His starry-eyed talk of the future strengthened her resolve. Rosalie leaned toward him confidentially. “Charlie, dear, I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”
He broke into a good-natured smile. “What kind of favor?”
“I want you to forget for a moment that I’m your cousin, and a lady, and answer a question for me. Can you do that?”
His smile faded to a wary look. “I suppose that depends on the question.”
“I only require a little information. It doesn’t concern you, or anyone you might have a duty to protect, I promise you.”
He fidgeted with one of the buttons on his coat. “I still say I need to hear the question first.”
“Very well.” She lifted her chin. “Have you ever heard anything about Deal and—and other women?”
“You mean since he married you?” Charlie sat up straight, his brows coming together in a look of glowering disapproval. “If he’s already carrying on behind your back, Rosie, I swear to God he’ll hear from me about it, whether it’s my affair or not—”
“No, not since he married me,” she said quickly. “I mean before that.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s angry posture relaxed. “That’s different. But you don’t really want to know that. Even if you did, it’s not the thing for a fellow to go telling tales out of school, especially not to a man’s wife, and not if it happened before he was even married—”
“You do know something, then?”
His ears turned faintly pink. “I didn’t say that. I just mean most fellows sow a few wild oats before settling down with a wife and family, and it doesn’t amount to anything. They’re just kicking up their heels a bit, that’s all. It’s natural enough.”
She set a hand on his sleeve. “But you’ve heard such things about Deal?”
“Rosie, it doesn’t signify. You can’t go blaming a fellow when he hadn’t even taken it into his head yet to marry—”
“Tell me, Charlie.”
He threw her an uneasy glance.
She pinned him with a look that was half worried frown, half stubborn determination. “I promise this is important. I would never ask you if it weren’t. Have you heard those kinds of rumors about Deal or not?”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you? Gad, you’re stubborn.” He sighed heavily. “Very well, then, but I’m only telling you this because you insisted, and because it’s better that you hear it from me rather than from some malicious gossip. As a matter of fact, yes, I have.”
Yes? Her heart sank. So David did have sexual experience. There was just something about her personally he found unappealing.
Rosalie felt as if the roof had just fallen in on her—a crushing weight, and one she’d been counting on to remain safely out of mind. So Mrs. Howard’s estimation of her was true. She was drab, childish, completely without allure. When she’d had nowhere else to go, David had married her out of sheer kindness, despite feeling no attraction to her at all.
“You’re quite sure?” she asked Charlie. “What was it you heard—did he have a mistress?”
Charlie made a pained face. “Lord, Rosie, don’t ask me for details.”
“Charlie, I’m not going to be angry, not with you or with Deal either. I simply need to know.”
“Why? I never took you for the jealous type. On my honor, I haven’t heard a word against his conduct since the day you two met. I was genuinely shocked just now, when you asked that first question and I thought you meant he was already playing you false.”
“Did he have a mistress or not?”
Charlie sighed in bitter resignation, his shoulders slumping. “Yes. At least, I’ve heard rumors. I don’t know for a fact.”
Rosalie tried to picture quiet, intellectual David with some brilliant high-flyer on his arm. Just the effort of imagining it hurt. She could never measure up to that kind of Venus.
But perhaps it had been nothing like that. Perhaps he’d rescued some poor creature from the streets. Perhaps he’d had real feelings for the girl, and that was what he’d meant to confess before the wedding. Hadn’t David mentioned he’d once been in love? “Was it an affair of the heart?”
“No, nothing like that. He never kept them long.”
“Them? He had more than one?” She knew gentlemen couldn’t be expected to live as chastely as monks, but what did it say about David’s feelings for her if he’d found multiple women irresistible, yet refused to visit her bed even once?
Charlie winced at his own carelessness. “Well—yes, but as far as I know, he gave the last girl her congé months ago. Long before he met you. He paid her off handsomely, I heard, and she took up soon afterward with the Duke of Plymouth, so you needn’t worry she’ll make trouble. I’m told she’s quite happy with the old fellow. She says she can finally—”
He stopped with a guilty flush.
