Chapter 12 Regrets and Candor
REGRETS AND CANDOR
The dining room was already prepared when Rosamund arrived. Candles burned evenly at the end of the table, their light catching in the crystal and polished silver, everything laid out with careful symmetry.
Though two places were set, aside from Wallace, the dining room stood empty.
Rosamund smoothed her skirts and took her seat, chiding herself for ever imagining tonight might be different from the others.
Disappointment did not quite cover it.
She adjusted her plate, aligned her fork with unnecessary precision, and reached for her wine. But just as the glass touched her lips, a prickle ran down her spine.
She lowered it slowly and turned toward the door.
The Duke of Bexley, it seemed, would be joining her for dinner after all.
He wore black, stark and severe, his waistcoat pressed, his cravat tied in a perfect knot.
Rosamund’s fingertips touched the skin just below her neck.
That single lock of black hair fell forward against the hard line of his jaw, and the patch was back in place.
“Good evening, Miss Belle.”
A bow—short, elegant—and then he crossed the room to take his place beside her at the head of the table.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” She dropped her gaze, unsure of how to act. Of what to say.
The footmen moved silently about, laying the first course before them—an aromatic tureen of white soup, delicate and steaming. Rosamund forced herself to take a few spoonfuls while the duke simply ate.
She’d been right, apparently, to think he’d pretend they hadn’t…
Kissed.
Rather than jump right into that, however… “I wished to thank you. For the gown.”
He paused mid-motion, swallowed, and only then lifted his gaze to hers. “You had worn both of your dresses more than once,” he said. “I simply assumed you’d require something more appropriate for dinner.”
“Just one night,” she replied softly. “But it is beautiful.”
Her fingers brushed the embroidery along the edge of the bodice. “I imagine the previous wearer did not spend her days wandering fields. It’s far too fine for that.”
“There was no previous wearer.”
She looked up. “But—”
“There is a very capable modiste in Harrow’s Bridge,” he said evenly. “In case you had forgotten.”
Her breath stalled. “You… ordered it?”
A faint shrug. “There has not been a lady in residence since my mother’s death. It was the most practical solution.”
Practical.
Rosamund searched his face for humor—found none.
“You bought me a gown,” she said quietly. “A green one.”
His jaw shifted slightly. “It suits you.” But he wasn’t looking at her.
Silence stretched between them.
“Do not read too much into it,” he added, more briskly now. “You are my guest. Nothing more.”
But he did not look uncaring. He looked… careful.
Stunned into silence, Rosamund just stared at him…
And then, she couldn’t help but ask. “Are you angry with me?” She dropped her spoon with a clatter. “For… what happened in the forest?”
The kiss.
Eye down, his hand stilled over the soup. A muscle ticked at the corner of his jaw. “I am not angry,” he said, and then almost under his breath, added: “At you.”
“But… you are angry.”
He grimaced a little at that. “I… I regret that I–”
“But it was I who kissed you,” Rosamund interrupted quickly.
Heat swept her cheeks, but she would not take it back.
“You merely… kissed me back.” Expertly, but she didn’t add that.
“It’s just that, I sensed…” She faltered.
“I don’t know what came over me. I have never—I mean, I know better.
But I…” This wasn’t at all what she’d meant to say.
“If you aren’t angry with me, then you’ve no one to be angry with. ”
At that, his gaze finally lifted, and blinking, he shook his head.
“Your candor,” he said at last. “It is…”
“Annoying? Outrageous?” Rosamund suggested, because she’d heard this before.
Almost as though it was against his will, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Refreshing.”
“Oh.” She ducked her gaze. “My mother wouldn’t agree. Nor my sisters.”
His spoon clinked softly against the edge of his bowl. “Exactly how many sisters do you have?”
Ah, she probably shouldn’t have drawn his attention to her family again. If she told him the truth, he might guess who she really was.
And although he was going to find out eventually…
It would not be tonight.
The footmen swept in just then, replacing the soup with the second course—a roasted capon, golden and glistening, surrounded by a bed of herbs and roasted root vegetables that perfumed the air.
Rosamund rolled her lips together, then let them part on a wry little smile.
“Too many,” she finally answered. “Which is why I’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet here.” She gave him a teasing smile. “Even if it is a little lonely at times. I can almost understand why Mother spends so much time in London.”
Something shifted in his expression. He tilted his head.
“Your mother spends time in… London?”
Drat. Er… “With my… aunt.” Despite it being the truth, she felt herself flushing.
After a pause, he turned his attention to the capon. “Do you get along with her, your mother?”
