’t said much. Or done much, apart from catching her when she fainted.
She hadn’t said much either. Or done anything at all.
Footmen filled the bath with steaming water and left. Milly tipped in some bath salts, swished them around and adjusted the temperature of the water. Rose removed the last of her clothes and sank into the hot, fragrant water.
If anyone had told her that a woman who thought herself a widow—a widow of a beloved husband, at that—might feel . . . conflicted? Confused? Bewildered? on his return, she wouldn’t have believed it.
Oh, her brain told her she was delighted, full of joy, relieved, thrilled—all the good, happy things that were to be expected, but instead she felt . . . numb.
She soaped her sponge.
Not entirely numb. More like a limb slowly coming back to life, pins and needles, only a hundred times worse.
She’d buried Thomas, in her heart and in her mind—at least she’d tried to. So hard. A part of her had been frozen solid, ever since she’d read that small paragraph in the paper: “all hands lost.”
Now he was back, and it was as if her heart were breaking all over again . . . Unbreaking. As painful as before, if not more so.
She sponged herself. Guilt tore at her for giving up on him, for the way she’d behaved after the news of his death. Guilt for never telling anyone else about him.
And guilt for not recognizing him when he’d spoken up in the church, for denying him—her own husband—in front of witnesses. Like Judas.
All the while preparing to marry another man.
She loved Thomas, of course she did. At least she used to.
But what had happened to him? Where had he been all this time? And why had he never sent word to her to let her know he was alive?
This spare, somber, wild-looking stranger . . . That he was Thomas, she had no doubt of, but was he her Thomas? He was, and he wasn’t.
And that was half the agony.
If she let herself love him as she had before—blindly and completely, with her whole unfettered, unruly heart—how could she bear it if she lost him again?
What if he’d changed so much he was no longer her Thomas?
I used to want too much out of life.
The impulsive young girl who’d married Thomas was no longer the same, either.
Rose rinsed herself off and stepped out of the bath. Her family was downstairs, waiting for an explanation she didn’t know how to make.
She dressed quickly.
Thomas would arrive soon. The explanations she’d have to make to him would be even harder.
She wanted to run away. I’m more mature now.
She pulled a face at the girl in the mirror, picked up the locket and fastened it around her neck. Then she straightened her dress, took a deep breath and headed downstairs.
* * *
* * *
“Can’t stay, I’m afraid,” Ollie told Thomas as they emerged from the church into the fresh cool air. They paused on the church steps. Most of the spectators, deprived of both drama and the expected shower of coins, had drifted away. “Have to get back. Left m’office without notice. Admiralty frowns on that sort of thing.” He fished in his pocket, produced an elegant silver card case and handed a card to Ashendon. “M’card, Ashendon. At your service any time.”
Ashendon glanced at it and slipped it into a pocket.
Thomas had been given no opportunity to speak with Rose. She’d been hustled away in a carriage by the Rutherford ladies. Lord Ashendon had declared that they—meaning he, Thomas and the third gentleman, who seemed to be some sort of family connection—would follow on foot.
In other words, he wanted to interrogate Thomas in private, without Rose or any of the other ladies present. Or perhaps to dispose of him down a dark alley, Thomas thought grimly. He could try.
Ollie scribbled on the back of another card and handed it to Thomas. “M’lodgings, Thomas. Welcome to stay until you get something sorted out.”
Thomas thanked him. He hadn’t given any thought as to where he might sleep the night. Everything had happened in such a rush.
Ollie hailed a passing hackney and climbed nimbly into it.
Thomas watched him leave. Ollie, at least, hadn’t let him down.
Thomas hadn’t expected to find Rose the day he arrived. His immediate concern had been to make his official report to the navy, make arrangements for the return of his men and then set out to find her. He’d expected to go to Bath, where he’d left her, presumably in the house of her aunt. The nice one.
Apparently women didn’t stay where you put them.
“This way,” Ashendon said, and they began to walk. It was spring, and a fine, cloudless day, but the pallid sun barely warmed Thomas’s skin. Hard to believe it was the same sun, the harsh, pitiless orb under which he’d toiled for the past four years.
He’d thought of Rose every single day.
Had she thought of him? He had to wonder, now.
