by Anne Gracie
But he wasn’t giving in. Some things were simply too . . . private.
* * *
* * *
Rose sat curled up in her bed, hugging her knees, brooding. One of the things she’d always loved about Thomas, back when they first met, was that they could talk about anything. They’d talked about everything under the sun. She told him about her family, how worried she was about Lily who was so sick, about the rest of her family, the people at school.
She’d talked to him about things she’d never spoken about to anyone else—dreams, random thoughts, worries—and he shared his thoughts and ideas with her.
She knew about his childhood, his mother dying, his father’s naval career and Thomas’s thoughts about following in his footsteps. He’d told her about the uncle who’d taken him under his wing, the cousins he’d grown up with, Gerald with whom he’d gone away to school, and Ambrose, his uncle’s illegitimate son.
It had sounded like a relatively carefree and happy childhood and a close-knit family—so why had his uncle and cousin turned their backs on him? Such a ruthless and hard-hearted act of abandonment. It made no sense to her, but perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling her. He’d been quite closemouthed about them to her family, too, telling them he had no family.
Who was this uncle? Thomas had only ever spoken of Uncle Walter—no surname or title—and Gerald and Ambrose. And though he’d referred to his home with obvious fondness, he’d never mentioned the name of the house, or even a town or village nearby. Just home. Which had become no home at all.
She’d always assumed that it was accidental that he hadn’t originally mentioned them by name; now it seemed deliberate.
And now, he’d practically bitten her head off for asking about something that had happened to him, something serious and hurtful that she needed to know about.
She’d shared the trauma of her miscarriage with him. That was his business as much as hers. And how he got his dreadful scars was something she needed, as his wife, to understand.
He’d talked about it with Ned, but he couldn’t talk about it with her. That hurt. But maybe it was a male thing. She would ask Ned about it in the morning.
* * *
* * *
She broached the matter with her brother-in-law and sister when they were out for their usual morning exercise in the park. They’d been for a good fast ride—it was the only time it was possible, when the park was almost deserted—and had blown away the cobwebs and given the horses and Finn a good run. Now while George and Cal were flinging a stick for the dog, Rose and Lily and Ned were letting their horses amble slowly along as they talked.
“I know he talked to you about it, Ned, for he told me he had, but when I asked him about it he just clammed up. And when I persisted he got quite short with me.”
“He didn’t exactly tell me about it, Rose. I made a good guess and surprised him into admitting it. We never actually discussed it.”
That made her feel a bit better. But not much. “But why would he not want to tell me about it? I don’t understand.”
Ned hesitated. “It’s not a very nice topic for a lady.”
She gave him an indignant look. “I’m his wife. If he had to endure it, I can certainly bear to listen to it.”
Ned grimaced. “I didn’t mean that, exactly.”
Lily leaned forward. “Perhaps he feels ashamed of what happened to him, Rose. Or guilty.”
“Why would he feel guilty? Or ashamed? It wasn’t his fault.”
“People feel shame for all sorts of reasons,” Lily said quietly. “For things they did, for things they couldn’t help, and sometimes, for things that were done to them.”
“Lily’s right,” her husband said. “Beresford has lived through unimaginable hardship. And squalor.”
Rose looked at him. “Squalor?”
“Think about it. Those unfortunate fellows are chained to their oars for months at a time, day and night. Think what that means.”
Rose thought about it. Her insides curled with horror as she pictured it.
“It’s brutal and relentless and utterly inhumane,” Ned continued. “So he escapes from that—and it can’t have been easy—and he looks at you and he sees a lovely young woman who he imagines is untainted by life. Is it so surprising that he doesn’t feel worthy?” Lily reached across and took her husband’s hand and squeezed it.
Ned kissed his wife’s hand. “But the love of a good woman is a miraculous thing.”
Lily said softly, “Don’t give up on him, Rose.”
The horses walked on. Rose, deep in thought, pondered shame and guilt. All her life her sister Lily had felt guilty and ashamed because no matter how hard she tried, she still couldn’t read. It wasn’t her fault, but emotions didn’t work on logic.
And after she’d lost the baby, Rose had been racked by guilt and shame—she still was in unguarded moments—and yet she knew she’d done nothing wrong.
And Ned? He was a war hero—she didn’t know what he could feel shame or guilt about, but it was obvious he understood it from personal experience.
She could see now why Thomas might not want to talk about what had been done to him. And why he’d been like a bear with a sore head when she’d persisted.
“I knew there was a reason why Lily loves you, Ned.” She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you too.”
She smiled at her sister. “And I won’t give up on Thomas, of course I won’t. I won’t push him to talk, either. Not until he’s ready.”
He needed to talk, she was sure of that. It would help release some of those dreadful bottled-up feelings. Like lancing a boil to let out all the muck and poison. She knew. She’d kept four years of grief bottled up inside her. And what good had the bottling-up done her?
