Poor Nate, to be trapped between the rock of staying at Whitwell House with a father-in-law who didn’t love him and the hard place of having to leave his mother to go away to school.
What a strange and fateful world it was, when children had no more control over who raised them than they had over the roll of a die, yet it made all the difference to their happiness.
* * *
David passed the week before the wedding brooding on what he ought to do—sometimes convincing himself he’d be able to make a marriage to Rosalie work, sometimes certain it would be a disaster. Doubts plagued him whenever they were together. Though he declined to attend church with her, he collected her after the service on Sunday and drove her home to her family’s house. He took her out driving in the park twice, and again to see the Elgin Marbles. Each time, he went intending to tell her he’d made a serious mistake and it would be wrong for them to marry. Each time, she smiled up at him with her steady, trusting gaze, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
The week slipped by until, just two days before the ceremony, he woke to the troubling awareness it was his last chance to speak frankly with her. To wait until the very eve of the wedding would be too cruel. If he was ever going to tell her about himself, he had to do it that day.
He passed the morning preoccupied and fidgeting. He resolved over and over to go and broach the matter before another hour passed. Even so, dinner came and went, and still he hadn’t acted on his resolution. The least excuse seemed reason enough to put it off.
He was in his library, nursing his third glass of claret and finding it impossible to concentrate on his book—a depressing German book of philosophy he was probably better off not reading—when the clock struck half past nine. Every toll felt like a reproach.
It’s now or never. A touch of the vaunted Linney determination stiffened his spine. What right would he have to even the smallest shred of self-respect, if he let her go on thinking he was some kind of knight in shining armor? He cast the book aside and rang for a hack.
Not twenty minutes later, he was waiting in the new Lord Whitwell’s drawing room, pacing the Turkey carpet in front of the fireplace. Suddenly, the paneled doors flew open and Rosalie burst into the room.
She was dressed in her black crepe dinner gown, still clutching his calling card in her hand. “What is it?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly. “Should I fetch my aunt Whitwell to chaperone, or did you wish to speak to me alone?”
The suddenness of her arrival had taken him by surprise, and for a moment he was too startled to speak. “Alone, if you have no objection.”
“What’s wrong, David?”
“Nothing.” He strove for something approaching nonchalance. “That is, nothing alarming has happened.”
She brightened, the tautness going out of her posture. “Well, that’s a relief. I didn’t know what to think when the footman brought in your card. You’ve never before turned up unexpectedly, certainly not at nearly ten at night and wishing to speak to me privately. I worried perhaps—”
“Rosalie, don’t marry me.”
He was sure she would draw back and freeze him with a look of dismay. After all, the wedding was less than two days away, and here he was, crying off.
Instead she laughed her light, musical laugh. “Oh, David. Have you come down with a case of bachelor jitters?”
“I mean it. Don’t. Not if you want to be happy. I’m telling you now, while I still have the nerve to say it. I’m no good, Rosalie.”
It wasn’t what he’d intended to say at all. He’d thought to treat the conversation as a sort of negotiation, a formal give-and-take in which he would explain the nature of his misgivings and they would forge some sort of mutually agreeable arrangement—a financial settlement, most likely, or perhaps a marriage of convenience. Instead he’d blurted out his innermost thoughts. Don’t marry me. I’m no good.
A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “You’re no good? So...you do still want to marry me, then?”
He glanced down and noted with a strange detachment that he was clutching the back of the sofa between them in a white-knuckled grip. “Of course I want to marry you. But I don’t believe I’m cut out for marriage. Perhaps it’s in my blood—they say my father was mad—I don’t know. I only know that if you marry me, I’ll end up hurting you.”
This was a mistake. Yet he wasn’t sure exactly which mistake he was regretting—having asked her to marry him, or having come to her tonight, spouting disjointed objections.
She smiled with a look of patient indulgence, the kind of look one might give a small child who insisted monsters were hiding under the bed. “In what way will you hurt me?”
He shook his head. “I can’t say. I’ll wrong you somehow, though. I know it. I’ll be unfaithful to you, most likely, or—or do something to you, something despicable. You mustn’t marry me.”
Her smile had faded, though there was no hint of coldness in her eyes. “Then why did you offer for me, if you were so sure of this?”
“I don’t know.” He turned away to stand rigidly in the middle of the room. “It made sense at the time, when we were at sea. I thought you should have a home of your own and the protection of marriage.”
“And you cared for me?”
“Yes.” He turned back to her, surprised by the doubtful note in her voice. “Of course.”
Her smile returned. “Has any of that changed?”
“No. Or—yes. I realized it was wrong, that I was being selfish. There are things I haven’t told you about myself.”
She sat on the gold damask sofa and looked up at him, folding her hands together in her lap. “Then tell me.”
He darted a glance at her, a sweet-voiced girl dressed modestly in mourning, and he could sense his resolve weaken. “I’m trying to, but I can’t just—” Restless, he began pacing again. “I’m no good, that’s all. There’s something wrong with me.”
