“Please, sit,” she said, motioning to an overstuffed sofa. She perched nearby, barely resting her backside on the cushion, as if she might take flight at any moment.
She stayed silent as he settled himself, simply watching him with eyes that were full of all manner of emotion. He cleared his throat, shifted, and said, “I did not expect you to come to London.”
“Nor did I.” She laughed, a tentative, nervous thing. “Mrs. Curtis is an old school friend. Her goddaughter is marrying in a week’s time. She asked me to come. I would not have presumed to otherwise.”
He nodded, feeling more awkward than he had in his life. Where was that confident mask he was so used to showing to the world? Had Rosalind’s ability to see through him pierced it beyond repair?
But no, it had always been thus with Josephine. He’d been only nine when she’d come into his life. His mother had become a distant memory, though he’d tried his damnedest to hold onto her. As much as his father would allow, anyway, having erased her from his home and life as much as he was able.
He had not wanted anyone to replace his mother. And that was how he saw Josephine, as a replacement, the final act of his father to eradicate the first Lady Crosby’s very existence.
He could have been kinder to her, he knew now. But at the time he had been full of rage and thought that by denying Josephine’s half-hearted initial attempts at befriending him, he was honoring his mother. Those attempts had not lasted long, and soon she ignored Tristan almost as totally as his father did. And then Arthur had come, and his feeling of being an outsider was made complete.
He was tired of it all in that moment, of the constant anger in his breast, of his battered confidence that kept him pretending that nothing was amiss. “What do you want, Josephine?” he asked, weariness coating the words.
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I have asked you again and again to leave me be. Yet you will not honor my wishes. Why? What do you want from me?”
She swallowed hard, her throat working. To his shock her eyes filled with tears.
“I thought, perhaps, we might…”
“Might what, Josephine?” Tristan sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Might put the past behind us, have a relationship? Mother and son?”
“I wanted that from the very beginning,” she whispered.
He narrowed his eyes. “Did you? I have very different memories of that time. I recall a woman who came into the home of a very hurt, very scared little boy and, after a very lukewarm attempt at making him feel at ease, she turned her back on him.”
She appeared as if he’d struck her. “Is that what you think? Truly?”
The bitter taste of fury was making itself known, overriding the grief that had been his constant companion since Rosalind turned him away. “It is.”
“But that is not what happened at all,” she cried.
“Isn’t it?” He sat forward, fire burning in his gut, loosening his tongue after over two decades of keeping silent. “I may have been difficult when you first arrived, but can you blame me? I lost my mother, and my father was doing everything in his power to destroy her memory. And then he brought you.” His lip curled as she stared at him in wide-eyed shock. “And you never even tried. You gave up on me, like he did—”
His voice broke off, his throat closing. To his horror he felt the hot press of tears behind his eyes, something he had not felt since he was a boy. He turned, not wanting her to see how much it still hurt him.
There was silence for a time. From beyond the sitting room window the busy rattle of carriage wheels on the cobbles outside sounded, breaking the hush in the room. He fought to control his breathing, fighting down the sobs that lodged hard and painful in his chest. And then the rustle of fabric, the quiet patter of footsteps on the carpet. In the next moment the sofa dipped beside him, and a soft hand rubbed his back.
A sudden flash of memory hit him then, of a gentle hand on his back, rubbing away the hurt as he lay in his bed, exhausted after a bout of crying, sending him into the blessed peace of sleep.
He had thought it was a dream at the time, a memory of his mother. His immature imaginings had even chalked it up to her ghost, returning to comfort him in his darkest hours.
But now…
“I used to come to you at night.” Josephine’s voice was thick with tears as her hand continued its relaxing circle on his back. “I could hear you crying, though I know you tried to muffle it. I never told your father, of course. He would not have approved, would not have allowed me to comfort you. He was forever ordering me to leave you be, to keep my distance, that you had to be a man and deal with the way things were.”
She paused, sniffled. “I did not agree with him, but what could I do? A wife’s duty is to listen to her husband. As well, he was not an easy man to live with, forever losing his temper…” Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and continued. “And so I followed his orders, though it broke my heart to do so. I understood your hate for me, of course. I lost my own mother young and had to deal with my father’s new wife before I was ready to let go of my mother’s memory, what I deemed as her spot in our lives. And so I kept my distance, thinking you only needed time to come to terms with this new chapter in your life. I had hopes that eventually you would warm up to me.
“But when you cried as if your soul were being torn in two, I could not stay away. I knew, though, that you would push me away if you were aware of my presence. So I waited until your tears had nearly subsided, until I knew you were close to sleep. And I went to you, to give you what comfort I could. What little you would allow me to provide.”
He turned, stunned, and she gave him a watery smile. “I would have given so much more if I could have.”
She could be lying, of course. His memories of that time were so, so different.
But he had also been determined to protect his mother’s memory. Thinking back, he knew now he had done everything in his power to push her away.
Too, there was that wisp of memory when she had rubbed his back, the recollection of many nights when he had been near sleep, then encouraged over the edge into dreamless slumber by a soft, gentle hand.
