Authors: Alyssa Everett
Even the minor exertion of donning her clothes and a pair of half boots left her so drained she had to sit down and gather her energy. Still, at least she was dressed and no longer feverish. She would go downstairs to pick up where she’d left off, and David would see how resilient and helpful she could be.
Light-headed, she ventured out of her room to the carpeted corridor. Perhaps she could pay another call in the estate village, or—or tour the kitchens, or plan the week’s menus with Mrs. Epperson, or go out into the garden to cut flowers and arrange them. There had to be any number of ways she could make herself useful. She rounded a corner to the stairs, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. She’d feel stronger as soon as she ate some breakfast.
At the top of the stairs she paused with one hand on the banister. It was a perfectly ordinary staircase, just a short flight down to the first landing, but in her current dizzy state it yawned before her, as steep and daunting as the Matterhorn. She tightened her grip on the wooden railing and started down.
A strong hand caught her about the arm—and just in time, too, for as she took the first step, her wobbly knees threatened to give out under her, and she would have stumbled and fallen if not for David’s support. For one terrified instant, she had a vision of herself plunging headfirst down the staircase.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, his face pinched with alarm.
Flustered at his tone, she gaped up at him, clinging to his coat sleeve for balance. “I—I’m—”
At her blank look, he swore softly and swung her up into his arms. “Where is that abigail of yours?” He started toward her room. “For God’s sake, do you have any idea how worried everyone has been? What on earth possessed you to go creeping about alone when you’ve been so ill?”
“Bridger went down to fetch my breakfast.” Crushed against his chest, her voice weak and miserable, she wasn’t sure whether he could even hear her. “And I haven’t been that ill.”
“You’ve been doing a curst good imitation of it.” Shouldering his way into her bedroom, he deposited her bodily on the bed, returning her with so little ceremony she dropped like a sack of flour on the feather mattress.
Rosalie sat up. “I don’t want to stay here! If you won’t let me do something helpful, what use am I?” She never lost her temper, never answered anyone sharply. She should have thanked him for saving her from breaking her neck on the stairs. To her surprise, however, she’d lashed out in rebellion.
He took a step backward, his brows climbing. “What do you mean, what
use
are you? You’re my wife.”
The fever must have affected her temper, for she wanted to snap
Oh
,
really
?
Then
why
did
I
spend
my
wedding
night
alone
? She bit back the retort—but still answered with unaccustomed heat. “Some wife! I’m little better than an invalid.”
He frowned. “You’ve been ill, but it’s not as if anyone blames you for it.”
Conveniently forgetting he’d spent the better part of the past week keeping watch at her bedside, she raged, “No, you’ve probably been thankful to have me out of the way! At least I’m less of a bother, confined to my room.”
His brows came down in a puzzled scowl. “I never said you were a bother.”
“You never said I wasn’t.” Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She sounded like a fishwife. No wonder he was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. Even she didn’t recognize herself. But for some reason—her bewildering wedding night, her recent illness, the disastrous start she’d made of their marriage—she was shaking with indignation.
“Well, then, I’m saying it now,” David told her.
“You don’t want me. You treat me like a child.” And she was behaving like a child. She could hear it, feel it, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Despite her irrational fury, he replied in a calm, reasoning tone. “You’ve been unwell. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I wasn’t unwell on our wedding night!”
He looked as if she’d slapped him. And with good reason. He’d turned her down
once
. She’d spoiled every one of the days and nights since. He had far more cause to complain than she did.
But he answered with stiff courtesy, “No, you weren’t unwell then. I apologize if my conduct that night offended you.” He drew a deep breath. “I had my reasons.”
How could he be so composed and polite when she was behaving as if she belonged in Bedlam? “I know your reasons. I’m no use to you. You don’t need me, and even if you did, I’m not attractive or sophisticated enough to be a proper wife to you. People have told me as much.”
His face turned thunderous. “Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Howard, when we were aboard the
Neptune’s
Fancy
. She said I don’t wear paint or dress fashionably, and a man like you couldn’t possibly stay interested in a mouse like me.”
She’d seen David out of temper before, but this was the first time she’d ever seen him turn white-lipped with anger.