He’d expected his first day back in England to be one of surprise, but also of welcome, of celebration; instead the day had been one shock after another. Bad enough that the navy had kept insisting he must be dead because their records said so, but not only did Rose also think he was dead—she’d never told a soul she’d even been his wife.
But that was a betrayal he’d confront another day. Revenge, they said, was a dish best served cold. He’d had four years to prepare for that.
Today was all about Rose, the woman who’d put Thomas behind her to marry a duke.
He’d imagined a joyful reunion. He’d expected her to throw herself into his arms. Instead she’d pushed at his chest and asked to be put down. And had said barely a word since.
One more illusion shattered.
Ashendon’s sidelong glance was knowing. “Having second thoughts, Beresford? Regrets, already? Because you can leave now if you wish.”
Thomas gave him a hard look. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They turned a corner and crossed a busy street lined with prosperous-looking shops. He was aware of Ashendon’s continued sidelong scrutiny, the suspicion, the waves of silent hostility emanating from him.
Thomas didn’t much like the man, but he couldn’t entirely blame him for his hostility. He’d feel much the same if some scruffy fellow had appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be married to his beautiful sister—a marriage he’d never heard of until today.
If that was even true.
Marriage to a duke was nothing to be sneezed at; it would be a social and economic coup, even for the daughter of an earl.
“You really didn’t know? She never told you?” He knew he was repeating himself but he still couldn’t make sense of it.
“About this so-called marriage? No, not a word. And she still hasn’t confirmed it to my satisfaction. That nod could have meant anything. So we’ve only got your word that it took place at all.”
And Ollie’s, but Thomas had no intention of arguing his case. He knew he was married. He knew why they’d married in secret. The question was, why was it still a secret?
They walked on.
“I’ll give you a hundred pounds to disappear,” Ashendon said.
Thomas stiffened but kept walking. He wasn’t even going to dignify that with a response—no, on second thoughts he would. He gave a contemptuous snort. “Is that all?”
Now it was Ashendon’s turn to stiffen.
They crossed another street.
“Five hundred pounds.”
“Only a monkey? You’d drop more than that in a day at the races or an evening over cards.” He walked on a few steps before adding casually, “You don’t value your sister very highly, do you?”
Ashendon’s teeth were almost audibly grinding.
“Which brother are you?” Thomas asked. “The brother who never visited, or the brother who never wrote?” He knew perfectly well which brother Cal was, but people revealed more than they intended when provoked into anger.
“Damn you, I was at war.”
“And soldiers can’t write home? Or were you simply too busy and important to spare a thought for a pair of young half sisters fretting themselves silly over their big brother’s safety.”
Ashendon scowled but said nothing.
Thomas continued, “Rose hasn’t exactly been blessed with the men of her family, has she? First her father sends her away from her home, exiles her for a flaw not her fault—”
“Not Lily’s fault either!” the second man flashed.
Thomas said in a hard voice, “Their father didn’t care about either of them, though, did he? Rose told me he said—actually said out loud in her hearing—that he had no time for girls. And her brothers apparently felt the same, not bothering to—”
Ashendon grabbed him and shoved him hard against some railings. “Damn your impudence! I’m nothing like my father or my brother. Rose knows I care for her. And you can be damned sure I’ll protect her from your grubby little scheme, whatever it is.”
Thomas gave him a long cool look and simply waited. He’d dealt with some ugly customers in his time, and Ashendon didn’t worry him. Thomas could take him, but he had no intention of brawling in the street with Rose’s brother.
After a few heavy breathing moments, Ashendon controlled his temper, released Thomas and stepped back. “No spine, eh?”
Thomas smoothed his shabby shirtsleeves, quite as if he wore one of Weston’s finest coats. “Bad enough that I’m meeting my wife after four years’ absence dressed like this”—he gestured—“I won’t mark my homecoming by giving her brother a thrashing. Not today, at any rate. I might have found you wanting in the past, but she considered you a favorite—or at least she used to.”
“She still does,” the other fellow said, sounding amused. “When it suits her.”
Thomas turned to him. “And you are?”
“Galbraith, Ned Galbraith. Lady Rose’s brother-in-law.” He made no move to offer his hand.
“Lily’s husband?”
Galbraith raised a brow at the familiar address. “You know my wife?”