This…
How had they waded into such a tricky subject as her mother?
“My mother, she means well enough.” But did she really?
Rosamund should stop there, but… “My sisters and I, we didn’t turn out the way she’d expected. She’s never shied away from the fact that her daughters are her greatest disappointments.”
“Surely not?” he asked.
Rosamund hesitated. This was not the sort of thing one discussed over soup and roasted capon.
With a duke, no less.
It was personal. Too personal. And yet… hadn’t he said he found her candor refreshing?
“My mother was…” The perfect English rose. But she settled on… “Delicate. Inconspicuous. And my sisters and I… are not.”
The duke’s brow lifted. “No.” He shook his head. “Inconspicuous, you are not.”
Rather than take offence, she chuckled. “We inherited traits from my father’s side of the family.
Who were not slim, but… like me. Too much of everything.
” She gestured vaguely at her person, and then touched her cheek.
“And I am perhaps the loudest of us all—not literally, but…” She tugged at the end of her braid.
“The hair. The freckles. I don’t exactly vanish into a crowd. ”
The duke didn’t move, his gaze fixed on her as though trying to solve some riddle. “You will never blend in, Miss Belle. It would be foolish for you to try.” It was neither mocking nor kind, merely a statement of fact.
“It isn’t always foolish,” Rosamund replied. “And blending in… it can be safer.”
“Safer,” he repeated.
“If no one notices you, no one troubles you. When you don’t stand out, you don’t invite scrutiny.” She hesitated. “It’s easier to avoid being hurt.”
Rosamund stared at her hands.
“Why do I get the sense you’re no longer talking about your hair and freckles, but about me?”
She shrugged, but met his gaze. “The idea can apply to more than one thing.”
“And is that what you mean to do for me?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Help me blend in?”
“That is the purpose of my article, is it not?” she countered gently. “To show that you are not some… spectacle. To present you as capable. Steady. Ordinary in the ways that matter.”
“Ordinary,” he repeated, dryly.
“In the best sense,” she clarified. “Reliable. Competent. A duke who runs his estate as he ought.”
A faint, humorless sound left him. “I thought the truth mattered to you. What was it you said? That without it, we’ve no free will?”
“But I am writing the truth. I know you think there is truth in those horrible rumors. But… I’m writing of things I have seen with my own eyes.
You leave the facade of the manor wild and untamed looking, but inside, and all around it, there is order.
Abundance… Caring. Not every titled gentleman governs with fairness.
Not every man of rank concerns himself with the people beneath him. ”
“And how,” he asked, voice mild but pointed, “would you know how aristocratic estates are run?”
Rosamund’s pulse jumped.
Before she could fashion an answer that didn’t unravel her entire deception, Wallace appeared at the duke’s shoulder with impeccable timing.
“Venison, Your Grace,” he announced, setting down the next course—thinly sliced roast with braised carrots and parsnips, the sauce rich and dark.
The duke did not take his eyes from Rosamund.
She really needed to be more careful.
“I don’t understand why you don’t want… ” she said gently. “Even if you do have the occasional… episode.”
“Not episodes,” he corrected quietly. His gaze sharpened. “It is not temper. It is not merely a foul mood.”
“Then what is it?”
A long silence.
“You think I don’t wish to blend in?” he asked at last. “That I prefer this?” His mouth flattened. “I would give a great deal to be unremarkable.”
“You,” she said, “Will never be unremarkable.” But then, more seriously, added,
“You seem perfectly in command.”
“I do,” he agreed. “Until I am not.”
Rosamund stayed silent.
“They are… inconsistent,” he went on, slower now. “I can go weeks without incident. Sometimes months. I wake, I work, I speak, I function.” His jaw tightened. “And then something shifts. A noise. A dream. A thought. I do not always know.”
“And what happens?”
He did not answer immediately.
“Last time, I went to bed in a tidy room,” he answered. “I woke to shattered glass. The mattress overturned. The wardrobe splintered.” His gaze unfocused slightly, as though seeing it again. “My hands were bleeding.”
“Have you ever…” She inhaled. “Have you ever hurt anyone?”
His jaw flexed… “No. But…”
“You don’t trust yourself.” The truth hit hard. Devastatingly hard.
And then he shook his head. “You mean to make me look ordinary. Safe. Dependable.” A humorless breath left him. “I am a man who cannot guarantee what he will do when his own mind betrays him.”
Her voice softened. “No one else was hurt.”
He did not answer.
And that was answer enough.
The door opened just then.