by Anne Gracie
“I’m so sorry. You had no one to turn to, and I—”
She reached up and put a finger against his lips. “Hush, it’s all in the past now, and besides, I did have someone. I had Ella.”
“Your friend, the little maid?”
“She was wonderful. She kept my secret, explained to me what was happening and how to deal with it, and helped me through it without any kind of fuss or bother. She was the same age as me, and could barely read and write, but she knew so much more about life.” She looked at him. “When I have daughters I’m going to make sure they know everything they need to know—and more.”
He didn’t respond.
“She left at the end of that year to get married. I gave her a set of warm woolen blankets and a teapot with pretty cups and saucers—she loved pretty things. Miss Mallard was shocked and told me it was far too extravagant for a maidservant, but I didn’t care. Ella was my friend.”
Rose glanced up at him with a speculative expression. “I also gave her twenty pounds just for her, to spend on what she wanted, and not to tell her husband about. Women should have their own money and not have to ask their husband or father for every penny.”
She waited for him to comment, but he didn’t. They hadn’t ever discussed the money issue. A woman’s entire fortune belonged to her husband, and he could administer it as he saw fit. She hadn’t given it much thought in the past, but George’s insistence that she was keeping her fortune and not letting any man get his hands on it had given her food for thought.
Thomas would be a generous husband, she was sure, but what if he wasn’t?
“So you stayed in school,” Thomas said. “I thought you hated it there.”
“Oh, I did, but Lily needed me.” She turned her head to look at him. Could she trust him with Lily’s secret? She decided against it. Lily’s inability to read was her secret to reveal if she wanted to.
“Besides, I was better off being in school, having to keep up a front, keeping busy.” Pretending everything was all right. She’d been so desperately sad after she’d lost the baby, drained and miserable and utterly despairing. Most days she hadn’t even wanted to get out of bed. But she’d forced herself to go on.
Only Lily had noticed that she wasn’t herself, but she’d said nothing. Rose wished now she’d told her sister back then, but she’d felt as though she were drowning in misery, and feared she would drag Lily down with her.
She was never going to let herself get into such a state again.
“At school there’s always something one has to be doing, and they don’t give you any choice. Besides,” she added, trying to brighten what was turning out to be a very depressing conversation, “Miss Mallard’s remedy for what she called ‘girlish megrims’ was a tablespoon of cod liver oil, and let me tell you, Thomas, that stuff tastes disgusting.” She pulled a face.
There was just one last thing she had to say to him, and then . . . she’d have done what she had to. Not quite expiation, but as close as she could come.
“I’m sorry I lost our baby, Thomas.”
He lifted his hands helplessly. “It wasn’t your fault. These things happen.”
Outside the rain hurled itself against the windowpanes, rattling the windows in their frames.
“I didn’t even cry for the baby. I wanted to. Ella kept telling me to have a good howl, that it would do me a power of good, and I tried, I really did. But somehow, I just . . . The tears wouldn’t come.” She shook her head, bewildered. “I think I’m just naturally hard-hearted.”
“You’re nothing of the sort.” He hugged her tighter, stroking her hair with impossibly gentle, rough-skinned hands.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I think you got four years’ worth of tears in one burst.”
“Four years?” He twisted in his seat and stared at her, shocked. “You mean you hadn’t cried—”
“For four years? No.” She was hard-hearted, she must be.
“Not since . . . ?”
She nodded. “Something inside me got, I don’t know, blocked. And yesterday, for some reason, it unblocked itself. So I’m sorry if I embarrassed—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you have nothing to apologize for—nothing!” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
* * *
* * *
She tasted of rain and regret, and faintly, endearingly, of tooth powder. She slipped her hands over his chest, along his bristle-roughened jawline and burrowed her fingers into his hair, drawing him closer.