Rosalie’s last vestige of hope shriveled and died at the look on Charlie’s face. “What were you going to say? She can finally do what?”
He shook his head. “It’s just gossip.”
“Tell me, Charlie.”
He fidgeted with his buttons again, refusing to look at her. “She was an opera dancer, not a respectable female at all. Girls of that ilk say all sorts of outrageous things.”
She stared her cousin down. “She can finally do what?”
“She can finally get some rest now and then,” he said with an air of defeat. “But it’s just a vulgar remark from a vulgar female. Naturally Deal knows to treat his wife with more respect than that.”
“Respect!” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes, he respects me no end.”
Charlie, clearly misinterpreting her reaction, wore a hangdog expression. “Do you see? I knew you were going to be angry. There are reasons gentlemen don’t go tittle-tattling on one another about petticoat dealings. If I’ve caused trouble now between you and Deal, I won’t blame him if he comes after me with a horsewhip.”
“You haven’t caused trouble, I promise.”
“You say that most convincingly, but I know you. You’re as stubborn as Uncle ever was. When you get a maggot in your brain, it stays there until you—” He broke off at the sound of an arrival in the front hallway. Footsteps approached.
A moment later David himself appeared in the doorway, dressed with his usual understated elegance, tall and austerely handsome. He looked from Rosalie to Charlie with evident curiosity. “Good afternoon, Templeton. What brings you here? I trust all is well with you?”
“Quite well, thank you, Deal.” Charlie darted a guilty glance at Rosalie.
She folded her hands in her lap to hide her nerves. “How did the vote go, David? I didn’t expect you back so early.”
He strolled to the table by the window and poured himself a glass of claret. “Another reactionary mistake, I fear. Care for a drink, Templeton?”
Charlie got to his feet. “Thank you, but I was just leaving.”
“Pray don’t go on my account. I was on my way into the study, if you and Lady Deal have something personal to discuss.”
“No, we weren’t talking about anything,” Charlie said, a touch too quickly.
“Are you certain? I should hate to interrupt a private conversation.”
Charlie reached for his hat. “Nothing of the kind. In fact, I was just saying to Rosie here that it was time I was on my way. Wasn’t I, Rosie? I have tickets for the theater tonight.”
“Do you?” David said in a tone of polite interest. “What are you seeing?”
“Trial by Battle at the Royal Coburg.”
“I’m taking Lady Deal to see The Tempest tomorrow night. You’re welcome to join us in our box if you’d like.”
Charlie looked at him doubtfully. “The Tempest? Isn’t that Shakespeare?”
“So I’ve been led to believe.”
“Then perhaps some other time, thank you. One night at the theater is bad enough. Two nights would surely give me the fidgets.” Charlie glanced uncertainly at Rosalie. “Well, I’d best be off.”<
br />
“Do give my regards to Lord and Lady Whitwell, if you should see them,” David said.
Rosalie rose to accompany her cousin to the door. “Yes, and thank you for coming, Charlie.”
She returned to the drawing room a minute later to find David awaiting her, a bland smile on his face. “What a bad liar your cousin is,” he said, though his tone remained agreeable.
She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Do I want to know what you were really discussing?”
“No.” Rosalie gnawed her lower lip. “I don’t believe you do.”
“Very well. Keep your secret, my dear.” He drained his glass of claret. “God knows I’ve kept enough secrets in my life to know they’re usually more uncomfortable for the secret keepers than for the poor unwitting dupe.”
“It was nothing so very bad, David.”
“No. I know you well enough to believe it wasn’t.”
He set his empty glass on the nearest table and excused himself to his study. Rosalie watched him go, then sank down on the sofa with a deep sigh.
