Chapter 12
“My lady?” the maid whispered.
She came to relieve Rose and found her half-dreaming in the armchair. Lizzie lay sprawled like a victorious kitten against her chest, both of them sticky and wild-haired.
Rose blinked, then smiled. “Yes. It’s over.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Would you like me to prepare a bath?”
Rose nodded. “Very much. And please tell Mrs. Durham the child may have mutton broth today if she wishes. She’s earned it.”
By the time the sun had burned through the morning mists, Rose’s limbs were leaden and her mind a slurry of fatigue and triumph.
Lizzie had woken at dawn with a tiny, indignant mewl, the fever burned away, leaving only a sweet dampness at her brow and the stubborn, ferocious hunger that had always defined her.
Rose rocked and soothed, watching the terror drain from the child’s face as surely as it did from her own.
When the bath was ready, Rose shucked her dressing gown and let herself sink beneath the surface, the heat a shock, then a balm. Every ache, every knot of sleeplessness, uncoiled under the pressure of the water.
She lost track of time and must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes, the light had shifted. There was a faint, unmistakable sound of boots on the corridor stone.
She sat up, water lapping at her collarbones. The door creaked, and before she could gasp, Felix strode in, unannounced, in full morning dress. He stopped two feet inside the room and took in the tableau with a raised brow, equal parts mockery and appraisal.
“You can’t be in here,” Rose blurted.
He ignored her. “You’ve been gone for hours. I was beginning to think you’d run away to the nunnery again.”
She felt a flush begin at her chest and crawl up her neck, hotter than the bath. “I needed to bathe. After last night.”
Felix’s gaze flicked briefly to the open tub, then back to her face. “So I see.”
The maid knocked and entered, bearing a tray of tea and freshly folded towels. She froze on the threshold at the sight of her employer and the lady in such unclothed proximity.
“Your Grace—forgive me, I thought—”
Felix turned to her, all charm and command. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all. I’ll help my wife.”
The maid made a sound like a stifled giggle and retreated, closing the door. Rose stared at Felix, who stood inspecting the array of bath oils with an air of supreme disinterest.
“You didn’t need to do that. I am perfectly capable—”
He cut her off. “I know. But I wished to speak with you.” His eyes found hers in the mirror above the mantel. “Also, if we are to keep up the appearance of a normal marriage, it would be odd if the duke never spent time in his wife’s chambers.”
She glared at him, which only widened his smile. He plucked the linen shift from the chair and held it up.
“You can’t expect me to…” she began, trailing off as Felix moved closer, so that the warmth from his body cut through the moist air.
He extended the shift. “I promise to be perfectly decorous.”
“Close your eyes,” she said, and when he did, she stepped out of the bath.
He slipped the shift over her head, careful and precise, his hands lingering just a fraction too long at her shoulders as he straightened the fabric. Rose’s skin tingled.
“You can open them now.”
He did, and for a moment, his eyes drank in every inch of her. The hunger there was something deeply personal, almost reverent.
He touched her cheek with his thumb, catching a drop of water. “Thank you,” he said, so soft she barely heard.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on her. Or on yourself.”
She looked down, suddenly aware of how her hands twisted the edge of the shift. “I would do it a hundred times if I had to.”
His fingers trailed down to her wrist, where her pulse thrummed. “That is what terrifies me. You would.”
She pulled back. “You did not come here just to thank me, did you?”
He shrugged. “I came because I wanted to see you. To see if you were real.”
“I assure you, I’m real,” Rose tried to laugh.
He cocked his head, then leaned in and, with infinite care, tucked a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear. The touch made her whole body tighten.
“Why do you blush so much?” he asked. “You act as if you’re invisible, but you must know you’re not.”
He pressed his advantage, drawing her toward the mirror. “Look,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “See what I see.”
He stood behind her, a head taller, his hands resting lightly on her hips. In the reflection, she saw a woman she barely recognized: flushed, alive, her eyes bright with something sharp and irresistible.
Felix lifted her hair, baring the lengthy line of her neck. “Here,” he said, and pressed his lips to the juncture just beneath her ear, lingering a moment before moving lower, to the point where her collarbones met. “And here,” he whispered.
