Chapter Five
He wasn’t coming.
That was all Rowena could think of as she sat on the settee in the drawing room.
She had dressed with care this morning, not wishing to try too hard, but donning a gown that fit better than most. While the cut was slightly more flattering than most of her day gowns, the color was a drab olive, washing out her skin. Still, it was the closest thing she had to something decent.
But it had all been for naught—because Viscount Dyer had not shown up.
She glanced at the grandfather clock that stood in a corner of the drawing room.
Rowena hadn’t thought he would arrive at the beginning of morning calls, but she had been in the drawing room half an hour early just in case.
As she had sat waiting, tension filling her, she realized she was not merely sad.
She was deeply hurt. Lord Dyer had seemed different from other gentlemen of the ton.
His honesty had been refreshing as he spoke to her of his loneliness and limited funds.
Now, she could not help but wonder if it had all been a lie.
Had he played a cruel joke on her? She still believed Lady Merriman had sent him to dance with her. Her heart wanted to believe that they had enjoyed a connection, both at supper last night and as they had talked while strolling the gardens.
And then there was that kiss.
Oh, what a glorious thing kissing was. Or was it kissing Viscount Dyer that made it thus?
She would never know. She doubted she would see him again.
Actually, she would see him across the room at balls or Venetian breakfasts or musicales.
They simply would never allow their gazes to meet, much less acknowledge one another.
Her throat grew tight. For the first time ever, tears misted her eyes.
Rowena made a conscious decision not to let any fall.
She refused to cry over a wicked rake such as Lord Dyer.
Well, perhaps he was not a rake. If he were, he kept his assignations with other women quiet, and none of them spoke ill of him afterward.
Why had he poured his heart out to her and asked if he could call upon her, only to leave her dangling?
The only thing she could think of was that Lord Dyer was embarrassed.
Embarrassed by how much truth he had spoken to her last night.
Ashamed of how openly he had been in her presence.
He might be ashamed for revealing so much to a stranger and believe things would be awkward for them as they faced one another in the light of day.
It was one thing to share confidences in a dimly lit garden where it was hard to read the expression on your companion’s face.
It was quite another thing to sit across from one another in a drawing room and know how much you had revealed to someone.
If he weren’t coming, he might at least have had the decency to send around a note.
A note, she could understand. He could have written and told her that some unexpected appointment came up, and he was unable to visit with her today.
She could have read between the lines and figured out that he did not wish to see her again.
Though she had thought much of him last night, her opinion of him had fallen.
She had not taken him for a gutless milksop, yet that is exactly what she thought of him now.
He could have showed up at her doorstep and told her he was uncomfortable with all that they had spoken about.
That it would best to end their budding friendship before it even started.
No, Viscount Dyer had taken the coward’s way out, leaving her sitting in an empty drawing room, hoping he would show up.
Thank goodness she had not asked Papa to wait here with her for Lord Dyer’s arrival.
That would have been most humiliating. She had thought merely to send a servant for Papa when Lord Dyer arrived so that they would be suitably chaperoned.
Glancing at the clock again, she saw the time for morning calls had ended. The teacart would soon appear, along with Papa.
Five minutes later, both arrived simultaneously.
She poured out for them, forcing herself to eat a few bites.
Not that Papa’s suspicions would be aroused.
It seemed he never noticed anything about her.
Not what she wore, nor how she dressed her hair.
He never was interested in the books she read or the places she went.
Rowena realized now that he had always been a ghost to her, present in body and yet gone in mind and spirit. He moved as if in the shadows.
Recalling what she and Lord Dyer had spoken about last night, she couldn’t help but think she, too, might one day appear as a wraith, living such a quiet life as to really live no life at all.
The thought depressed her. How was she to go to whatever ton event was scheduled for this evening and pretend all was well when it very much was not one whit.
She needed space to breathe. To think about her future and what she truly wanted.
Rowena realized she wished to go home to Dorset.
It was funny how she thought of Stanfield and Dorset as home when she had lived a majority of her life in the largest city in the world, but the country spoke to her heart.