Ned rode off to join Cal and George, and Lily and Rose continued on their leisurely amble. Even though Rose saw her sister most days, she still missed her, missed having her to talk to any time, day or night. Marriage separated the most devoted of sisters.
“After I lost Thomas, I told myself I never wanted to fall in love again, that loving someone and losing them was just too painful.” She glanced at Lily. “I know, but I believed it, truly believed I could—and should—go through the rest of my life avoiding the glorious highs for fear of the terrifying, devastating lows. A life that was calm, safe, dull—it’s what I thought I wanted.”
Lily smiled. “And now?”
“Thomas walked back into my life and it just . . . went up in smoke, all my firm, safe resolutions. I’m back in, Lils, up to my neck, in over my head, out of my depth. It’s terrifying, and yet . . .” She made a helpless gesture. “I’m ridiculously happy.”
“I know.”
“He’s not the Thomas I married, but that doesn’t seem to matter—he’s still the man for me. There’s so much I don’t know—where he’s been, what he’s done, what he even believes anymore. But it just doesn’t matter. It’s just . . .” She gestured helplessly, groping for the way to explain her mixed-up feelings.
“There’s more of him to know, more of him to love?”
Rose looked at her sister. “That’s it exactly. How did you know?”
Lily smiled. “Because that’s what it’s like with my Edward.”
Chapter Nine
Ah! There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
Rose was determined to move into their new little home before the ball, and her enthusiasm fired up the other women in her family. Lily, of course, having already redecorated her husband’s family home, was more than willing to lend her a hand and share her expertise. George decided to help, not because she cared about the interior of a house but because she wanted to avoid the fuss about what she insisted on calling “The Ball Not to Celebrate a Duke.”
Even Emm, almost wholl
y concerned with the ball, couldn’t resist popping around to Bird Street once or twice a day to see the progress made and to contribute to the discussions. She was usually accompanied by a couple of footmen bearing baskets of refreshments.
“Are you sure you’re not overdoing it?” Cal said when she returned home one afternoon. “As far as I’m concerned the ball and Rose’s house can both go hang. The only important thing is you.”
Emm laid her hand on her swollen belly. “And the baby.”
“That too, but you most of all.”
She smiled. “It’s fun, and you know I like keeping busy. Besides, it’s better than sitting around waiting for this little one to arrive.”
He snorted. “Preparing for the ball of the season is hardly ‘waiting around.’”
She laughed. “Burton is in his element—he has everything and everyone running like clockwork. First thing in the morning the girls deal with all the mail that has come in, and really there is very little for me to do. Besides, it’s so interesting watching the girls working together. Lily is the artistic one, and Rose the decisive one—and the one who gets everyone moving.”
“And George?”
“Would you believe George has discovered a passion for gardening? She’s turning the little courtyard at the back into such a pretty space.”
Cal’s brows rose. “That’s a surprise.”
“She’s a hard worker, Cal. Did she have a difficult early life? She never talks about the years before she came to us.”
“She did. From all I could make out, my damned brother left her alone, to sink or swim.”
“Well, she’s done very well. They all have. You wouldn’t believe the progress they’ve made in only a few days.”
“I would. We’re paying a fortune in labor. I don’t know how many men we’ve got working around the clock to get Beresford’s blasted house ready.”
“It’s Rose’s home too, and you don’t fool me one bit, Calbourne Rutherford. You arranged all those workmen, I know. And paid for them yourself.”
“Just eager to get her off my hands,” he said gruffly.
“Nonsense. You want your sister to be happy as much as I do.”
He frowned. “Yes, but is she happy, Emm? Is that fellow going to be good to her?”
“It’s not going to be all smooth sailing,” Emm mused. “But I think she loves him, which has to count for a lot.”
“But does the villain love her?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Rose might seem confident and self-sufficient, but she badly needs to be loved.”
* * *
* * *
Cal was wrong when he claimed that Rose spent her days at Bird Street, “harrying workmen.” There was no harrying; she merely knew what she wanted and was determined to get it.
She was loving every minute of it—even when things went wrong, such as when the paperhangers hung the sitting room paper upside down. Yes, it was a subtle design—cream flocking over a lovely pale green background—but surely anyone could see that was a stylized pineapple! And that the frill of leaves or spikes or whatever you called them went at the top.
As for the excuse that the wretched men had never eaten a pineapple or even seen one—well, that was no reason for them not to know their business! Luckily she’d discovered the error in time, and made them pull it off and start again, this time with the pattern right side up.
It was Thomas’s house, but she was the one who cared about how the house looked—Thomas would probably have just cleared out all the fussy little ornaments and replaced the furniture with something more solid, and that would be that.
“Close your eyes,” she told him.
