by Anne Gracie
“Blasphemy? What on earth are—”
“The whole reason God created heiresses,” Ollie continued severely, “is to bring comfort and joy and ease of living to poor sods like you and me. Most men—any poor fellow with a grain of sense, in fact—would jump at the chance to marry an heiress, even if she was cross-eyed, hook-nosed or hunchbacked—probably—but your heiress is a well-connected, gloriously sweet beauty!”
He made a disgusted gesture. “You don’t mind goin’ around wearing some other feller’s breeches and boots, but you’re willin’ to slough off—yes, slough off!—a perfectly lovely girl—a girl who loves you, too—at least she did four years ago—because you’re too stiff-necked to live off her fortune! Four years ago it didn’t bother you, and as far as I can see, nothing’s changed.”
Thomas was the one who had changed. Four years ago he’d married Rose. Looking back he wondered whether he’d been in love or simply infatuated, but one thing was clear in his mind: The catalyst to their hasty secret marriage, at least in his mind, was the fear that she might be with child. Their unequal positions had paled before the prospect of pregnancy and the disgrace that would follow if she remained unmarried.
But pregnancy hadn’t happened, and now he was even less of a desirable prospect than he was back then. Back then he had family, a career, expectations. Now he was nothing but a piece of human flotsam. Jetsam.
The irony was that now the idea of Rose’s fortune was almost as enticing as the prospect of having her again. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to use her like that.
Ollie regarded Thomas with a jaundiced expression. “See, this is what happens to fellows when they’ve been at sea for too long. They might appear to be perfectly sane—especially when they get themselves cleaned up and stop looking like a dashed savage—but scratch the surface and they turn out to have rats in the attic!” He poured another glass. “Rats. In. The. Attic!”
He added accusingly, “Do you know how many men have begged Rose Rutherford to marry them? Offhand I can think of at least ten. And they’re just the lucky ones who made it past that watchdog of a brother of hers, the Earl of IntimidAshendon.”
Thomas shrugged. He didn’t want to think about it.
“She’ll go back to Everingham, I expect. If he’ll have her.” Ollie swirled his wine. “Complete and utter waste. He’s so full of juice already that he wouldn’t notice whether she brought a fortune or not, the insufferable prig. Now someone like me, for instance—”
“Is he?”
“Who?”
“The Duke of Everingham? Is he an insufferable prig?” He needed to know. Because if Rose was going to marry him . . .
Ollie pulled a face. “Not really. Bit of a cold bastard by all accounts—not that I move in his circles. But when a man as rich as that snaps up the prettiest heiress in the ton, got to despise him, eh?” He drained another glass. “Damned wasteful.”
Silence fell, broken eventually by the sound of a cat yowling on a roof nearby.
“Blasted cats,” Ollie muttered. “So, plans. My half day tomorrow, how about I show you round a bit, put you down for my club, get my tailor to measure you up, that sort of thing.”
Thomas eyed his friend’s extremely natty coat. “Until I ascertain the state of my accounts, I doubt I can afford your tailor. Or your club.”
Ollie sat up, shocked. “Can’t keep goin’ around in another fellow’s castoffs. Best order everything you need, the sooner the better. Weston for coats, Hoby for boots—”
“These boots will do for the moment.”
The look Ollie gave him reminded Thomas of a Latin teacher he’d once had. “They won’t, you know. You need more than one pair, and a variety of other shoes as well. You’re not striding around on the deck of a ship now, you know.”
For most of the last four years Thomas had worn no shoes at all. Ollie would be horrified.
“Society judges by appearances—remember the reception you got yesterday when you arrived looking like a wild man? Unless you want to be fobbed off on the lowliest clerk, you need to dress—and act—like a gentleman.”
“I have more important things to do than go shopping. I have business to discuss at the Admiralty.” And not just for back pay. His men needed rescuing. “And then I’ll visit my bank—I had a small amount saved before my ship went down.”