The taste of her, familiar, beloved and at the same time tantalizingly exotic burned through him. He’d married a girl; she was all woman now. He cupped her face in his hands, and she shivered, and abruptly he recalled his damned rough-skinned hands. “Sorry,” he murmured, and pulled them off her satiny-soft skin.
“No.” She grabbed his hands and put them back, pressing her palms over his. “I like the feel of them, of you touching me.”
“But they’re rough.” And her skin was so soft.
“I don’t mind. I like it.” She rose on her tiptoes to cover his mouth with hers. He groaned and angled his mouth to go deeper, exploring her, remembering, learning her again.
An aching need, one that he’d lived with for four long years, rose up and engulfed him. Heat spiraled through him, heat and hunger and need, desperate need.
She clung to him, pressing herself against him, showering him with kisses and caresses, with that heedless, bountiful, exuberant passion he remembered so well. Offering her all.
The ache in him grew, a kind of madness, burning away his resolve to protect her, dissolving all awareness except that he had her in his arms at last, Rose, his wife. He was all naked hunger and heedless, selfish greed. He pressed her into a lying position, positioning himself over her, lavishing kisses on her mouth, her neck, the delicate line of her jaw, working his way lower.
A loud banging at the door jolted him into sudden awareness. Without any further warning the door flew open. “Your brrrreakfast,” Mrs. Baines announced dramatically. She eyed them with beady, knowing suspicion.
Scraping together some semblance of control, Thomas rose, his breath ragged. He clutched his blanket around him, hoping the thick folds would hide the evidence of his arousal. He felt like a naughty schoolboy caught out.
Rose remained draped languidly across the chaise longue. She stretched, smoothed back her hair and sat up, smiling, looking like the cat that ate the cream.
“We didn’t order breakfast,” Thomas pointed out. Truth be told, he was almost grateful for the interruption. Another few minutes and he’d have taken Rose on the chaise longue—and she would have done nothing to stop him. Quite the contrary, she was all eager encouragement. In that she hadn’t changed.
She was very bad for his self-discipline.
“I always bring Mr. Yelland his breakfast,” the porter’s wife said. “I don’t hold with my gentlemen going out without their breakfast. Put it on the table there, Baines.” Her husband sidled meekly in, carrying a large tray containing several covered dishes and a large coffeepot.
“Mr. Yelland left earlier,” Thomas told her.
She snorted. “Think I don’t know that?” She slanted him a glance that told him she knew exactly what he’d been up to and she weren’t having none of it. “I don’t expect your young lady, I mean your wife”—there was a world of sarcasm in her voice—“will want any, so I’ll show you downstairs now, miss.” She gestured to the door.
“On the contrary, I’m utterly famished,” Rose said immediately, bathing the hostile little troll with the warmest of smiles. “You’re a perfect angel, Mrs. Baines. Everything smells divine.”
The perfect angel scowled. “Butter wouldn’t melt . . .” she muttered.
“Oh, is there butter, too?” Rose said with all the innocence of a kitten. “How delicious. I do like hot buttery toast, don’t you? And what’
s under these?” She lifted the covers. “Ooh, sausages and bacon and eggs, Thomas—your favorites. And loads of lovely fresh toast, and is that a pot of marmalade? Lovely.” She sighed and added guilelessly, “But no giblets today, it seems. Oh, well, another time.”
Mrs. Baines swelled with indignation. “Barefaced cheek . . .” She looked at Thomas, who was trying to maintain a straight face, and said severely, “I hope for your sake she’s not your wife, sir, ’cause if she is, she’s going to lead you a right merry dance. A right merry dance.” She stomped to the door, saying, “Baines will be back to collect the dishes.” The implication was left hanging: Which won’t give you time to get up to anything else.
Rose skipped to the door and, thanking her charmingly for the lovely, lovely breakfast, closed it after her.
“You, miss, are a minx,” he told her.
She laughed. “I can’t resist it when people like that get all stuffy and bossy and interfering. But she’s right, I probably will lead you a merry dance. Now come on, let’s eat this food before it gets cold.”