Thomas shook his head. “I never met Lily until today. She was ill when I was courting Rose. But Rose spoke of her often.”
“Courting?” Ashendon snapped. “There was no ‘courting.’ Courting happens with a family’s permission—out in the open, under the eyes of a chaperone, not in a series of secret blasted assignations with a schoolgirl too young to know better. And don’t refer to my sister as ‘Rose,’ dammit—she is Lady Rose to you.”
“Actually,” Thomas said coolly, “she is Mrs. Thomas Beresford, my wife.”
“That’s yet to be proven.”
“Let us not stand here brangling in public,” Galbraith suggested. Ashendon glanced at him, then gave a grudging nod. They all moved on.
“You claim you just arrived in London today,” Galbraith said. He wasn’t quite as hostile as Ashendon, but his skepticism was obvious.
“My ship docked this morning.”
“After an absence of four years?”
“That’s right.”
“Where were you all that time?” Ashendon asked.
“Abroad.”
“Care to explain?” Galbraith said.
“I was unavoidably detained.” It was the truth, after all.
“What the devil does that mean?” Ashendon snapped. “Unavoidably detained by whom? Doing what?”
Thomas didn’t answer. He walked on. His business was his own affair.
“And when you arrived, you went straight to the Admiralty?” Galbraith prompted.
“Yes, to report. As is my duty.”
Beside him, Ashendon snorted. “And they just happened to say to you, ‘Oh, by the way did you know, Lady Rose Rutherford is getting married today?’”
“No,” Thomas said. “They kept insisting I must be dead.”
“I can see their point,” Ashendon muttered.
Galbraith ignored him. “Dead?”
“Because that’s what my file said.”
“The official mind,” Galbraith murmured. “How did you convince them?”
“I wondered whether my friend Oliver Yelland might still be working there. If he was, he could confirm my identity. When I left England he was about to take up a minor position in the Navy Office. It was my good luck that he was still there, and was working today.” Thomas had had the devil of a time convincing the clerks in the front office to send for such an important person as Ollie had apparently become. A faint smile teased his lips. The memory of their shocked faces when Ollie had given him the prodigal’s welcome.
“And he told you about the wedding?” Galbraith prompted.
“Exactly.”
“Bit of a coincidence,” Ashendon muttered. “The so-called witness to your so-called wed
ding.”
“Wasn’t it?” Thomas agreed smoothly. “And lucky. Otherwise your sister would have committed bigamy.” He let that sink in.
They reached another corner, and Thomas halted. He’d been aware for some time of the looks the three of them had received from people in the street; two elegantly dressed gentlemen and one scruffy sailor.
Dammit, whether she wanted to acknowledge him or not, he wasn’t going to face Rose like this. A man had his dignity. Ollie would help him out. He turned around and started back the way he’d come.
Ashendon grabbed him by the arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Thomas wrenched his arm free. “I’m damned if I’ll face my wife looking like this. I need a bath, a shave and a change of clothes.”
Ashendon’s chin jutted belligerently. “If you for one minute imagine I’m going to let you waltz in, disrupt my sister’s wedding, cause a frightful scandal and then just disappear, you can disabuse yourself of that little notion right this minute. You’re not going anywhere. We’ll see this thing out to the end.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go where I damned well please, when I damned well please. And right now I’m going to have a bath and a shave.”
“And a haircut,” Galbraith added. They both swung around and stared at him. “If I were returning to my wife after an absence of four years,” he said mildly, “I wouldn’t wish to look like that. Or smell like that.”
“Smell?” Thomas frowned, resisting the impulse to sniff himself.
“Slight odor of fish,” Galbraith explained.
“Whose side are you on?” Ashendon growled.
“I’m thinking of Rose. She’s about to introduce Beresford to the family and explain her actions of four years ago. Spare her further embarrassment if he looks presentable, at least.” He added quietly, “She’s a girl of some pride.”
Ashendon grunted.
Galbraith murmured, “Softhearted girl, your sister. Easier to reject a clean, respectable-looking man than a fellow who looks desperately down on his luck.”
“Maybe.” Ashendon gave Thomas a dirty look. “I’d rather not introduce him at all. Send him on his way, pay the bastard off, and if there is a marriage, get it annulled.”