Ollie shook his head pessimistically. “Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Clams, the lot of them—navy, banks, lawyers—they all hate coughing up money. It’ll probably take forever—especially since they’ve got you down as a dead man. Lord knows where your savings have gone—into some deep dark vault, I’ll be bound, and you’ll have to produce yourself in triplicate, stamped with the king’s seal and escorted by two bishops and your old nanny before they’ll even let you in the door.”
Thomas laughed.
“Don’t mean to pry,” Ollie said after a moment, “but wasn’t there an uncle or some such relative on the horizon? I’m sure you mentioned him once or twice. Might he be able to bail you out? Or at least make you a loan?”
Thomas shook his head. He’d never been the sort to puff off his grand relations in front of his friends, and now that he’d been rejected by his family, that was a relief. “Not possible, I’m afraid.” He wouldn’t ask his uncle for help now if he were dying. Not that he’d get any if he did.
“Well, if you want my advice, you’ll order whatever duds you need and hope the bank and the Admiralty have come through by the time the bills come in.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Delay, man—what do you think half the gentlemen of London do? Order a new coat, and delay. Something will turn up, count on it.”
* * *
* * *
By the time Rose went to bed, she was exhausted. Such a day full of turmoil and emotion. She should have collapsed, senseless, but instead she tossed and turned restlessly, unable to stop the thoughts and arguments that raged in her mind.
It couldn’t possibly be simple masculine pride stopping Thomas. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d be having to run to her every time he wanted any money—legally it was all his. In fact, legally it was his already. Unless the annulment came through.
She was the one who’d be dependent on him. That was why George refused to consider marriage—she vowed never to be dependent on a man.
Rose hugged her pillow, turning over the events of the day.
Thomas had run to the church—he was panting when he got there.
He claimed it was to stop her from committing bigamy, but his eyes had blazed with light when she first saw him. Before she’d fainted.
Later, they’d been grim and hard.
Something had happened between him and Cal on the way back from the church. They were like two dogs circling each other, stiff-legged and braced for a fight.
He’d handled her family well—even Aunt Agatha—until . . . until Rose had said she would honor her vows. And then he’d turned her offer down. Why?
To be noble? She pondered that.
Thomas had always been protective. One of the reasons for their hasty marriage was because of the possibility of a baby—he was determined to protect her good name. But what was he trying to protect her from now? Himself?
This mysterious “damage” he’d mentioned? Not physical, he’d said, so presumably he could still father children. She could see he’d lived hard in the last four years, but that was no reason to call off a marriage. It was certainly no reason for her to abandon him. Quite the contrary.
Assuming there wasn’t another woman, Rose could only think of two reasons why Thomas would urge her to take an annulment—male pride, because he’d come down in the world since they’d married, or the one she feared was the real reason: Thomas no longer loved her.
People could change a goo
d deal in four years. He’d changed physically, but that didn’t count. It was how people were inside that mattered. One of the things she’d always loved about Thomas was that he’d seen her, the Rose that she was inside. Other people saw the Earl of Ashendon’s daughter, or the heiress, or admired her face or her eyes or some such silly thing that had nothing to do with who she really was.
But Thomas had, from the first, looked past all those superficial things and seen her—flawed, impatient, hot-tempered, restless, vulnerable, impulsive Rose—and loved her anyway. Loved her for the very things others criticized her for. His first words to her in the church had been about her temper, delivered with a smile.
She didn’t think she’d changed very much. Not in the essentials, surely?
But maybe Thomas had changed inside, and didn’t want her anymore. He’d spoken no word of love to her, had barely even touched— Oh! She sat up in bed, her eyes wide open in the dark.
She’d spoken no word of love to him, either. She hadn’t hugged him, hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t told him how happy she was that he was alive, that he’d come back to her.
In the church she’d denied him initially, and then she’d fainted. Then she’d sat like a stuffed dummy while everyone else argued the point. Later she’d defended him to her family, but he hadn’t witnessed that.