“Mrs. Howard...! Damn that miserable old harridan. I wish she were here now, so I could show her exactly what I think of her bullying and her small-minded criticism.” He stalked off several paces, clearly struggling to rein in his temper, before returning to stoop down the distance necessary to look Rosalie directly in the eye. “Listen to me. I don’t know where you got the mistaken notion that Mrs. Howard was a reliable judge of character, but if I wanted someone more sophisticated, I would have married that sort of woman, is that clear? I married you precisely because you’re
not
some spoiled creature in jewels and paint. I can find fashionable, heartless sophisticates on any street corner in Mayfair. I’ve never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Is that understood?”
Rosalie was too startled to reply.
“
Is
that
understood
?” David said fiercely, his eyes still locked on hers.
She gulped and nodded.
“Good.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of her pillow. “Now don’t you dare get out of this bed again until you’ve had a proper meal, Mr. Cousins has pronounced you sufficiently recovered, and I’m satisfied you’re in no danger of swooning.” Still looking more than half furious, he turned and stormed out of her room.
Rosalie stared after him in astonishment. She’d spent her whole life trying to be as pleasing and accommodating as possible, and she wasn’t used to being lectured or shouted at. Now David had blown up at her, and she had no one to blame but herself. Not only had she foolishly tried to venture downstairs, but she’d raised her voice to him first, when she’d never before raised her voice to anyone.
She’d thrown a veritable tantrum.
Still, that wasn’t why she sat speechlessly rooted to the spot. Despite having set out to prove she could be useful and having failed miserably, despite having been
horrible
to David, she wasn’t the least bit sorry. Instead, flaring up at him and having him answer with an impassioned outburst of his own had left her tingling all over. She’d lost her temper with David, and nothing terrible had happened. In fact, he’d rallied to her defense.
Surely he wouldn’t have reacted the way he had unless he truly cared for her. Or would he?
Chapter Thirteen
Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
—
William Shakespeare
Rosalie hated to admit it, but David was right about her health. She should never have ventured out of bed so soon. At first, she was so weak that even the minor exertion of sitting up against her pillows left her dizzy.
But she finished a bowl of broth, and it left her feeling stronger. Later, she ate a meal of tea and toast, and felt stronger still. By the next afternoon she was restless and chafing to be out of her room. Fortunately, Mr. Cousins returned to pronounce her officially on the mend.
David stopped in to see her, but only for a few minutes. She tried to apologize for the irrational way she’d shouted at him, but he assured her it was already forgotten. He was busy working on some project, meeting with his steward.
He didn’t come to her room either night, but then, she hadn’t really expected him to. She no longer needed an attendant to watch over her now that she recovering, and she certainly didn’t imagine he’d push to consummate their marriage when she’d so recently been ill. Well, perhaps she
did
imagine it, but not with any great degree of hope. Even if she was feeling stronger physically, she’d given David good reason to think her temporarily deranged.
By Tuesday she was allowed to leave her room, though she spent most of the day sewing in the morning room, only taking a slow walk about the garden after breakfast and another before dinner. By Wednesday, she was back to her old self—
exactly
her old self. She’d been married a week and a half, and she was still every bit as virginal as she’d been before her wedding.
Wednesday was also the day appointed for their dinner with the Meltons at Radcombe Priory. Rosalie dressed in her new dinner gown—not so grand as her wedding dress, but smart enough to make her feel just the smallest bit polished. She checked her appearance in the mirror as Bridger added the finishing touches to her coiffure. If only her illness hadn’t left her looking so pale and drawn. She’d lost weight, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
Bridger stepped back to survey her handiwork. “You look lovely, my lady,” she said in her usual undertone.
Rosalie doubted it was true, but it was nice to hear just the same. Impulsively, she turned away from the mirror to face her abigail. “Bridger, why do the servants here talk so quietly? No one speaks above a whisper.”
“Why?” Bridger made a puzzled face. “It’s the custom, my lady.”
“Yes, but
why
is it the custom? Is it Lord Deal’s wish?”
“It’s—well, I don’t know, my lady. I believe it goes back to when his lordship was a boy, back in Lord Frederick’s day.” She shrugged. “Mrs. Epperson says Lord Frederick couldn’t abide idle chatter, and liked to have the house as quiet as possible.”