His hands slid up, splaying over her ribs, drawing her in so their bodies fit, curved and lockstep. “Here,” he murmured, and kissed the hollow at her throat.
He traced his fingers down her sides, over the curve of her waist. “And here. All this strength. You do not even see it, do you?”
She shook her head, her breath coming faster, the heat rising in her chest and face.
He let his hand drift lower, over her hip, her thigh, down to the backs of her knees. “And here. Even your legs are fearless. They carried you through a night most men would have run from.”
She turned in his arms, barely able to meet his gaze. “You’re making a fool of me.”
“Never,” he said, deadly serious. “I want you to see yourself as I see you.”
He brought his hand to her jaw, tilting it up, and for a heartbeat, Rose thought he would kiss her. She wanted him to, and the wanting filled her with terror.
“You’re making it harder,” she whispered. “If we do this, I’ll lose myself.”
He smiled, slow and wolfish. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
Rose shook her head. “Not for me. I want more than this. More than hunger.”
Felix’s expression cooled instantly, and the mask slipped back into place. “You think I’m incapable of more?”
She hesitated, but the words came. “Yes.”
He turned away, shoulders rigid. “Then you want a lie.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “No. I want something real. I want to know if I fall, there’s someone to catch me. Not just to have me, but to hold me.”
Felix was silent, jaw working. The pain there was naked, and it hurt her to see it.
“Don’t ask that of me,” he said, his voice barely a rasp.
She nodded, a sick relief flooding her chest. “Then we should remain at a distance.”
He laughed again, but it sounded like he was defeated. “If that’s what you wish.”
“It is,” Rose lied.
“You should rest. I’ll have food sent up.”
He left the room as abruptly as he had entered.
For a long time, Rose stared at her reflection, trying to reconcile the woman in the mirror with the one who lived inside her skull.
When she crawled into bed that night, she slept without dreams, her body remembering every place he had touched, every word he had left unsaid.
The dawn light seeped through the high windows in pale, uncertain shafts, painting the breakfast room in washed‐out silver. Rose stirred on the edge of her bed, every nerve alive with the afterglow of the previous night, every muscle too taut to grant her rest.
She dressed in muted shades of dove gray, her fingers trembling as she clasped the small buttons of her morning gown. She would take breakfast alone, she decided, and would spare herself the pitying glances or the insistence on probing questions.
Better to settle her mind in solitude than to face Felix at the table.
The breakfast room was silent when she entered.
A single chair stood at the long mahogany table, and on it lay a white napkin folded into the shape of a swan.
Rose seated herself, and a maid brought her a cup of tea instantly.
The warmth did nothing to still the thoughts that tumbled through her mind.
Outside, the carriage wheels rattled as servants moved about, and somewhere down the hall a door creaked.
She listened for voices—his voice—but heard nothing. The absence of his laughter, his gentle chiding, left her feeling hollow.
She glanced at the empty chair across from the table, and her heart clutched. She wanted him there. She wanted him to cross the room, to catch her when she faltered.
The suspicion flared again.
What if, because she had refused to be his heart, he had turned elsewhere?
A sudden weariness seized her, but she trusted her legs to take her out of the breakfast room and through the hallway.
Lizzie’s clothes lay waiting in her workroom, half‐finished frocks and tiny shirts embroidered with daisies and forget‐me‐nots. The needlework had always soothed her, each stitch a small victory against the chaos of her mind.
She arranged the soft muslin in her lap, selected threads in gentle pastels, and threaded a fine needle. She worked methodically, drawing the thread through the fabric, knotting off each design with the care of one who stakes her peace upon a single pattern.
The act of creation steadied her. It kept her from thinking too far ahead of herself.
Still, as she stitched, she could not help but imagine Felix. Would he remember her this morning? Would he think of her while he sat with another?
The possibility stung, but she told herself that even if he sought comfort in another’s arms, she had this, this gentle labor, this promise to Lizzie stitched into cloth.
And perhaps that was more real than any fleeting desire or broken vow.