And when she and Thomas did finally get to speak in private, had she embraced him then? Had she kissed him and hugged him as she longed to do? No, she’d wept all over him like the veriest ninny, thumping him as if blaming him, blaming him for dying. And for coming back.
Rose punched her pillow. What a fool she’d been! A selfish, thoughtless, witless, self-centered, triple-toffee-coated idiot!
The clock in the hall chimed three. Rose pulled the covers back up around her and lay in bed, making plans.
The rest of the household was still asleep when Rose slipped out of bed three hours later. She washed quickly and dressed, then tiptoed downstairs. Rain was pelting down, and she muttered a curse and took an umbrella from the stand in the hall. It would be difficult to find a hackney at this hour of the morning and in this weather.
Tilting the umbrella in the direction of the rain, she set off, telling herself it wasn’t all that far to walk and her jean half-boots were her most comfortable shoes.
* * *
* * *
Thomas woke slowly, consciousness peeling languidly back in layers, like floating to the surface of a deep lake. Rose curled naked in his arms, soft and sweet-smelling in the aftermath of making love, his own body tight and aching, hungry and unsatisfied . . .
It took him a while to realize it was a dream.
At least this had been a good dream. He dreamed all the time, but the good ones were few and far between. Barely a night passed when he wasn’t jerked from sleep, sweating and shaking. And the fear, even though it was imaginary, took a long time to fade.
He lay on Ollie’s chaise longue, listening to the rain pelting steadily against the window. That was what had caused this dream, of course, memories of that cramped little bed in his room in Bath where they’d first made love, while outside the rain had pelted down, battering the windows while they, blissful and enchanted, entered a world of their own making.
Life had seemed so simple then.
But that was the past, and it did no good to yearn for what would never be again. He’d learned that the hard way.
He drew the blanket around him and listened to the sounds of the city stirring. How long since he’d heard those sounds? Water gurgled noisily down the pipes from the roof, wheels splashed through puddles. He’d never realized how joyous rain could sound. Living in a parched land made you see things differently.
As always, his thoughts turned to the men he’d left behind.
Nearly four years since he’d seen any of them. Dodds, Jones, O’Brien, Dyson and young Pendell. How were they faring? Were they even still alive?
He’d promised to get them home, assured them repeatedly that he’d take care of them, to trust him. And here he was, safe and warm in bed, listening to rain, English rain.
And where were they? Had their wives married again? Did their children call some other man Papa?
He had to bring them home. Somehow.
He’d visit the Admiralty offices again this morning. Yesterday his mission had been cut short by the news of Rose’s imminent wedding and his race across town to prevent it.
Now more than ever, it was urgent he convince the navy to rescue his men. Now that he’d blown the chance of getting the funds he needed from his rich wife.
Ah, Rose. It was for the best, he told himself.
What time was it? The rain had turned the morning sky bleak and gray, and without the sun it was hard to tell time. Downstairs he heard the knocker sound, then the porter’s voice and a low conversation—an early tradesman perhaps. The conversation became an argument, then he heard footsteps running up the stairs and a shout, “Oy, miss, stop. You can’t go in there—”
The door to Ollie’s apartments flew open.
“There you are.” It was Rose, damp and triumphant. She dropped a battered umbrella in the corner, declaring, “Umbrellas these days have no stamina! The wretched thing blew inside out and look at me, I’m completely drenched.” Locks of wet hair clustered around her face like the fronds of a sea anemone. She looked enchanting.
“What the devil—” Thomas sat up, clutching his blanket around him.
The porter followed her in. “I’m sorry, sir, I did tell the young person—”
“Young person?” Rose said indignantly. “I’m a young lady!”
“Young lady, my fat aunt!” The porter’s wife, a small, stocky troll with an impressive bosom, wheezed into view. Dressed in a violently pink wrapper with her improbably red hair tied in dozens of rags, she confronted Rose, arms akimbo. “You’re no better than you ought, you are, pushin’ your way into a gentleman’s abode at this hour! Now take yourself off, you brazen young hussy! This is a respectable establishment, and I won’t have no—”
“I am this gentleman’s wife!” Rose declared.