David’s guardian again.
He
had
the
look
of
a
bulldog
sucking
on
a
lemon
. “And how does Lord Deal feel about the custom now?”
Bridger frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t say as I know, my lady. I’m not sure his lordship’s ever mentioned it. It’s been like this so long, none of us really thinks on it any more.”
“Well, I think on it.” Rosalie hugged herself. “It gives me the shivers.”
“I expect you’ll get used to it, my lady.”
Turning back to the mirror, Rosalie studied her reflection. Would she?
Should
she? This was her home now, too. David had said
I’ve
never
wanted
you
to
be
anything
but
yourself
. If Lord Frederick Linney could establish a custom, couldn’t she end one?
Perhaps she might even be doing David a favor, changing the household conventions. The unnatural quiet gave Lyningthorp the gloomy atmosphere of an undertaker’s. It couldn’t be healthy, living this way, not when David was so given to brooding.
She would speak with Mrs. Epperson about the matter before she and David left for dinner with the Meltons.
* * *
As their carriage made its way to Radcombe Priory, David sat across from Rosalie, his eyes fixed on her bright, expressive face. He should have visited her room the night before. She was well again. He really had no excuse to put it off.
She had yet to say another word about it, aside from that single mention during the abortive quarrel they’d had three days before. Even so, he sensed the issue in the air between them like a living, breathing thing.
He’d spent the previous evening pacing his room, alternately resolving to go to her and confess and then talking himself out of his resolve. Finally, he’d given up and climbed into bed, feeling both cowardly and relieved. He’d fallen asleep wondering at the irony of finally being in a relationship sanctioned by the church, the state and society, yet for the first time in his adult life, having no compelling desire to bed a pretty woman.
Though that wasn’t really true. He did desire Rosalie. Just gazing at her now as she sat across from him, her eyes sparkling and her dark curls framing her face, the pull of attraction had him craving to bridge the distance between them. The gown she wore was cut just low enough to reveal a creamy expanse of white skin, including the tantalizing swell of her breasts. What a simple thing it would be to reach out and cup her cheek in his hand, to move beside her and trail his fingers along the white sweep of her shoulder, perhaps even to kiss her and slip his hand into the bodice of her gown.
But he couldn’t. He intended to keep the promise he’d made himself not to make love to her until she knew the truth about him. He could hardly confess his shameful past on a twenty-minute carriage ride to a dinner party, then step out of the chaise to greet the Meltons as if nothing had happened.
How
do
you
do
,
Melton
?
Please
pay
no
attention
to
Lady
Deal’s
uncontrollable
sobbing
.
Except...that was merely an excuse, and he knew it. He could confess now if he really wanted to. He could have confessed on any of the four days since Rosalie’s fever had broken. He simply wasn’t willing to form the words, not when he knew his admission was bound to destroy whatever respect and affection she felt for him. But he wasn’t going to break his vow to himself, either, and consummate their marriage without telling her the truth. That would be unfair to Rosalie, and he still clung stubbornly to the last few shreds of honor he had left.
So what was he to do—neglect her and spend the rest of his days living like a monk? He doubted either of them could be happy that way. Yet the alternative—taking up with some willing member of the muslin company while his lovely, trusting bride waited alone and untouched at home—didn’t bear thinking on.
Rosalie broke the silence. “We don’t have to stay long,” she said on an apologetic note, as if he’d voiced his misgivings about seeing Melton again.
His brows rose. “I didn’t say a word.”
“I know. That’s how I can tell you’re only doing this for me.”
He slanted a sidelong glance in her direction. “You worry too much.”
Though his tone had been more teasing than critical, she sighed softly. “My cousin Charlie warned me not to mother you.”
His only reply was a wry smile and a shake of his head, for he rather liked that aspect of her personality. He’d never known his own mother. It was a novel and surprisingly agreeable experience having a woman fuss over him, and for reasons that had nothing to do with sex or money or both.
