“Trust me,” Willbridge continued, “for I speak from painful experience. If you love a woman, for God’s sake, let her know it. She is not a mind reader, man, though it seems at times they know much more than we want them to. When it comes to love, however, you must let her know exactly where your heart lies. She must have not a single doubt as to your feelings.”
Was it possible? Had he mucked the whole thing up assuming she would know his intentions? Damn it, surely he had told her he would not take her to bed without doing the right thing by her. He must have said something to that effect.
But as his friends quietly talked amongst themselves, leaving him to his troubled reflections, he thought back over that night when she had given so much of herself to him. And he realized he could not recall a single time his intentions had been addressed.
Oh, his plans for a future with her had filled his mind. All through that magical night, when he had held her in his arms and felt the glorious joining of his body with the woman he had come to love so completely and unexpectedly, he had thought how wonderful it would be to wake up with her beside him each day. How marriage to her would be, how he had never been happier in his life than in that moment. How he loved her.
Yet the words had never made it past his lips. They had been present in every kiss, every caress. But perhaps what Willbridge and Morley said was true, that the words themselves were as important as his actions.
And if that was the case, he was the biggest fool in creation.
He stood with a suddenness that stunned the other men into silence. When they saw the determination on his face, however, they both broke into grins.
“Good luck, old man,” Willbridge said as Morley saluted him with his glass.
Without a word Tristan left the room. They would understand his haste, he knew. And as he heard their chuckles follow him out into the hall he felt a grin tug on his own lips. He broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time. If luck was on his side, he would get to London before Grace and Rosalind left. And he would see if fate was ready to take pity on him and grant him the love of the most maddening, wonderful woman he had ever known.
Chapter 27
Rosalind was carefully packing the dresses Grace had given her over the last weeks into a borrowed trunk when the butler came to her door.
“Mr. Hugh Carlisle is here, miss.”
She had not seen him since the night at Vauxhall. When she had forgotten everything but Tristan and what he made her feel. She gripped the edge of the trunk hard. What was he doing here? But of course, he must have been informed that Grace was returning to Scotland and had come to say his farewells. He was related to her by marriage, after all.
But why was Danielson coming to her? He knew as well as she that Grace was out and would be for the better part of the afternoon, buying up all of Bond Street before leaving London. She gave the butler a distracted smile, gently lifting a tissue-wrapped gown and placing it with care into the trunk. “Please inform him that Lady Belham is not in but will return this evening.”
“He is not here for Lady Belham, miss. He expressly voiced a wish to speak to you.”
“Oh.” Rosalind blinked several times before rising from the floor and following after the butler. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to hide herself away in her room and prepare for the long journey on the morrow. But she supposed she and Mr. Carlisle had become something of friends over the past several weeks. It would be lovely to say goodbye to him, to talk once more of Guinevere with someone who had known her.
He was standing at the window of the drawing room when she entered. He must have been deep in thought, for he did not hear her until she was directly behind him.
“Mr. Carlisle,” Rosalind said, “what a pleasant surprise to have you visit.”
He turned, reaching out and taking her hand, gifting her with his easy smile. But there was something off in his eyes, something somber and troubled.
“I heard you and Grace are to leave tomorrow for Scotland. I could not let you go without coming to visit first.”
“I am very glad you did.” She indicated a small circle of chairs close by. “Shall we have a seat?”
They moved to the chairs. While Mr. Carlisle was usually quite cheerfully chatty, today he was almost morose. He could not possibly be so upset as to their leaving that his spirits would be affected to such a degree. Yet what other reason could there be? Unless…
“Is your father well?” Rosalind asked in concern. “He has not worsened, I hope.”
Her voice startled him from his thoughts. “What? Oh, no, he’s quite hale and hearty now, thank you for asking.”
“And you? You are well?”
“As fit as ever.”
Rosalind frowned, for the man had transferred his gaze to the embroidered design on the cushion of the chair and was following it aimlessly with his finger. Yes, something was definitely amiss.
“Have you seen Miss Weeton lately, Mr. Carlisle?”
“Miss Weeton?” He frowned, as if he did not know who she was talking about, before his brow cleared. “Ah, no. Not since Vauxhall I’m afraid.”
Rosalind was shocked at the admission. “That was nearly a week ago now.”
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“But Lord Kingston will have the upper hand,” she blurted.
He stared at her, no doubt taken aback by her outburst. “Kingston? I seriously doubt it. Or perhaps you have not heard.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“Kingston has set his sights elsewhere. Though it was not without reluctance.”
She gaped at him. “How do you know all this?”
“I was there at White’s the day Sir Tristan warned Kingston away from Miss Weeton. It seems the earl was not behaving honorably with the young lady.”
Rosalind knew this fact quite well. She thought back on the last time she had seen the man, wrapped in some unknown woman’s arms. His cocky assurance that he was doing nothing wrong.
But had Tristan learned of it? And how had he done so, for Grace was certainly in no shape that night to have been aware of what was going on.
