by Karen Brooks
Unable to consider sleep while Sam and Elizabeth frolicked, Rosamund reflected upon Matthew and Bianca’s reactions to her news. Altogether, it was what she expected. Bianca stoic and unsurprised; Matthew horrified to learn the extent of Lady Margery’s role, and remembering how his drive for vengeance against Sir Everard had led to him becoming a blackmailer.
As far as Rosamund was concerned, Sir Everard could have made different choices. He had been as determined as his wife in his own way. Margery had used him and Matthew, and he had been prepared to use Matthew and Rosamund.
It was a sorry, sad affair. Thank God it was over. They could put it behind them.
Or could they?
Echoes of the Blithmans survived in the derisive, doubt-filled voices whispering to Rosamund that Matthew didn’t really love her, that the only reason he remained was because she looked so much like Helene… That with her, he could recapture a version of what he had once desired so much. In that regard, Matthew was no different to Aubrey…
It was becoming harder to defend Matthew. How was she to think differently when, ever since the fire, he’d been so distant? There was a time when he would welcome her with a gentle caress. Her cheek or hand would burn for hours after, and all she had to do was recall his touch for her centre to melt like a cake of chocolate. Sometimes he would reach for her hand and wrap his gloved fingers around it. And there were those looks he would bestow, the ones that set her heart racing. They were as incendiary as the sparks that had flown around London during the fire. But since they’d been at Sam’s house, he had treated her like a fine porcelain bowl that would chip if he touched it. Retreating like a wounded soldier, he’d become almost maudlin in her presence. What battle was Matthew fighting? What had she done to suddenly become the enemy?
Was it because he wanted nothing to do with the Blithman name? Listen to her. There was a battle and it was raging within her. She knew how she felt about Matthew. She had for a long time now. Together they’d survived the plague and now the fire. There’d been so much loss, so much death. So much sorrow. She didn’t want to waste another moment without him. Not any more. So why was she churning over old ground?
Blithman ground.
Flinging herself on the bed, Rosamund rested her chin in the cup of her hands, rubbing her flesh against the bandaged one, and gazed at the glowing hearth, marvelling at how such a dazzling thing could become all-consuming and deadly. Just like revenge. It too needed to be contained lest it spread and run unchecked.
Her mind raced. Every time she attributed to Matthew thoughts that the Blithmans had put in her head, she was allowing their corruption to pollute her feelings. Not once had Matthew done or said anything to make her believe he didn’t care for her — her, Rosamund, not the woman who resembled Helene. Even his recent coolness was probably more to do with her being hurt than any change of heart.
If she continued to convince herself their relationship was based on what happened in the past, then she was as bad as the Blithmans. No — worse, because she was allowing their poison to kill any hope she and Matthew had.
Was that why Matthew had withdrawn from her? Because he sensed her ambivalence?
She sat up suddenly and knelt on the bed. But her ambivalence was born of what she’d persuaded herself he felt. She was going around and around like a waterwheel. If she didn’t tell him how she felt and allow fate, destiny, whatever, to take its course, then the Blithmans would win, the Blithmans and their sinful, sour history; their revenge upon Matthew would be complete and she would be the instrument because he would never know her love — her love.
Her hands flew to her head, her breast. She loved him. A delicious bubbling began in her very centre, filling her up with tremulous joy, with wonder as she tasted the notion. Rosamund Blithman loves Matthew Lovelace.
What was it Matthew had said? The important thing is not to get swallowed by the darkness. To remember, even when the shadows grow long and you fear they will consume you, there’s still light in the world. You just need to find it.
She would offer him a way out of the Blithmans’ never-ending midnight. It was up to him if he followed. She climbed off the bed, threw a shawl over her gown and opened the door carefully, shutting her ears to the sounds still emanating from the Pepyses’ bedroom. And went up the stairs to where she knew Matthew’s room lay.
She was beyond caring about the impropriety of what she intended to do. Her newly won courage would light her way. She was on a quest. To find love. She prayed with all her aching, pounding heart that it wanted to be found.
FIFTY-FOUR
In which love finds the way
The last person Matthew expected to see at this hour was Rosamund. As if conjured from his fevered thoughts, she stood on the threshold, that cloud of pale hair shining in the candlelight, her eyes luminous pools of promise.
When he remained silent, drinking her in, staring like an urchin offered a guinea, she flashed one of her luscious smiles with those dimples that appeared just for him.
Standing on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder, she whispered, ‘Are Filip and Will here?’
He tried not to show his disappointment that she was after Filip or Sam’s servant and not him. He opened the door a fraction wider so she could see the candle on the small table, his quill, ink and paper. As he struggled to answer, she slipped in and stood in the centre of the small room, looking about like a visitor at St Paul’s. Clearly, neither man was present.
‘Filip’s with Solomon and Thomas. Will’s playing cards with Wat in the stables.’ Matthew looked at her, puzzled. ‘What do you want with them?’
‘Nothing. I wanted to make certain you were on your own.’
Flopping on one of the beds as if for all the world this was her room and he the intruder, she gestured for him to shut the door.