He wanted a real marriage with Rosalie. He remembered watching her with her young cousin after the wedding, and thinking what a fine mother she would make. For years, he’d been reluctant to wed, but now that he had a wife, new possibilities lay tantalizingly within reach. They could have children, with all the shared understanding and unquestioned loyalty that close-knit families enjoyed. He needed an heir, of course, but he wanted more than that—the sort of noisy, cheerful brood he’d always envied, growing up as an only child in the care of a cold and taciturn uncle.
What a devil of a mess he’d landed himself in. No, landed them
both
in. Poor Rosalie was the real victim in this, while he’d merely discovered another failing to add to an already overlong list.
Their arrival at Radcombe Priory shook him from his reflections. The Priory was even older than Lyningthorp, a relic of the dissolution of the monasteries, an authentic Gothic pile constructed of yellow Bargate stone. David stepped out of the carriage and handed Rosalie down, unprepared for the pleasant shock of her gloved fingers meeting his.
As they turned to climb the front steps, the door of the house swung open, and Robert Melton’s astonished face stared out at them from over his butler’s shoulder.
Melton’s jaw was literally hanging open. “You came,” he said in a tone of disbelief.
Rosalie stopped on the bottom step. “Yes. Were we not supposed to? We were under the impression we’d rescheduled for this evening.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Melton blinked at them.
“We can come back another night, if you’d like,” David said, taking in Melton’s half-dress. The man didn’t look at all ready to receive guests. David felt out of place—an unwelcome interloper, decked out in his suit of evening clothes by Weston.
“Yes, if we’ve mistaken the date, we can go back home to Lyningthorp.” A blush stained Rosalie’s cheeks. It was clearly just as apparent to her that Melton hadn’t had the slightest expectation they would show up.
Melton mastered his astonishment. “Nothing of the sort. I’m delighted to see you both. Do come in!”
They continued up the steps, and as the butler threw the doors open wide, Melton ushered them inside. A petite woman with fine ash-blond hair stood uncertainly in the hall. “Lady Deal, may I present my wife? Mary, you’ve met Lord Deal before, I believe.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Melton darted an apprehensive look at David as he bowed over her hand. “We’ve met a time or two, in passing.”
He sensed her
in
passing
was a pointed reference to some slight he must have paid her. Well, what did she expect, when her husband’s family had washed their hands of him years ago? David was sure Robert Melton had only extended tonight’s invitation so he and his wife could get a better gawk at Rosalie, and even then they appeared astonished he’d had the effrontery to accept.
“Dinner will be ready soon.” Mrs. Melton gave them a fleeting, self-conscious smile. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I was just about to run up and kiss the children good-night before they dine with their nurse.”
“Might I come, too?” Rosalie said. “I’d love to meet your children.”
Mrs. Melton smiled with the first sign of genuine pleasure she’d shown so far. “Yes, of course.”
“You don’t mind, do you, David?” Rosalie looked over her shoulder at him as she started up the stairs behind their hostess.
“Of course not, my dear.” Despite his uneasiness at being plunged into the company of near-strangers, he managed to sound civil. He hoped this wasn’t the beginning of a long evening. He’d intended to put in an appearance, eat and go home, having done his duty to Rosalie. He was sure the Meltons were as eager to be rid of him as he was to be on his way.
As he waited with his host at the foot of the stairs, Melton propped an elbow on the newel post. “You’ve done yourself proud. Lady Deal is a strikingly lovely young lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Melton.”
“You used to call me Robert.”
David dredged up a wan smile. “So I did—though I had a different name in those days, too.”
“Yes, you were Lord Comstock then. It was a long time ago.”
David made no reply. It
was
a long time ago, and he preferred not to reflect too much on the intervening years. He glanced up the stairs, wishing Rosalie would hurry back.
Melton regarded him with a pensive look on his freckled face. “I know we were never close—your tutor kept you too busy for that—but I did miss our friendship. I was a bit wounded, I must confess, when my mother and I called the week your father died and you refused to see us.”
David must have heard him wrong. He raised one eyebrow. “Refused to see you? Do you mean to say you called at Lyningthorp?”
Robert Melton stared. “Yes, of course. My mother and I waited alone in your drawing room for half an hour, only to be sent away. I realize now you had a great deal to cope with that week, but at the time I felt rather coldly treated.”