“Have you murdered anyone? Stolen some poor widow’s life savings?”
He gave her an imploring look. “Be serious.”
“Very well, then, are you prone to violence? Do you think you might beat me, or strike me?”
“No, I—” He stopped, at a loss how to go on. “Jove! I can’t just come out and say it, as if I were confessing to nothing more than a drawing room faux pas.”
She studied him with a look of sympathy. “David, does this have something to do with your past and...other women?”
“Yes.” His eyes flew to hers gratefully. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands. “I can’t pretend any lady really wishes to hear such things about her prospective husband, but men are expected to sow a few wild oats before marriage, are they not? I know that, and I don’t fault you for it, especially when we hadn’t even met until just a short time ago. Besides, you live so quietly, I’m sure your past can’t be so very bad.”
“No. Don’t be so quick to excuse my past when you know next to nothing about it.”
A flicker of curiosity crossed her face, but after a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, David. I trust you.”
“Then stop trusting me!”
The words came out with such vehemence, for a moment Rosalie looked as startled as he felt. Then she drew a deep breath. “Whatever it is, whatever you’ve done or not done, it doesn’t matter. Not as long as you care for me.”
He closed his eyes. “Make me tell you, Rosalie. Perhaps I can confess it if you ask it of me.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know what I want. I want to keep you safe from me, from all the ways I could hurt you, I know that much. But if I tell you...” He trailed off. “I’m not sure I can bear the look on your face when you learn what kind of man I really am.”
“Then tell me when you feel ready.” Her voice was once again the soothing murmur of a mother reassuring a fretful child. “Until then, I have faith in you.”
He studied
her for several long seconds, his heart heavy, before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I can’t do it.” He shook his head. “I thought I could, but... When we’re not together I forget what it’s like talking to you, how young and hopeful you are. If you won’t make me tell you, I can’t. But remember this night. Someday, when you come to regret marrying me, remember that I did try to warn you.”
“I’ll never regret marrying you, David.” She gave him a trusting smile. “But I will remember.”
He fixed his eyes on the floor. “Please don’t look at me that way. It only makes the guilt worse.”
She came to him and set a hand on his sleeve. He couldn’t help flinching.
“Go home and get some rest, David. You’re wearing yourself out with worry. Whatever it is, it will turn out all right, I promise you.”
He shook his head. “No, it won’t.”
“Of course it will. I know how laughably naive this must sound, but as long as you truly care for me, we can get through anything.”
He couldn’t look at her, not when she had no idea what anything really meant. He could only swallow past the knot in his throat. “I hope you’re right.”
Defeated, he picked up his hat and started for the door without another word.
* * *
On the eve of Rosalie’s wedding, Charlie came to dine with her and the new Lord and Lady Whitwell at the family’s London town house. Sitting across the table from her cousin, regarding his cheerful face above the silver epergne, Rosalie was glad to be sharing her last meal as an unmarried girl with her whole family. Even young Nate was allowed to join the adults, at least for a few minutes. If only her father were still with them, her happiness would be complete.
The awareness this was her last dinner as plain Miss Whitwell gave her butterflies in her stomach—though her case of pre-wedding jitters couldn’t hold a candle to poor David’s. How uncharacteristically anxious he’d been the night before, pacing the floor of the drawing room, clearly racked with last-minute doubts about his eligibility. It might have worried her more if her father hadn’t liked to tell the story of how he’d done much the same thing on the night before marrying her mother, and that had certainly ended happily. Besides, learning that even David doubted himself had made her feel a bit better about her own suitability, after Mrs. Howard had called it into question.
Of course, she’d wondered for some time after he left exactly what kind of failings he’d meant to confess. In the end she’d decided it was probably a few youthful indiscretions or a torrid interlude with someone shockingly unsuitable, perhaps even a married woman. He was ten years older than she, after all, and he’d been in love before. Rosalie felt no need to pry into the details, especially when such past flirtations were now water under the bridge.
From the head of the table, her uncle winked at her. He’d kept to only two glasses of wine and was on his best behavior. “Only one more night to go, eh, Rosie girl?”
Uncle Roger would be giving her away in the wedding ceremony. She smiled back at him, but not without a nostalgic ache for her father. “Yes, sir.”
“Just one more night to get through without breaking out in spots or waking up with your nose red and running.” Her aunt turned to Rosalie’s uncle, her stiff, guinea-gold ringlets bobbing. “Remember our wedding day, Roger? Lawks! I was a nervous wreck, with my knees knocking—and you cast up your accounts just outside the church door. It’s a wonder either of us went through with it.” She reached over and patted Rosalie’s hand. “It’s only natural to feel in a bit of a twitter, dearie. Don’t you worry your head about it.”
“She looks calm enough to me,” Uncle Roger said. “Perhaps we’ll make her nervous if we fuss too much, eh?”
Across from her, Charlie was biting his nails again. His fair brows drew together in a frown. “Or perhaps she could do with a touch more caution.”
Aunt Whitwell gave one of her braying laughs. “Now that’s hardly comforting! What, are you worried she means to let the servants run roughshod over her once she’s married?”