He knew this was most improper but he wanted to know why she’d come, especially when he thought they’d said as much as they could about the diary. A frisson of hope and need had begun to burn in his centre, but he resolved to remain calm. To not touch her though his body and mind were daring him to do just that. How could he not? Here was Rosamund, in his room — well, Sam’s attic — alone with him. He could hear his heart in his ears. He wanted to draw her into his arms, inhale the fragrance that was hers alone, and yet he dare not touch her.
Instead he stayed by the door, folded his arms and, praying he sounded rational, asked, ‘And why is that?’
Leaning forward gingerly on her bandaged palm, swinging her legs a few times, Rosamund suddenly ceased moving and locked eyes with him. ‘Because I’ve something to both ask and tell you — though not necessarily in that order.’
Matthew hardly dared to look at her. ‘Go on then.’
As he spoke, the space between them contracted, the invisible thread connecting them wound tighter. Waiting as patiently as he could, aware of her with every fibre of his being, when she didn’t speak, he raised his head. What he saw almost broke him.
Those great, wondrous eyes were aswim with tears.
‘Rosamund —’ he began, before she held up a hand to stop him coming closer.
‘Please, I beg you —’ She made a strange choking sound. ‘If you come closer I may not be able to say what I must.’
Matthew dreaded what she had to say lest it confirm the doubts and anxieties he’d been harbouring. He stepped back to his position by the door.
‘I need to tell you,’ she began softly, ‘that ever since you made your offer of marriage to me, some time ago now, I’ve been giving it very serious consideration.’
Dear God, but he wanted to kiss the little furrow between her brows away. ‘Of that, I am glad.’
‘Shush, Matthew, I cannot do this if you interrupt.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly, trying to look serious though his eyes twinkled.
‘But, before I give you an answer, I need to ask you some things and I want you to be entirely truthful with me, even if you fear what you say might hu
rt me.’
Matthew said not a word.
‘When you leased the chocolate house to me, why did you do that?’
Caught unawares, Matthew blinked. ‘Because, because… you were an astute businesswoman; Filip and Jacopo sang your praises, and… and…’
She’d tilted her head to one side, studying him. ‘And?’
‘It made sense.’
‘Sense! I think there are many men who would argue the contrary.’
He sighed. ‘Very well: the truth. I wanted to keep you close.’
‘Why? Because of Aubrey? Because even though he’d not yet returned, you knew he lived and what had happened between him and Helene?’
‘Partly. I didn’t trust the scoundrel and, it turns out, with good cause. After Sir Everard died, I thought if I gave Aubrey the letters that would put an end to it all. I would be able to excise him from my past and he would leave me alone. I also hoped it would mean he would leave you alone. I admit, I was concerned what he might do should he set eyes upon you.’ He gave a wistful sigh. ‘As you now know, by the time I arrived in the colonies, he’d left. It wasn’t until I returned to London, understood he was here and intending to insert himself into your life, that I used them to extract from him a promise to leave you alone. Fearing exposure, like his father, he didn’t dare refuse me.’
They stared at each other.
‘But,’ said Matthew, taking one step closer to her, ‘I also leased the chocolate house to you for entirely selfish reasons. Just as I kept returning to the bookshop all those times in the hope I would see you, get to know you better, listen to you, look at you. Bask in the glow of your laugh, talk to you; I shared my business to ensure I could see you every day. It was the smallest of sacrifices. Forget profit, I was never a canny businessman anyway. I hoped to turn your head and win your heart.’
‘I see.’
‘But,’ he went on, ‘my plan didn’t work very well, did it? You refused my offer of marriage.’
‘Refused? No. Adjourned, yes.’ She regarded him seriously. ‘Which brings me to my next question. A harder one, perhaps.’ She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, straightened her back and, gesturing to herself, asked, ‘Am I like Helene?’
If Matthew had been astonished before, his capacity for surprise increased tenfold. ‘Are you like Helene?’
Rosamund frowned. ‘’Tis not a difficult question, sir. All I’ve heard since I became a Blithman was how much I resemble her. I have seen her portrait and can admit to a likeness. Before he… died, Aubrey went so far as to confuse me with his sister. I want to know do you think I am like Helene? Because, over the last few days, I’ve noticed a… Can I say, a cooling of your evident interest and I’m wondering if, in light of all that has happened, my similarity to your former wife is too much for you to… to… contemplate.’ She lowered her gaze.
All of a sudden, Matthew understood the pain he might cause her if he did not answer this both carefully and truthfully.
‘Madam.’ He held his hands out like a supplicant. ‘When I first laid eyes on you, yes, I thought you did resemble Helene.’
Her face crumpled.
‘Your hair, your brows — your colouring is most unusual. Your skin, the fine nose. But, within moments an understanding arose in me that my later meetings with you confirmed over and over. You are nothing like her except in the sense that a person in possession of cropped black hair and of the same sex may be like another with the same colouring and style. In the manner that one green gown with silver piping may be considered similar to another, but all it needs is two different people to wear it and they are nothing alike; just as one pair of brown leather shoes might be said to resemble another — all it requires is for one to sink into mud and there the likeness ends. It’s all superficial and meaningless except to those who are shallow and store weight by these things.’