Thomas obediently closed them. He’d taken to dropping into Bird Street every evening. They’d fallen into a routine—first Ned would come to collect Lily and he’d walk her home, and George and her dog back to Ashendon House. By then all the workers had left, and Rose was alone in the house. It was then that Thomas came to her, ostensibly to see the progress of the house renovations before walking her home, but really, Rose knew it was to see her. It was heartwarming how hard he pretended to be interested. The ground floor was still in chaos, with ladders and builders’ tools and curing plaster and drying paint the only evidence of progress. But it was going to be lovely, she was sure. Only one room was completely finished; Rose had made it her priority.
“Keep them closed.” She led him up the stairs to the room in which they’d first made love. “And now . . . open.”
It was the same room, but what a transformation. Rose was delighted with it. She’d had the heavy old-fashioned paper stripped and replaced it with a light cream one, making the room much lighter.
The big four-poster bed remained, but she’d had the base restrung and fitted with a new mattress with a warm woolen base and a feather topping, thick as a cloud. It was made up now with fresh cotton sheets, plump new pillows and beautiful soft blue bedclothes.
She’d had the old felt matting ripped out and now a beautiful cream-and-blue Aubusson rug lay in its place. The heavy old blue bed-curtains were gone and the bed was hung with gauzy white drapes. She would order warm ones for the winter, but for the time being these were perfect, letting the breezes circulate on hot summer nights.
She was looking forward to hot summer nights with Thomas.
“What do you think?”
He nodded his approval, then looked at the bed and considered it thoughtfully. “It looks different.”
“Yes, it has a new feather mattress and new covers. And new curtains, of course.”
“That might explain it.” But his frown didn’t lift.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not sure.” He seemed very serious. “You know my attitude toward beds.”
For a moment she couldn’t think. Then she laughed. “Oh, you mean, it depends on who’s in them?”
“Indeed. Shall we?” He held out his hand as if inviting her to a waltz and led her to the bed. It was exactly the reaction she’d hoped for.
There was none of the frenzied desperation of last time. He undressed her himself, taking his time, lavishing her with his attention, slow, intense and deeply thrilling.
One by one her garments came off. He tossed them carelessly aside, his intent gaze never lifting from her. She felt it like a caress.
And when finally she stood there naked before him, his eyes burning into her with such heated concentration, she had never felt so beautiful.
Outside the sun was setting, the last golden rays piercing the clouds, staining them crimson and silver and purple. It bathed the interior of the room with a pearly light. Thomas was a dark silhouette against it, solid, mysterious, enticing.
He reached for her, and she smiled and held him back with one finger. “My turn now.” His skin was firm. Heat poured from him. She reached for his buttons.
His coat, waistcoat, neckcloth and shirt went first, the same slow, teasing process that she had endured. He hurled his own clothes aside with a little more impatience than he’d shown with hers. She had him remove his boots next. He yanked them and his stockings off, tossed them aside and reached for her.
“Not yet.” She gazed at the smooth planes of his chest, marked in places with fading bruises and a few silvery old scars, the cause of which she didn’t want to think about. Scarred or not, he was beautiful. She shivered in anticipation.
“Are you cold? I could—”
She laughed softly. “I’m not the least bit cold.”
“Really?” She felt his dark gaze shift to her nipples thrusting hard and aching toward him.
She stroked them lightly and her mouth curled in a slow smile as his whole body stiffened. “They’re not cold.”
His fingers opened and closed, but he clamped them to his side and stood like a soldier, waiting to be called for action.
“And now, my beautiful, teasing witch . . .”
He was fully aroused and she was ready, more than ready for him. She twined her arms around his neck and pulled him down onto the bed.
He bent and kissed her nipple. “You’re right, it’s not cold at all,” he murmured in mock surprise. He traced his tongue around it in lazy, leisured circles, teasing and arousing until she was trembling with need.
She’d forgotten, all the time he’d been lost to her, what it was like to lie with Thomas, the intensity and focus he brought to it—or perhaps he hadn’t, back then. He might have been more spontaneous. And she’d been so innocent. Anything he did back then—everything he did—was new and exciting.
Now, it was different, he was different—and ohhh!
“Thomas!” His mouth closed over her breast, and she clutched at his shoulders, his hair, his back as she arched and trembled.
His mouth was hot and demanding. His hands were everywhere, those big gentle, hard-skinned hands, caressing her breasts, slipping between her thighs, curving around her hip, her belly, her buttocks. Urgency followed their path, welling up from deep within her. She writhed with pleasure, hunger, need.
Her breath caught on a series of jagged, rising peaks. Heat poured through her and her thoughts fragmented under his ravenous sensual assault. Wave after wave of sensation, she let herself float, responding helplessly to the wordless, insistent demand of her body, the relentless passionate drive of his.
She was beyond thought, beyond speech. Finally, gratefully, he was positioned over her, his heavy maleness pressed against her entrance.
She pressed her heels into the mattress, pushing up against him in silent urgency. He paused, and it was as if they trembled together on the edge of a cliff. Then he surged into her, hard and sure, and she found his rhythm. Higher, harder, faster until together they . . . shattered.