He supposed he couldn’t quite call them old tricks—he had only known of her running away thrice—and could it even be labeled as running away when she had gone back?
The fact remained that he didn’t know Rose. Not really. That was what wheedled its way into his thoughts after a week with no communication from his affianced. He didn’t know for certain whether she’d only ever snuck out on those three occasions. He couldn’t even be sure that he was the only man she’d met on a private path. There could have been others. Not that he thought there was, only that there was the possibility that there could have been.
Perhaps her feelings for him were not quite as deep as he had thought.
He didn’t really know her. She hadn’t allowed him to. Oh, she’d told him she loved him and she’d opened up a bit, but how was he to know it wasn’t all an act? She was so good at putting up a front that there was no way to be sure.
There was no way to be sure without seeing her, that is.
He needed to see her. He was desperate for it.
Yet every time he called, she was unavailable, off on some errand. “Lots of preparations for the big day,” Lady Blythe would croon at him as they sat drinking tea alone in the receiving room, his jaw and fists clenched in irritation.
He just wanted to see Rose. So that he could determine whether or not everything he believed about her to be true, really was.
But she was not at home. There was less than a week until their wedding, he had a golden ring burning a hole in his breast pocket, and she was not at home.
There was irony somewhere in that.
He’d hated her for so long, had loathed her existence for forever, had gone out of his way to be sure to avoid her and, now that he loved her, it was she who avoided him.
Yes, irony indeed.
*****
It came quickly to light all that was transpiring. Why Jackie was in London, the reason for Rose’s sudden debut.
Jackie was becoming more combative. Unable to express herself, she took to throwing fits, which more often than not meant throwing herself. It hadn’t been so bad in years past, but now she was stronger and could actually hurt a person. Had hurt a person.
Jackie’s nurse, the woman who had cared for her for all the years since Jackie had been shipped away from her family, had resigned her position. She was aging and could no longer meet the physical demands of caring for Jackie—she was simply too aggressive. Jackie had been dropped off on the doorstep of Gordon House, spurring Lord and Lady Blythe to summon half the ton to their country estate and away from London. With fewer prying eyes in the city, their secret could continue to be kept.
It became pertinent that Rose marry immediately, for if the secret of Jackie was revealed, the likelihood of Lord Brighton agreeing to marry Rose would have practically vanished. No one wanted dirty blood, and that’s how people like Jackie were perceived.
However, once the deed was done…
Rose bit her lip in apprehension at the thought of what Robert’s reaction would be when he’d finally learn the truth.
Lord and Lady Blythe planned it perfectly. They’d thrown an impromptu house party and it had ended—if not exactly as they had hoped—at the very least, with a proposal. The secret had only to remain such until the wedding and then all could take a breath, heave a sigh of relief.
Or so Lord and Lady Blythe believed.
Maybe Rose should not have been so quick to agree with her parents. Perhaps she should have trusted Robert enough to tell him the truth. But in all honesty, Rose didn’t know how Robert would react and she couldn’t afford to find out. She needed to marry him and that was all she could allow herself to be concerned with.
In the meantime, however, someone had to care for Jackie. All the maids were scared of her, and likewise, Jackie was scared of all the servants of the male variety. And as they could not risk bringing someone new into the household who was not yet loyal to the Blythe secrets, Rose had taken over the task of seeing to Jackie. Not that she would have it any other way. She loved her sister and did not mind the role at all. She rather enjoyed their time together.
However, Jackie required full-time care which left little time for anything else.
Rose had been in town for over a week and she had not yet left the house. She hadn’t even been able to see Robert. He had called, every day, but the timing was always inopportune. Every time was inopportune. Jackie did not like visitors and thus always had to be quieted when one appeared. Rose was the only one suited for the task.
It was almost a blessing. She was more nervous to see Robert than she was over their impending wedding that loomed just a few, short days away. The couple had become engaged and then Robert had run off without another word. And yes, he had written since, but what were words without a face behind them from which to derive the message? He could spout out sonnets and heartfelt poetry, but could it really be believed?
He’d been so hard when he declared them engaged, so formal, distant. He wasn’t himself and Rose was scared of who he would be when she once again laid eyes upon him. Better to suffer with a memory than the possibility of a broken heart. And the longer she went without seeing him, the harder it was to convince herself that she must.
As it was, today, she watched from above as he strode down the steps and toward his waiting mount. His shoulders were stiff, and just by the way that he walked she could feel his rage. It was funny, that. She hadn’t known him any great amount of time and yet she knew how he walked without even consciously realizing that she’d ever even noticed it. Yet, she could tell.
He was angry, and he had every right to be. Just as she had every right to avoid him. For now. She hadn’t vowed to obey him yet. And as she was not concerned that he would walk away from the marriage—his duty-bound pride too tied to the land it secured—it didn’t matter so much what he felt.
But in a few days…
In a few days, what he felt would be all that she felt. It wouldn’t kill her, but Rose could imagine that it wouldn’t be long before she’d wish that it would.