He didn’t respond. A merry dance with Rose; it sounded like heaven. But she still thought him the man he’d been. The man he was now was a recipe for heartbreak. He’d hurt her enough already.
She was so brave. Dealing with a miscarriage with only a young maidservant to help her . . . And that cod liver oil—he could read between the lines there.
And she thought she must be hard-hearted . . .
“I’m sorry for leaving you in such an appalling situation. For leaving you to deal with it all on your own.”
“Let’s not worry about the past.” She looked up at him with a smile that almost broke his heart. “It was nobody’s fault. And anyway, you’re here now. I won’t be on my own again, will I?”
It was a stab to the heart.
“How many sausages?” she asked, preparing to serve him his breakfast.
“None, nor any bacon. I’ll just have an egg and some toast, thanks.”
She frowned. “Is that all? Cal would eat at least three sausages and some bacon and a couple of eggs. And then toast.”
“It’s all I want.” His stomach couldn’t take rich, fatty food at the moment. It was still getting acclimatized.
“You’re very thin, Thomas. Is something wrong? You’re not ill, are you?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” It was just years of poor food and harsh conditions. Nothing he needed to tell her about.
She was chatty over breakfast, he learned. She talked of her plans for the day, and asked about his. He mentioned Ollie’s determination to get him to order new clothes, nothing else. He wasn’t up to telling her his real purpose. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.
She told him how she rode in the park with her family most mornings, weather permitting. “It’s lovely. You should join us.”
He pushed his plate away and said wearily, “There’s no point, Rose. This”—he gestured between them—“isn’t going to work.”
“To quote Aunt Dottie, ‘piffle!’”
He stood up, shoving his chair back angrily. “Four years ago you married me without a thought for the future, and you ended up in . . . in limbo. I made you pregnant and left you to cope with the consequences on your own.”
“I managed.”
“Then when I returned, I destroyed the advantageous marriage you’d arranged—”
“To a man I didn’t love.”
“—and left you at the center of a scandal. Now, because I ki—because of what happened just now—”
“You mean when you kissed me, and I kissed you back? When we kissed each other, Thomas, is that what you mean?”
He closed his eyes. “You’re impulsive, reckless. Making a bad decision on the basis of a few moments of . . . emotion.”
“Pooh! I’m not such a ninny. A few kisses won’t turn my head, even if they are”—her gaze dropped to his mouth—“yours.” Her lips curled into a knowing little smile that caused a ripple of desire to curl right through him. He stamped down on it.
“I know what I want, Thomas. I always have. And I think you want me too, but you’ve got some maggot in your brain telling you it’s wrong. But it’s not. I knew four years ago we were meant to be together, and I feel it just as strongly now. Yes, we’ve both been through some difficult times—and don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t told me very much at all about what happened to you, yet, but I can be patient.”
He passed his hands over his eyes. What to do with such a woman?
“You do want me, don’t you, Thomas?” she asked softly. He opened his eyes and she was there in front of him, a breath, a touch away. The unique fragrance of her teased his senses. Before he could react she rose on her tiptoes and brushed her lips lightly over his. “Don’t you, Thomas?” She kissed him again.
He groaned. A man could only stand so much. He hauled her into his arms and kissed her again. Just once. A last desperate kiss. A kiss to last a lifetime.
He released her and stepped back, breathing heavily, putting what he hoped was a safe distance between them.
She smiled confidently up at him. “That’s better. So, it’s all settled, then.”
“No. This changes nothing.”
She laughed. “Thomas, you can’t kiss me like that and then try to convince me you don’t want—”
“That was a good-bye kiss. I mean it, Rose,” he said firmly. “You can’t base your life on, on a whim, a couple of kisses. I won’t let you.”
“No, Thomas.” Her voice was demure, but there was nothing demure about her expression.
“At the very least, you need a period of sober reflection.”