Charlie glanced darkly at Rosalie. “Something like that.”
Aunt Whitwell dismissed the possibility with a flick of her wrist. “Goodness, every new bride goes through that. She’ll find her way soon enough.” She launched into a droll recounting of all the problems she’d experienced with the servants since moving into the family town house, lamenting the cost of living in London and the difficulty of finding good servants, until the meal drew to a close and it was time for the ladies to withdraw.
Rosalie’s aunt and uncle exchanged a significant look.
Aunt Whitwell rose. “Rosalie, dear, I wonder if I might have a look at your wedding dress?”
“Of course.” The request surprised her. Her aunt had already seen the gown when the modiste delivered it.
They went up to her room, where Rosalie took the dress from its place in the clothespress. She would be putting off mourning for the wedding, and the gown was a shimmering column of white lutestring, decorated with two rows of rouleaux at the hem and tiny white and silver flowers on the puffed sleeves—a dress from a fairy tale, to match the way her dreams of home and family were finally coming true. She and David were going to be so happy together. She’d make sure of it.
As Rosalie shook out the folds, Aunt Whitwell closed the door and took a seat on her bed. She patted the spot beside her. “Come and sit with me a moment, dearie.”
Rosalie draped the gown over the chair by the clothespress and joined her on the bed.
Her aunt smoothed her skirts with a matter-of-fact air. “So, tomorrow you’ll be a bride.”
Rosalie smiled. “Yes.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve already permitted Lord Deal...er, a taste of your charms?”
“Are you asking if I’ve allowed him to kiss me?”
Her aunt laughed. “Well, that, too. But no, I meant before he proposed—you didn’t give him a little sample of what he might look forward to in the marriage bed, did you?”
Rosalie tried not to look shocked. She didn’t want her aunt thinking her hopelessly naive. Especially not when Aunt Whitwell had been so unfailingly kind to her, even adopting a noticeably more subdued demeanor whenever David called—a bit of self-censorship for which Rosalie remained grateful. “No.”
“You’re sure? Because I wouldn’t think ill of you, you know, or breathe a word to anyone. Some gentlemen take more persuading than others.”
“No, it was nothing like that.”
Aunt Whitwell sighed. “I didn’t think so. It would have made talking to you now a good deal simpler, but...I didn’t think so.” She abandoned her Covent Garden theater manner, dropping her voice to a more intimate tone. “If your mother were alive, I’m sure she would have spoken with you tonight. But since she’s gone, it’s fallen to me to tell you what to expect on your wedding night. How much do you already know?”
Rosalie wasn’t sure how to answer. Crisscrossing the globe with her father, she’d come face-to-face with any number of eye-popping discoveries—revealing paintings and statues displayed publicly in the palaces of the Italies, Mahometans who proudly kept more than one wife, even hijras, the eunuch guards who accompanied harem girls in the marketplaces of India. In the enforced closeness of sailing vessels, she’d overheard the boisterous and often improper conversation of merchants and sailors. She hadn’t understood everything she’d seen and heard, but she’d grasped enough to know human beings didn’t always behave with the kind of staid propriety they exhibited in the drawing room. Unfortunately, in some ways her irregular upbringing had raised more questions than it had answered.
“I know a little. I know a husband and wife share a bed, of course, and I know that once two people are married, the husband may take whatever liberties he likes.” Feeling hopelessly backward, Rosalie gave her aunt an apologetic smile. “It’s the details of just what a husband does and how nervous I should be that I’m not entirely clear on.”
“Well, the good new
s is that there’s no need to be nervous. Far from it! Though I’m sure it’s more frightening with some men than with others. Someone as toplofty as Lord Deal, I confess, might well make me doubt myself. But then, I’m not the one who’s marrying him.” She turned a searching look on Rosalie. “You do have feelings for him?”
Rosalie pictured David’s face when he’d asked her to marry him. Despite his mercurial temperament, despite the things Mrs. Howard had said, she had only to picture those dark, worried eyes to know she belonged with him. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. Then what I have to tell you shan’t be at all troubling to you.”
Rosalie listened, nodding, as her aunt explained exactly what David would do.
Chapter Seven
What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest justice.
— William Shakespeare
David intended the wedding to be a small, quiet affair. Rosalie had lost her father less than a month before. They expected few guests, strictly close family and friends, and he possessed neither.
Yet, somehow their wedding had become one of the most talked-about events of the Season. David had no sooner returned to London than his valet informed him a ripple of astonishment had gone through the ton at the news of his impending marriage. Bets were being taken at Brooks’s and White’s about whether the ceremony would actually take place.
Though David managed to talk himself out of the worst of his misgivings, it was hard not to take the gossip as an ill omen. He told himself it was little wonder if society expressed surprise. He had a reputation for keeping to himself, didn’t he? He not only deserved it, he’d cultivated it. He was the most unsociable man in London, a man who crossed the street just to avoid having to speak with passing acquaintances. But the ton’s reaction only added to his unease.
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