But years of hurt were hard to put aside. “Why did you never say anything?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?” The word was sharp, harsh. She flinched. He expected her to scurry away, but she kept her seat.
“I told you your father had a temper. You knew yourself how heavy-handed he could be. Do you think I did not escape him?”
That took him aback. He had been the victim of his father’s fist more than once. But he had never even considered that the beautiful, poised woman his father married might also be the recipient of such cruelty.
And then a thought, horrifying to contemplate. “And…Arthur?”
A look of incredible pain flashed in her eyes. In the space of an instant she appeared a decade older. “It took everything in me to protect him. Your father was determined to make sure Arthur succeeded at everything he did. He wanted a perfect son, and if Arthur did something less than perfect he used force to ‘fix’ the problem.”
Tristan felt sick. He knew of his father’s use of punishment. But in the few times a year he returned home from school as a child, he had been faced with what appeared to be the ideal family. Arthur had been lauded as a genius boy, excelling at everything he put his hand to.
He had never thought for a moment of the price his half-brother had paid for such praise.
“I was glad you were in school and that your mother’s cousin could take you in for much of the rest of the year. I could not protect you both, try as I might.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?” The question flew out of his mouth, truly an accusation. “Damn it, Josephine, why didn’t you take us and leave? I would have been more than happy to go had you done so.”
Agony such as he had never seen contorted her face. “Do you think I did not want
to? I would have given my soul to be able to do such a thing. I even attempted it once, while you were away at school. He struck Arthur so hard he lost consciousness. A four-year-old child, can you imagine? And so I packed my boy up, and left in the dead of night, vowing to get you when I could. I went to my father’s house.”
She stopped on a gasp, gathered herself before continuing in a low, pained voice. “A woman is her husband’s property when she weds him. You know that, I’m sure. And by law he may do as he wishes with her. Even beat her. So my father told me. Your father told me as well when he was summoned to fetch me and our child.”
He could only stare in horror at her. “I didn’t know,” he whispered.
She gave him a small, sad smile. “I did not want you to know. You had enough heartache. You did not need mine and your brother’s added on.”
He shook his head, overcome. But there was one more question he had to ask.
“Arthur, he didn’t…my father didn’t…?” He could not even give voice to such a horrifying thought.
She seemed to understand immediately. “Not directly, no. But perhaps, if your father had been less harsh, Arthur might not have gone out to practice his riding, to perfect his skill. He forgot his jacket and scarf, the silly thing. He was forever forgetting them in the winter…” She gasped, her hand coming up to grasp the brooch at her breast. It reminded him so much of Rosalind, of the way she touched her locket when in distress.
So much this woman had gone through, and he, unaware, was thinking only what he had wished to think of her.
“How I lashed out at your father in my grief,” she continued in a whisper. “He refused to acknowledge any blame, of course. But he was not the same after that. He never retaliated when I screamed at him, never raised another hand to me again. And then his health began to fail him; he seemed to give up on life. I know it is a sin to say so, but I was glad that he died so quickly after my Arthur. So very glad.” A sob escaped her.
He did not know how she wound up in his arms. But she was there, and his hand was the one giving comfort, stroking her back as she let loose her grief. As she had done for him all those years ago.
Something in him loosened then, breaking away from the brittle ball that had sat in his chest for so long. He knew what it was in an instant: hope.
Chapter 29
Night had fallen by the time Tristan returned to his townhouse. The last several hours had been spent with Josephine. All the wounds of the past had not been completely healed. There was still much to do in that regard; Tristan’s father had dug his claws too deep into the both of them, had damaged them too much for it to be accomplished in one meeting. But the great chasm between Tristan and Josephine had begun to seal.
He felt lighter than ever. And utterly exhausted. In the end he’d asked her to come stay with him for the remainder of her time in London. She had declined, saying her friend needed her. But that she would be happy to extend her stay, to come visit with him after the wedding, for as long as he liked.
He could hardly believe it. Josephine, his stepmother, the woman he had spent so long hating, was coming to stay with him. And he was glad for it.
Would wonders ever cease?
His bedchamber was dark when he shut himself inside. He had not entered since his return, and now the bed beckoned. After a day and a half of travelling, the grief over finding Rosalind gone with Grace and the revisited heartache of the past hours, he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and the oblivion of sleep. Perhaps, he thought as he lit the lamp at his bedside, the light of day would bring a better understanding of the complete turn his life had taken. And a greater acceptance of what he had recently lost.
Sighing, for he knew the last would not be easy, he turned—and spied a lone figure seated by the cold hearth.
At first he could not make out who it was. But then the faint light from the lamp limned a pale cheek, glimmered in large brown eyes, threw shadows under the dark slash of brows drawn together in the middle.
“Rosalind?” he whispered.
A tentative smile flitted briefly over her face. “Hello, Tristan.”