“Papa, I would like to visit Stanfield.”
He set down his saucer. “We were there not too long ago.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “We last visited when I was ten and seven. I remember because it was the year before I made my come-out.” Rowena paused. “And I am now in my third Season.”
“My, how time flies,” he said, wincing. “Perhaps we can go in a few months.”
“I do not wish to go in a few months. I wish to go now.” She realized she sounded like a petulant child and softened her tone. “I need to breathe in the country air, Papa. It would not hurt to meet with Cousin Ollie and see how the estate fares, along with its tenants.”
“Oh, but you do such a good job of taking care of things for me, Rowena. Ollie, too. He is a good boy.”
“That boy is a man who is close to thirty years of age, Papa,” she gently reminded him.
“He is?”
“Yes. Ollie is seven years my senior. I am two and twenty now.”
Again, he looked at her. “You are? Where has the time gone?”
He winced again, and concern filled her. “Is everything all right, Papa? You look a bit unwell.” She glanced at his plate and saw he had eaten next to nothing. “I think we should call the doctor and let him look you over.”
“No need to . . .” His voice trailed off and as she watched him, he slowly crumpled, falling to the floor.
“Papa!” she screamed, falling to her knees, listening to him moan.
Rowena leapt to her feet and rang for the butler. The minute he appeared, she said, “Send for the doctor at once! His lordship has collapsed.”
The butler fled the room, and she rushed back to her father. Kneeling, she sat upon her feet, placing his head in her lap. Lovingly, she stroked his cheek.
“Open your eyes, Papa. Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
She knew it was a promise which would not be kept. His heart was finally giving out.
He shuddered, as if he’d been deeply chilled. A strangled sound came from him, and his hands flew to his chest. His eyes opened, bulging.
“Rowena,” he gasped.
“I am here, Papa. The doctor is coming. You are going to be fine.”
“No,” he said sadly. “I am . . . not.”
She had asked his doctor to keep the news from him regarding his unsound heart.
She had not wanted to worry him unnecessarily.
He had always been so childlike, while she had been the adult in the household, despite her tender age.
Now, it looked as if Papa were hanging by a thread.
Suddenly, a picture of the banquet King Dionysius held for Damocles came to mind.
The king had tired of Damocles’ incessant flattery and placed him in a seat at the banquet which was directly beneath a sword.
The sword was suspended by a single hair.
All waited with bated breath to see if the sword dropped.
She felt as if that sword was one of death now, and her father was about to be no more.
Rowena cursed silently, angry that she was distracted by the long-ago story a tutor had shared with her. She must focus on Papa and save him.
Looking down at him, their gazes met. He struggled but managed to say, “You are a good girl, Rowena. You . . . always cared for me.”
Then he clutched his chest, crying out in pain. By now, their butler had returned, a brigade of footmen with him, ready to carry her father to his bed. As half a dozen servants looked on, he whimpered. Then his hands fell away from his chest, dropping uselessly to his sides.
“Papa!” she cried. “Papa, hold on.”
But her heart told her he had slipped away.
Her fingers went to his throat, searching for a beating pulse and finding none.
A vast emptiness filled her. Surprisingly, her eyes remained dry.
Here she had almost cried over a viscount not showing up in their drawing room, and yet the passing of her own father left her dry-eyed.
Dully, she informed the servants. “He is gone.” Rowena forced herself to raise her head and saw the shock—and grief—in the eyes of those gathered.
“Please take Lord Samuel to his bedchamber,” she asked quietly. “When the doctor arrives, send him up to us.”
The footmen, under their butler’s supervision, lifted Papa gently and carried him upstairs. Once there, she asked his valet to remain behind.
“After the doctor has seen to him, I wish for you to prepare Papa,” she explained. “His body is to be bathed. Dress him in something dark blue. He always favored wearing that color.”
“Yes, my lady,” the valet responded, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“He is to be placed in the front parlor. I will arrange for a footman to be with him at all times. See now to the bath and the clothes he will be laid to rest in.”