As much as Robert might love her, she was not what he truly wanted. She would never be what he wanted. Freedom. Choice. Because of this, she knew, loving Robert would kill her slowly. It would take her entire life. It would start with her heart and move on to claim every organ, every muscle, every cell and fiber of her being, until there was nothing left but an empty shell.
So she watched as he mounted his horse, the same mare she had stolen, filled with the bittersweet knowledge that in less than a week she would be vowing to love, honor and obey him.
Rose wasn’t the sentimental sort, so her next thought really shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, and yet it rocked her back on her heels, causing her to reach for the nearest table for balance as she sank into the upholstered chair. Because in that moment, she almost wished she’d never stolen that horse, that she hadn’t left her home that morning, had never sought that adventure. If she hadn’t, then she wouldn’t have ever met Robert, wouldn’t have fallen in love with him. Sure, he turned out to be a duke and the man she was meant to marry, but he would never be hers. If they hadn’t met, she wouldn’t have fallen in love and she wouldn’t live in fear that he might one day grow to resent her.
But as much as she wanted to wish that, she found that she couldn’t. Robert was her lifeboat, while her fear was the anchor pulling her to the bottom of the sea. She was scared. And the more time that passed between seeing him, the more her anxieties eroded the walls of her confidence. She had been trained for everything, but not for love.
She felt like crying, but the tears didn’t come. She was too used to being strong, to holding them firmly at bay, to let them freely flow. Instead, they were stuck inside, building up like a ball inside her chest and behind her eyes, ringing in her ears like a lit fuse.
But it wasn’t her time to explode. She pushed herself up and focused her resolve. She had just a few days left before her wedding, just a few days before everything
changed, and who knew when would be the next time she’d see Jackie. This was time to cherish, not mope.
She went to her sister and gathered her in her arms, breathing in her scent and comfort, and she pushed aside everything else. It wasn’t her time to explode. Yet.
But just as Rose began to relax, as her sister calmed, the storm blowing over, her mama breezed into the room and a new storm began to rise.
Chapter 25
Robert’s fingers tapped nervously on the plush seat of his carriage.
Being separated from the woman you love did something to a man. For Robert, it made him act rashly.
Earlier in the afternoon he’d made quite the scene. Once more he rode over to Gordon House, handed his card to the waiting butler, waited dutifully in the receiving room, only to be once more greeted by Lady Blythe bearing the insidious news that her daughter was not at home. And he’d snapped.
Oh, he’d thought he had snapped before. A man—even a young man—didn’t go through life never having lost his temper, having been pushed so hard that he snapped. Turns out, Robert didn’t even understand the meaning of the word.
It was an eruption. All of the anger and frustration that had been building below the surface finally broke free, exploded all over Lady Blythe.
He demanded to see Rose, told Lady Blythe he was done with her games, that he would not be played for a fool. He needed to see Rose. But as he spat and cursed, Lady Blythe stood strong, and when he’d finally worn himself out, Lady Blythe offered the same old excuse, uttered in tones similar to those used if they were discussing the weather. “I do apologize, your Grace, but as I said, Rosalyn is not at home.”
He’d stormed into the hall with every intention of running up the stairs and searching the house room by bloody room until he found her. He’d stopped himself instead. Rose had been in London for nearly two weeks and had made no attempt to see or speak to him, hadn’t written a single letter in return, not even to confirm her welfare. It wasn’t just Lady Blythe keeping him from her—Rose was keeping herself from him. He couldn’t imagine why it was, but he found that if she didn’t want to see him, then neither did he want to see her.
It was a lie, of course, told in order to keep his pride, and sanity, in check. But he just couldn’t understand it. Why was she doing this? Why did she refuse to see him?
They were questions he could not answer, questions that a part of him didn’t want answers for.
So he’d left. Tomorrow he would be married and he hadn’t even seen his wife-to-be in a fortnight. Tomorrow they were to be married. And he dreaded it more now than he ever had. He loved her, but that love seemed destined to destroy him as his heart tightened in his chest.
But now he was heading back to that house. And he would see her. In just a few moments. After all, Rose couldn’t avoid her own party.
Robert closed his eyes, breathing in heavily through his nose. It was meant to be calming, but instead, that fist in his chest only seemed more intent on palpating his heart most uncomfortably.
The carriage was slowing, and then it was stopping. The steps were being set down and the carriage door opened and Robert found himself in front of Gordon House once more, only now he met it during the bright light of a Mayfair night. The house radiated, lit up the night so that the dark sky beyond was barely discernable.
The extravagance of the warm light nearly all but washed away his cool fury.
This party wasn’t merely her official debut to the ton, it also served as their engagement ball, for in the morning they would be wed. He would enter those doors and stand beside her and greet their guests. The knowledge that she was just beyond those doors, waiting for him, that she was in such close proximity, made his strides lengthen, even as he escorted his mother and sister.
Furious as he still may be at Lady Blythe, Robert held no ability to despise Rose any longer. He should hate her for how she was mistreating him, but love bid him do otherwise. Love was a fickle creature, a foul beast, the worst kind of torture.