“Yes, Thomas.” Her eyes danced, anything but sober. She was every inch the bewitching minx he’d fallen in love with.
But he was a weary husk of a man with a dead stump for a heart. And obligations elsewhere.
He hardened his voice, needing her to understand. “I would be six kinds of villain if I allowed you to base your decision on . . . emotion.”
“Yes, Thomas.” She rose on her toes and planted a swift kiss on his mouth.
“Stop it, Rose—I’m serious here.”
She tried to look serious, but he wasn’t fooled for a minute.
“Promise me you’ll give it a few d—a week before you decide. And listen to your family. Give their opinions serious consideration.”
“Serious consideration.” She repeated it like an obedient schoolgirl, her expression showing she was anything but.
He had to get her out of here. If she looked at him like that for an instant longer he wouldn’t be answerable for the consequences. “I’ll see you in a few days. Or a week.”
“Come riding with us tomorrow. Seven o’clock, Hyde Park—weather permitting.”
He stamped down on the temptation. “Good-bye, Rose.”
Her laugh was soft, pure, delectable mischief. “See you tomorrow, Thomas.”
He closed the door behind her and leaned against it. He’d failed her once; he wouldn’t fail her this time. For all her experience, she was still something of an innocent, and he had to protect her, even if from himself.
Especially from himself.
A knock came on the door. He wrenched it open. “I told you—”
Baines recoiled, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Just came for the dishes, sir. I saw the young lady leave, but if it’s not convenient . . .”
Thomas sighed and waved the man inside.
* * *
* * *
The rain having eased to an occasional spatter of drops, Rose walked home, pondering the situation. What was Thomas so worried about? Was it simply an excess of nobility? Imagining she cared a lot more about social status than she did? The duke had given him ideas, perhaps, but she’d only agreed to marry the duke because he’d assured her he didn’t love her
and preferred she didn’t love him. Which she didn’t.
Give her a poor and loving Thomas any day over a rich, phlegmatic duke.
Fresh from Thomas’s embrace, she couldn’t conceive of agreeing to such a cold-blooded bargain. And yet she had. Thomas’s return had shattered the shell she’d built around herself, the shell she hadn’t even realized existed. She felt more alive now than she had in forever.
She gave a little skip. Thomas kissed like a dream. She couldn’t wait to get him back in the marriage bed.
She entered the house quietly, wanting to avoid any questions about where she had been. She washed and changed, and came downstairs again as if she’d slept in and had only just woken up.
Following the sound of voices, she found Emm, Cal, George, Lily and the two aunts seated in the back drawing room. Emm had her writing desk out and was poring over sheets of paper, making notes. Cal too had a list in front of him. George was sorting papers, Aunt Dottie and Lily were winding wool and Aunt Agatha was peering through her lorgnette, overseeing whatever it was that Emm was doing.
Emm looked up with a warm smile as she came in. “Ah, there you are, Rose dear. Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you, Emm.” It was a lie, but she felt as refreshed as if she had slept beautifully. Kissing Thomas had that effect on her. Her blood was fizzing like champagne. She sat down beside Emm. “What are you doing?”
“Going through the lists.”
“What lists?”
Emm gave her a dry look. “Canceling a wedding turns out to be just as much work as planning one, if not more. The food was easy. Thank goodness we decided on a small family wedding breakfast. The servants took what they wanted and distributed what was left to the poorhouse.”
“Oh.” Rose hadn’t thought of the trouble she was putting everyone to. “What can I do to help?”
“I can deal with most of this.” Emm gestured to several closely written sheets. “This list is for the return of the wedding presents. George is helping with that, and Lily will be wrapping them back up.”
“Here’s your job.” Emm passed Rose a thick list of names and addresses. “It’s the list for the cancellation of the ball—all the people we invited and all those who accepted. You’ll need to write to all of them; you know how people change their minds. We can help with the addressing, but the notes of apology will need to be in your hand.”