So David had kept mistresses. Quite a few. And if someone like Charlie knew it—for, as much as Rosalie loved her cousin, even she had to admit he was rather sweetly provincial—then most of the ton probably did as well.
How could she have missed the signs? Had she really been that eager to delude herself? Withdrawn and intellectual David might be, but he was also handsome and suavely self-possessed. It required no great leap of the imagination to picture him in the role of well-bred ladies’ man.
His past explained a good deal—the thrilling way in which he’d kissed her on the night he proposed and then again after their dinner at Radcombe Priory, his strained attempt to confess his past transgressions to her before their wedding, his bristling reaction on their wedding night when she’d foolishly asked him if he knew what to do.
The one thing it failed to explain was his continued refusal to touch her. They’d been married more than three weeks, and she was still every bit as chaste as she’d been before their wedding. Even taking into account her illness, they’d had more than enough time to consummate their marriage. She’d hoped David was only avoiding her out of simple inexperience, or perhaps a lack of confidence. But there was nothing wrong with his interest in women. He simply felt no interest in her.
She stood and paced the room, hugging herself. What had made her assume he must feel the same way about her as she felt about him? She remembered when they’d climbed the hill behind Lyningthorp and David had played that absurd little game with the flower, pulling off the petals one by one as he chanted She loves me, she loves me not. She’d laughed and assured him she loved him—but now she realized he’d given her no such assurance in return.
Her eyes grew hot. She sat down hard on the sofa, blinking back the tears. You will not cry. She should never have opened Pandora’s box, asking Charlie prying questions about her own husband, and now she deserved the consequences. If she’d only kept her curiosity to herself, she’d be counting herself lucky right now to be David’s wife, instead of feeling achingly sorry for herself.
It was no good. If she sat here thinking about it one minute more, she was going to start weeping, and she had no idea how she would explain herself to David if he found her that way. She needed to find something purposeful to do, even if it was only writing a letter or rearranging her sewing box. She rose and started toward the stairs.
With unshed tears swimming in her eyes, however, she bumped a hip into the little end table by the sofa where David had set his empty wineglass. The crystal glass toppled off the table and shattered at her feet.
Rosalie let out a cry of dismay and dropped to her knees. She began picking up the broken shards, gathering the pieces in one hand. Haste made her careless, however, and a razor-sharp edge sliced into her palm.
She gasped and dropped the jagged pieces, examining her hand. Bright red blood welled up from a long cut. Her emotions already running high after all she’d learned from Charlie, this last small injury broke the dam. Still on her knees amid the broken glass, she bowed her head and gave way to wrenching sobs.
She never heard his footsteps, but the next thing she knew, David was squatting on his haunches beside her, taking her bleeding hand in his, inspecting the damage. “Shh,” he said, drawing his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapping it around her palm. “It’s not so very bad.”
The kindness in his voice only made her weep harder.
“It’s only a shallow wound.” Rising, he drew her to her feet. “You’ll be all right.”
“But I—I broke your wineglass—”
“Forget about the glass.” He took her in his arms. “It’s less than nothing.”
He was finally holding her—her body huddled against his, his arms wrapped tightly about her. She buried her face against his shoulder. “Oh, David!”
It was an actual physical ache, this devastating disillusionment. David had kept from her bed not because he was inexpert or uncertain, but because he found her completely undesirable. Despite what he’d said about never wanting her to be anything but herself, she was a burden, an encumbrance, an unappealing child.
She’d never loved anyone so much before, or been hurt so badly. Stubbornly, she’d wanted to think the best of David. She’d gone into their marriage determined to dwell only on the happy prospects, to discount any misgivings about his strange moods and their short acquaintance. But blinding herself to potential problems had left her heart defenseless, and a defenseless heart was too easily broken.
“My poor darling.” Still holding her, David stroked her hair. “Does it really hurt that much?”
“No, I—I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s foolish of me.” Sniffling, she made to pull away. “I’m sorry.”