Despite how angry he should be at her, Robert couldn’t be happier.
Even as kissed her knuckles and murmured words of greeting, and there were no changes in her masked demeanor.
Even as he stood by her side and accepted the endless rounds of congratulations, Rose literally on his arm but feeling a world apart.
Even as he escorted her onto the dance floor to lead the assembly in the first waltz of the evening, and she did not melt into his arms, or his eyes.
He was happy.
Rose had returned to the girl he’d first met. She was perfect and poised and reserved, and she kept herself guarded behind this false exterior that allowed for no unwanted intrusions into her depths. But Robert did not worry, not any longer.
He could now see her and see that she was well. She had come to London and slipped back into the habits she had lived with for forever. It wasn’t so surprising. It probably offered her a bit of comfort to pin herself up so. But now Robert knew that he could draw her out. He knew that he could kiss her and promise to love her and cherish her, and that barrier that she kept up would come crumbling down once more. Eventually, she would learn to live without it completely. For now, he was willing to admit that he would spend his entire life breaking down her walls if he had to. That’s how much he loved her.
Robert would draw out the Rose he knew was in there And he had every intention of starting immediately.
Upon their second dance when the evening was nearing its close, he spun her around and around, until they were by the open French doors that led out into the small garden beyond. Then, with a discreet maneuver, he spun her out the doors, down the few steps and into the darkness of the shrubbery beyond.
“What are you doing?” Rose asked, aghast, her head dressed in gold whipping back to the house they had just departed.
“This,” Robert answered, taking her face into his hands and searing her with his kiss.
That’s what he meant to do, that is. Sear her. Instead, he found himself to be feeling a bit like he had been the one burned.
Rose melted. For a moment.
She kissed him back. For a moment.
Robert was too lost in the power that rocketed through him at the mere sensation of his lips on hers that he didn’t notice her hesitation. He didn’t notice anything until she was pushing at his shoulders so hard that he stumbled back into a rather prickly hedge.
“What the—” he started, just barely containing himself before blaspheming in front of a lady—his lady.
Rose passed her hands over her face in a clearly panicked gesture, and turned away from him. They were not in total darkness and he could see that her face had turned to a miserable cracking stone, hard and in pain, and his jolt of surprise converted to concern in an instant.
“Rose, what is the matter?” he asked, coming at her with an outstretched, soothing hand.
“Don’t,” she fairly barked. There was a tremor in her voice, but there was also an underlying hardness that he had never heard from her before and that quite unnerved him.
“Don’t,” she repeated, even though he had already frozen to the spot he was standing in.
Robert looked at her, a question in his eyes, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand what the question that he meant to ask was.
Rose had an answer nonetheless.
She cleared her throat, then spoke, her voice as stony as her face and her eyes, which looked right up into his, and speared him with their honesty. “We will not be wed tomorrow.”
Robert was quite certain that he had misheard but, afraid that he had not, he really did not want her to repeat the statement, so he just stared at her blankly, even as she averted her gaze. Surely he had misheard, after all. She couldn’t possibly be serious. They were to be married in the morning. Tomorrow morning.
This was clearly a bit of cold feet. It happened to women, or so he had heard.
After holding silent for an entire minute—in which he managed not to
sputter once—Robert drew in a breath, let one side of his mouth kick up into an irresistible grin, and said, “Surely you jest.” Because this was, after all, clearly a joke.
Except that it wasn’t.
When Rose looked back up at him, there were twin trails of tears burning paths over the delicate skin of her cheeks. She shook her head and reworded the most damning phrase of his life. “I cannot marry you.”
Robert felt his body go instantly cold as his heart seemingly stopped beating when he realized she was serious.
He creased his brow and shook his head slowly back and forth. “Rose, don’t do this,” Robert pleaded. He was not above begging. Not now. Not now that he had fallen in love, found everything he had ever wished to have. He couldn’t lose her. And why should he? There was no reason for them not to wed.
Why was this happening?
“I cannot marry you.”
Robert could tell that the words were forced, spoken against her will, but he could not stop his anger from boiling forth. He loved her and she loved him, and this ludicrous conversation made entirely no sense, and he bit off, “Cannot? Or will not?”
Instantly, Rose’s tears ceased, all emotion erased, and the only trace that remained were the streaks of tears drying on her pale skin. “Both,” she answered him, her voice firm and unwavering. Robert had grown wary of this tone, of this face, the façade that hid her true emotions, and he did not believe the word she spoke.
She wanted to marry him. She just couldn’t, and he couldn’t understand why not.
“You must marry me.”
“Why?” she retorted. “So that you can have my land and my money?”
Her punch was a spear, well placed and true. But it wasn’t the only truth.
“Is that why you will not marry me? Because you think I am in it only for what I have to gain?”
Rose straightened. “I honestly don’t know why you want to marry me, your Grace,” she answered stiffly. “You certainly have every right to walk away after all that I have done. I have not acted as the most proper of ladies. I have hardly acted as a lady ought at all. I believe you have an affection for me, but—”
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 28