He looked her over like a starving man peering through a window at a great feast laid out. The faint orange glow gave her an otherworldly appearance, as if she did not belong here with him, a mortal man with too many flaws to count. He longed to pull her into his arms. It had been his intention upon returning to London to tell her of his feelings and to see if she would accept him. But her cold words haunted him still, holding him back, keeping his feet rooted to the floor.
“Danielson told me you left with Grace for Scotland this morning,” he rasped.
“So I did.”
He shook his head. “Then…what…?”
She rose at his confusion. It was then he noticed the bag she was carrying, the outerwear that she was still bundled in.
“I made a mistake,” she whispered. “A horrible, stupid mistake. I believed it was too late to rectify, after the way I left things with you. But being in that carriage, knowing I was leaving you behind, I knew I had to at least try. And so I had Grace drop me off, came back.”
Her hands were wringing the handle of the bag, holding it before her like a shield. Taking a steadying breath, she lowered the bag to the floor, reached into the pocket of her travelling cloak, and held out her hand. He stared mutely at what she offered. There lay the special license and the ring he had chosen with such care.
“Why did you never show these to me, Tristan?”
The sapphire glinted at him. He kept his gaze fastened to it, unable to look in her eyes for fear of seeing that same coldness from before. “I was told that marriage was the last thing you expected from me.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “I mucked everything up, didn’t I?”
His eyes flew to her face. Her lip was trembling.
“I didn’t mean a thing I said to you, Tristan, I swear it. But after Guinevere, and what she went through, and how love destroyed her, I had to protect myself. I had to…”
Her voice broke. He hurried to her then, took her face in his hands, his own hurt disappearing in the face of her own. “You silly, wonderful woman,” he whispered. “You never have to worry about protecting your heart from me. For I swear, if you let me, I will cherish it for the rest of my days.”
Tears filled her eyes. “You will?”
He smiled. “I will. I adore you, Miss Rosalind Merriweather, running at the mouth, bossy as can be, jumping to conclusions and all.”
She gasped in mock outrage and laughter and tears. She made to speak but he held a finger up to her lips.
“For once, let me do the talking,” he said with a chuckle, before his voice dipped low, thick with emotion. “I love you. So very much. I don’t know how it came about, that the one woman who made me confront the very darkest places in myself was the one to capture my heart, but I am so grateful you did.”
He reached for her hand, extracted the ring from her grip. And then, while she watched with huge eyes, he knelt before her.
“I should have done this before that night. If I had not been out of my mind with wanting you I would have, instead of leaving you in doubt as to my intentions. It is a week later than I wanted to, but now I ask, with all my heart, will you marry me, Rosalind?”
• • •
Rosalind stared down at this man, who had presented her with his heart even after she had trampled it, and wanted to weep.
Instead she knelt in front of him, taking hold of the hand that held the ring out to her, and pressed both to her heart. “I am so sorry for causing you grief, for doubting you. You are the kindest, best man I have ever known. I was blind not to see it. I love you, so very much. And I would be honored to be your wife.”
Before the words were out, ringing through the air with their joy, his mouth was on hers, hard and hot and demanding.
They had come together before this. But now they knew what was in the other’
s heart. There was no doubt, no indecision. Most importantly, there was no fear of the future or the past. They belonged to each other, body and soul.
Rosalind felt tears seep from her eyes and trail down her cheek. His thumb was there in an instant, wiping them away.
“I love you,” he murmured, his lips trailing where his thumb had been, a promise louder than words that he would be there to ease every grief, soothe every hurt. He pulled back, his eyes glittering like sapphires in the faint glow of the lamp. And then, taking up her hand, he removed her glove and slid the ring onto her finger.
The metal was cool on her heated skin. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the ring, the action as powerful as any vow.
“I’m yours,” she whispered, knowing her eyes were as full as his and for once not caring that she wore her heart on her sleeve.
“Thank God,” he groaned, the words a benediction as his lips found hers again.
There was no more room to talk after that. As he plundered her mouth, stealing her very breath, his hands found their way between them. He worked blindly at the fastenings of her cloak, his desperate need unhidden. Rosalind needed no further urging. She shrugged from her outerwear, began in on her dress, helped him as he made short work of her stays. His clothes did not escape their fumbling hands, either. Soon she was in her shift, he only in his trousers.
Her fingers slid greedily over the smooth expanse of his shoulders, reveling in the broadness of them, at the heat of his skin, and the way his muscles bunched under her touch. His hands found their way to her hips, pulling her flush against his arousal.
She tore her mouth free from his on a gasp. “Please, Tristan,” she begged even as her lips found the corded length of his neck. “The bed. Now.”
“I can’t wait for the damn bed,” he growled. In the next moment she was on her back, cushioned by the plush rug beneath her and the pile of their clothing. Her squeak of surprise quickly turned into a moan as his large hands found the hem of her chemise and dragged it up, his lips following in a searing hot path. Over her legs, her hips, her stomach, his lips adored every inch of her exposed skin. And then the shift was up and over her head, and his mouth found the straining tip of her breast, and Rosalind thought she would perish from the ecstasy of it.
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