He drew her firmly back against him. “Don’t be sorry.” He spoke in the deep, calm voice she loved so well. “I like to look after you now and then. It’s only fair, when you’re so good at looking after me.”
But I’m not good at looking after you. I’ve never been. At the mutinous thought, she sobbed harder. He didn’t even want her, not in the way a husband was supposed to want a wife. And why should he, when she was so hopelessly unappealing?
“Shh, my heart.” Even in her misery, his warm baritone voice, so rich and sonorous, sent a betraying thrill up her spine. “Give it a little time. It will get better, I promise.”
She wasn’t sure what it meant—the pain in her hand, or their troublingly celibate marriage. How much had David guessed of her feelings, after having discovered her in a furtive tête-à-tête with Charlie?
Whatever his meaning, a choking paroxysm of hurt robbed her of the power to answer. Instead she turned her face away, leaning her forehead against his shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut against a sense of uselessness and failure.
* * *
Deep in thought, David returned to his study. Once Rosalie had regained her composure, she’d explained away her tears with the excuse that their move to London must have left her overtired. He’d wrung a promise from her that she would get some rest, and by the time she’d gone trudging upstairs, she’d looked tolerably more calm.
As for his own composure, he was still waiting for it to return. In that first moment when he’d discovered Rosalie on her knees and sobbing, blood streaking her hand, he’d felt the same surge of alarm he’d experienced years before, when the crack of a pistol had announced his father’s suicide. It had flashed into his head that she’d done herself some serious injury—though why he’d immediately leaped to such a dire conclusion, he couldn’t say. Somehow, he’d found the presence of mind to cross to her, take her hand and inspect the wound. His relief when he’d discovered it was only a minor injury had left him light-headed.
Except, of course, that she’d been crying brokenly, tears running down her cheeks. Pulling her close, he’d wondered what had brought on such an outburst. Probably something that thoughtless young cousin of hers had said, som
e disagreement or minor family crisis. At least, David hoped it was nothing more than that. As he’d held Rosalie sobbing in his arms, he’d done his best to calm her, wanting to be the kind of steady, reliable figure who could solve her problems and banish all her fears.
Unfortunately, such noble intentions had lasted scarcely a minute. Then he’d flashed back to that morning, when he’d awakened stiff and aching with arousal, only a vague memory lingering to tell him he’d been dreaming of his own wife.
Never before in his adult life had he gone this long without a woman, and it was taking its toll on both his body and his peace of mind. He’d been having the strangest dreams, the kind of vivid sexual fantasies he hadn’t had since his youth, as well as the most distracting thoughts. Just that morning at breakfast, Rosalie had reached for the teapot, and he’d fallen into a lengthy reverie on the inexpressible loveliness of her arm—the white skin, the soft, rounded shape, the gracefulness of her gestures. Her arm. Snapping out of the trance, he’d nearly laughed aloud at the utter ridiculousness of a thirty-one-year-old man drifting into schoolboy daydreams at the sight of his wife’s elbow.
Swearing softly under his breath, David dropped into the leather chair behind his desk. If only he could bring himself to tell Rosalie about his past—or, better yet, if there were no such past to tell her about. He was tired of the secrets he’d been keeping, tired down to his bones, but the only thing worse than the constant strain of keeping the truth buried would be seeing the look in Rosalie’s eyes when she finally learned what kind of man she’d married.
Every day, she demonstrated how genuinely good-hearted she was. He’d asked her to get to know the people of the estate village, and she’d thrown herself into the task. She’d brought actual cheer to Lyningthorp and mended fences with his neighbors. Now she’d even begun pouring him a drink every evening.
And with every sweet, helpful thing she did, with every sign she gave of caring for him, he found it harder to contemplate confessing. He lay awake at night, enumerating his sins to himself and wondering how to make them sound less...repugnant. Depraved. Detestable. But despite all the years he’d studied language, he didn’t know any words with the mystical power to make loathsome choices seem merely foolish and excusable.
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