But, more important than even that, if he knew of Lord Kingston’s amorous pursuits why had he warned him away. For wasn’t he cut from the same cloth? He would applaud such a way of thinking, not condemn it.
Wouldn’t he?
“But,” she said, frustration making her voice sharper than she intended, “I thought you cared for her. I had thought perhaps you might eventually offer for her.”
Again that sigh, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “You recall me telling you, Miss Merriweather, that at one time many years ago I was in love?”
Well, she certainly hadn’t expected that to come out of his mouth. She gave him a slow nod.
He frowned. It was the most troubled expression she had ever seen on his face. “What I failed to tell you at the time,” he said haltingly, as if each word were causing him pain, “was the lady I loved was your sister.”
The breath left Rosalind in a rush. She slumped back in her seat. “You loved Guinevere?”
A sad smile briefly lifted his lips. “With all my heart. How could I not? She was beautiful, and kind, and vivacious.”
“I see.” But she didn’t, really. Why had he not spoken of this before now?
“I have so enjoyed our time together since your arrival,” he continued. “Though learning of her passing has given me incredible grief, it has been such a pleasure reminiscing about her, remembering the times we shared. It was almost as if I got a piece of her back.”
Despite her confusion, she could not help but smile at that. “I admit, I feel the same way. I have not been able to talk of her in so long, I feared for a time I had dreamed her up.”
“Yes,” he replied with feeling, sitting forward. “That is it exactly. I would that things had been different. I had thought, once, that I might have a chance
with her, that she might be mine.” His expression fell, and he seemed to deflate. “But I was mistaken. And then she left.”
Rosalind thought then how different life would be if her sister had fallen in love with this man instead of with Mr. Lester. Guinevere’s death had changed everything for them all. But if she had loved differently she would even now be with them. Their father would still live, ensconced in his country seat. Rosalind would not have been forced into service. She might have had a Season of her own, may have even married, had a child or two.
She tried mightily to imagine that never-to-be husband, those children that would never be born. Perhaps he might have been tall and thin, bookish and gentle. Their children would have been happy little things with dark hair and eyes.
Yet those images would not manifest. For all she could picture was Tristan by her side, a passel of rambunctious blond imps at her feet. And her heart ached for this thing she wanted so desperately.
She cleared her throat, overcome. “If only she had returned your feelings,” she said, her voice gruff with unshed tears. “If only she had not chosen Mr. Lester as the recipient of her heart. You could have taken better care of her than he ever did.”
Mr. Carlisle appeared stunned by her vehemence. Too late she forgot that he had considered Mr. Lester a friend. But even knowing this, she was astonished by his response.
“But Lester never meant to break her heart. It was beyond his control.”
“Beyond his control?” Fury burned hot. For if Mr. Carlisle had loved Guinevere as he claimed he did, he should be outraged at his friend’s treatment of her. “How can you say that, you who claims to have loved her so? Was it beyond his control to bed her, to ruin her?”
The words slipped out, fueled by outrage. In the next instant she wished she could recall them. For it was plain to see that Mr. Carlisle hadn’t an inkling of the horrible thing Mr. Lester had done to Guinevere, the extent he had destroyed her.
“But Lester never took her to his bed,” he said.
The man looked as if she had struck him. Regret washed over her, not only because she had revealed Guinevere’s shame, but that she had hurt this man who had loved her sister and given Rosalind a much-needed friend. “I am sorry, I know Mr. Lester was your friend. And he is gone and cannot defend himself against my accusations. But I swear to you that what I say is true. Mr. Lester seduced her then abandoned her to the cruelties of fate.”
“But Lester could not have done that to her.” He was growing more agitated by the second.
It must be such a shock to him, to learn of what his friend did to the woman he loved. He could not comprehend it, it was so horrifying to him. She leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on his. “Mr. Carlisle I assure you, he did. She told me herself that she loved him. I heard it from her dearest friend, who she stayed with during her time in London, that she was seen going off alone with him, that later she reappeared quite distraught.”
But Mr. Carlisle was shaking his head. “He could not have done it, I tell you.”
Rosalind felt fury boil up again at his insistence in his friend’s innocence. “And why not?”
He threw up his hands. “Because Lester preferred men,” he blurted.
Silence fell over the room, so thick Rosalind thought she would drown in it.
It was that moment that a maid came in with the tea tray. She faltered as she came closer, sensing the tension. Depositing the tray on the low table between Rosalind and Mr. Carlisle, she bobbed a quick curtsy before rushing out.
“You are lying,” Rosalind managed, her voice a hushed rasp. “You are protecting his memory.”
Mr. Carlisle looked suddenly weary to the bone. “And how would telling you that protect his memory? For it is a criminal offense, and even in death he would be roasted over the coals should it ever get out.”
“But it cannot be true.”
“I assure you, it is. I am sorry you were misinformed. It was not well done of Guinevere’s friend to implicate Lester, for he was a good man and did not deserve her disparagement.”