“Pfft! A likely tale. Now don’t you back her up, sir—Mr. Yelland knows full well we don’t allow females—”
“Thomas, am I or am I not your legally wedded wife?” Rose asked, spearing her fingers through her hair and feathering it out.
Thomas was very tempted to deny her, the minx, but the porter’s wife was regarding him gimlet-eyed and he found himself saying, “She is, Mrs. Baines, I’m sorry—”
“What’s all the blasted commotion?” Ollie stuck his head out. “Can’t a man sleep in his own apartm—” Seeing Rose, he turned bright red and snatched the nightcap off his head. “Morning, Lady Rose, Mrs. Baines,” he muttered, and retreated into his bedchamber like an appalled tortoise.
“Lady Rose?” the porter’s wife said suspiciously, but her eyes were popping.
“Yes, I was Lady Rose Rutherford, but it’s Mrs. Beresford now,” Rose explained, apparently deciding the correct form of address would only confuse the woman. “My husband and I have only just been reunited after four years apart.”
She made an apologetic moue. “Was it very wrong of me to come at such an early hour? Only I’ve missed him so, and I didn’t sleep a wink last night, and this morning when I woke, well, I just couldn’t stay away a moment longer.”
She gave a sigh worthy of an orphan in a melodrama and directed a brave-but-woebegone look at the porter’s wife. “But if you say I must go, Mrs. Baines, I will. I wouldn’t want to sully your fine establishment’s excellent reputation with my thoughtless and impulsive behavior.”
But Mrs. Baines wasn’t born yesterday. “Married, you say?” Her gaze dropped to Rose’s hand. “Where’s your weddin’ ring, then?”
“It’s here.” To Thomas’s surprise Rose pulled a locket from her neckline, opened it and p
ulled out a gold wedding ring—the one he’d given her; he recognized the design. “We married in secret, you see. I have a very strict and cruel guardian and if he discovered Thomas and I were married, well, he would have locked me up in a horrid dark chamber in the basement. With spiders and rats.”
Mrs. Baines pursed her lips, unimpressed. “I don’t reckon I’d blame him. Lady or not, I reckon you’re a right handful, but since Mr. Beresford swears you’re his legally wedded wife”—she darted a severe glance at Thomas—“I’ll say no more. Come along, Baines.” She swept to the door, then turned back and wagged a minatory finger at them. “But no joinin’ giblets, you understand, or I’ll be giving notice to Mr. Yelland, and that would be a shame, ’cause he’s never given me a moment’s trouble. A proper gent he is!”
The door banged shut behind her.
Rose turned to Thomas. “Joining giblets? Does that mean what I think it does?” He nodded and she collapsed on the chaise longue, gurgling with laughter. Having fought to keep a straight face throughout the entire exchange, Thomas couldn’t help but join in.
Ollie poked his head out again and peered around with a hunted expression. “Has she gone?” Assured Mrs. Baines had left, he emerged, fully dressed and almost perfectly groomed.
“Terrifying woman, but does an excellent job.” He picked his hat off the hat stand and said to Thomas, “Tell Baines when you want your breakfast. Mrs. Baines is a fine cook—and Baines will bring it up.”
Thomas sat up. “Aren’t you staying?” He had no desire to be left alone with Rose, especially not in the mood she was. And with him in his underwear and thoughts of “joining giblets” flying around.
“Good lord, no. No desire to play gooseberry.” Ollie ran a hand over his chin. “Going out for a shave. Planning to go in to work early, catch up on a few things. Will eat my breakfast out. See you this evening.” He gave Thomas a meaningful glance.
Ollie never allowed himself to be shaved by strangers. And he never ate his breakfast out or went in early to work. “There’s no question of playing gooseberry,” Thomas said firmly. “Lady Rose is leaving—”