With each example, he drew closer to her, until he was standing in front of her. ‘To me,’ he said ever so softly, ‘you are as unique as each star in the sky and just as dazzling. Whether it be your wondrous dark eyes that draw me into your orbit, or the kindness of your spirit which radiates from you with each and every word and action.’ Kneeling suddenly, he took her hands in his and willed her to look at him. When she finally did, he drew in his breath.
‘It took me no time at all to learn you were nothing like Helene, not to me; in fact, I forgot I ever considered it for a second. One had only to look beyond your obvious physical beauty and see the strong, courageous, sweet heart that beats beneath the apron, look into your soulful eyes and exchange words, ideas with you, to know that below those unruly locks is a clever, considered mind. Helene… well, while I do not want to speak ill of the dead, she was in possession of none of those attributes. Moreover,’ he said, untangling her hands from each other and putting first one then the other on each of his shoulders, being very careful with the bandaged one, before sliding his own warm hands around her waist, ‘you are someone entirely different. I would be lying if I didn’t say I found Helene comely — I did. But I was young, swept off my feet by the gilded frame as much as I was by the picture it contained. What I failed to do, until it was too late, was understand its composition.’
He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, ‘To me, you have never been Helene.’ He chuckled at such a preposterous notion. ‘You have always been Rosamund, my Rosamund, my Lady Harridan. From the first moment I saw you, I knew what you were. I knew what you could be. I just prayed that one day, you might be mine as well.’
There was a gasp.
All he wanted to do was to kiss those soft, soft lips, but he could not. He kept his forehead against hers, his arms about her waist. He felt her tremble. There was an intake of breath, a tremor of shoulders and then they fell. Huge glistening jewels slid down her cheeks. It was almost more than he could bear — but he had to.
‘Rosamund,’ he said, his voice hardly audible. ‘Please, don’t cry. You see, it’s my turn to ask you a question.’
Unable to speak, she just sniffed in a loud and most unbecoming manner and nodded her head.
‘When you were struck down by the fire… by Aubrey’s attack, and you were in and out of consciousness for a few days, you spoke — nay, you relived, much of your past.’
Rosamund began to cry more freely. She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her.
‘No, no, my love, I don’t tell you this to upset you, or make you ashamed. I tell you this to ask you something. Now, dry those tears. Here, allow me.’ He used his thumbs to whisk them away. ‘It’s evident to me that for many years —’ the words were faint but the violence he wished upon the subject of them was anything but, ‘you were touched against your will, coerced into a giving of yourself that no-one, least of all a man you called father, has any right to force. Bianca told me about your first night at Blithe Manor — the bruises upon your body. When I heard your screams and cries, saw you reliving those times, I understood why, even though I see you smile, hear you laugh, I had also sensed a troubling shadow deep within. Now I know what placed it there. Something within me broke. I thought of the moments I’d stolen a kiss from you, touched you, all the hours I desired you.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I understood that in doing those things, I was no better than the men who compelled you — under whose attention you suffered more than anyone should. I swore I would never again lay a finger upon you unless you gave me the right.’
Rosamund began to cry again. As he held her at arm’s length, Matthew could barely see her as his own eyes filled.
But he wasn’t finished yet.
‘I love you, Rosamund. Whether you allow me the honour I request or deny me, it does not change the way I feel. I love you. I always will.’
‘You still love me?’ she asked, her eyes growing wider, unshed tears glimmering like diamonds as the light he feared extinguished began to shine forth. Her radiant wonder at his pronouncement encompassed them both.
‘I never stopped. And, before I seal my love
with the kiss I long for, I would ask again: Rosamund Blithman, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Rosamund gave a deep and delicious laugh, throwing her head back, letting it strike the roof and bounce about the room before coming back to reside in her sparkling eyes.
‘No, Matthew Lovelace — I would not.’
The smile that had been growing on Matthew’s face disappeared so suddenly, it was if a candle had been snuffed. ‘But,’ he began, as pain seized his chest and made his heart turn over beneath his ribs. ‘I don’t under—’
‘Because that’s the last question I have for you.’
He shook his head in puzzlement. ‘What?’
Taking his hands in hers, she began to pluck at his gloves. She pulled off first one, then the other, and threw them aside. As she held his hands, she ran her fingers along the ridges, caressed the melted skin before kissing one desecrated palm, then the other. He inhaled sharply, his flesh goosing. He could not credit it.
Then she replaced his scarred hands about her waist, and wriggled so they sat just above her hips, and her knees rested either side of his middle. Believing all sensation in his fingers was dead, he was astonished to find he could feel her — he could sense her through the fabric, as if she was a musical instrument and he the musician; her body was humming. He longed to pull the material away, touch her flesh.
Leaning in until her lips almost touched his, she took in his breath, his life force, allowing the scent of musk, cinnamon and the heady spiciness of chocolate she always associated with him to capture and hold her, as it always had — as he always had.
‘You see, you were chosen for Helene Blithman to mask a terrible sin. I want to undo that by choosing you for myself. So, I wanted to ask if you, Matthew Lovelace, would do me the honour of becoming my husband.’
Matthew made a choking sound.
‘Will you promise to always touch me, hold me, love me?’