“But she was ruined. I know she was.”
“Because her friend told you she went off with Lester?” He shook his head mournfully. “Come now, Miss Merriweather, give your sister the benefit of the doubt.”
“It was more than that,” she insisted.
He ran a hand over his face. “What then? What could make you believe such a thing?”
Her fingers clasped around the locket at her throat. “Because there was a child.”
The change in Mr. Carlisle was instantaneous. He blanched, went pale, then fairly collapsed against the back of his chair. “What?”
“There was a child,” she repeated. Ah, God, she had not ever spoken those words. They clamored out of her now, clawing at her, breaking free with a violence that stunned her.
Mr. Carlisle gaped at her, disbelief and grief swirling in the usually mild depths of his eyes. Such pain there. And yet, she thought mournfully, she was not through with giving it out.
She reached for the ribbon that held the locket around her throat. Pulling the bow loose, she let the small gold circle fall into her palm. It gleamed dully, the delicate filigree work and inset turquoise worn down after years of being worried by her nervous fingers. His eyes fastened on it like a starving man. Wordlessly she held it out to him.
He reached for it with shaking fingers, as if already knowing what secrets it contained. After staring at it for long minutes he opened it.
Rosalind did not need to see the contents. She knew them by heart, the image of them burned into her mind. Inside the small compartment, behind a thin layer of glass, lay a curl of hair of the palest blond.
He gasped. For this was not Guinevere’s hair. She’d had inky black hair, the very shade of a raven’s wing.
“It was the tiniest babe you ever saw,” she whispered, her mind filled with the memory of that small face. “So perfect, with the longest lashes, every finger and toe accounted for.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “The babe did not survive the birth. My sister followed soon after. I think…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I think, when we lost him, she simply gave up.”
A low, involuntary moan escaped the white line his lips had become. “It was a boy?” His thumb caressed the glass window of the locket.
Looking on him, at the grief that etched his normally placid face, she knew. For this was no mere sadness one would expect at the knowledge of an unknown child’s death, even if one knew and loved the mother. No, this was something more, much more.
“It was you,” she gasped.
He nodded miserably.
She did not know she had risen, that her hand had shot out, until she heard the crack of her palm against his cheek. It echoed through the room, ringing in her ears.
He hardly flinched, though his cheek turned a bright red from the impact. “You may do it again,” he said, his voice low and soaked with pain, “as many times as you like. I shall not stop you.”
She shook, her rage was so great. She balled her hands into fists at her sides, ignoring the stinging pain of her palm, pressing her nails into her skin to keep herself from hurling the steaming teapot in his face. “How could you?” she demanded. “You claim to have loved her, pretended to be my friend, came around with your smiles and your memories of her. And all along you seduced her, destroyed her.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears seeping from between his lids. “It wasn’t like that. I never meant it to happen.”
“And yet it did,” she said coldly. “And she is dead because of it.”
He looked as if he might be sick. “She swore to me nothing happened. If I had known, I never would have left. I would have begged her to marry me.”
Rosalind frowned. “Explain yourself.”
His hand closed around the locket, his head dropping as if in defeat. She thought he had not heard her. Finally, though, his voice reached her, so brittle, so t
hin she could hardly make out the words.
“I knew of her love for Lester, of course. She was not one to hide her feelings; rather she wore them on her sleeve proudly for all to see. It brought Lester incredible pain, for he liked her immensely yet knew he could never reciprocate her feelings.
“Then we were invited to a house party. I came upon her the last night. She was distraught, told me how she threw herself at Lester, how he refused her advances. I stayed to comfort her.”
He swallowed hard and rubbed at the back of his neck. “If I had been any soberer I might have seen the folly in the plan. But I had been enjoying myself a bit too much, had more to drink than was good for me. And when Guinevere found the bottle of brandy in the cabinet I thought it would be the very thing to relax her.”
He looked up then, his eyes begging Rosalind to understand. “I don’t remember anything that followed. I swear it. One minute we were drinking and talking, the next I awoke to the morning sun in my eyes, a blinding headache nearly incapacitating me. Guinevere was gone, the only sign of her the empty glass she drank from on the table beside me.” He flushed then, his eyes falling away from hers. “It was some minutes before I realized that my clothes were askew. I worried something might have happened between us. When next I saw her, in the front hall as everyone was departing back to London, I managed to pull her aside, asked her if I had…” He closed his eyes, drew in a shuddering breath. “She swore to me we hadn’t. I confessed my love to her then, told her I wanted to marry her. But she refused me. She bid me farewell, told me she would see me back in London.”
His gaze returned to Rosalind. “That was the last I saw of her. She returned home the very next day, and within the week I was off to the country at my father’s orders. Had I known…”
He could be lying. He had kept this from her up until now; who was to say he wasn’t spewing falsehoods to save his own skin?
Yet Rosalind knew, as sure as she knew her own name, that he was telling her nothing but the rawest truth. She stared into eyes of absolute desolation and knew without a doubt that this was what happened.
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