Chapter Seventeen
Rose’s steps echoed uncomfortably on the marble staircase as she descended.
She shouldn’t do it. She knew precisely what would happen if she did.
“Samuel?” she said nervously.
Samuel… Samuel… Samuel…
She had liked the size of the townhouse when they had first arrived.
Well, what person would not, after having lived in a room in a tenement in Brighton?
The Mayfair townhouse was large and spacious and airy.
Each room was at least twice the size of her previous lodgings and so splendidly decorated that Rose wondered if there was any marble or gold brocade left in London.
It didn’t feel large and spacious and airy anymore. It felt cavernous.
Her footsteps continued to echo uncomfortably as she reached the bottom of the staircase, no rug or carpet to muffle her movements. Not a creature stirred.
Even the servants appeared to be avoiding her.
Which is a nonsensical notion, Rose told herself steadily as she stepped resolutely across the hallway with her head held high. The servants could not possibly have been avoiding her, because no one knew of the break she and Samuel… The argument they had had.
Though now that she came to think about it—and she’d had a great deal of time to think about it over the last few days—they had yelled a great deal.
It was possible the servants had overheard a small amount of what had been discussed…or perhaps more accurately, the servants had been forced to overhear the whole damned thing.
Rose’s hand hesitated before she entered the library.
It was not that she was not permitted. Samuel had said, when they had arrived here, that she should treat the place like her home.
And he marched out of that door, Rose could not help but think as she glanced over her shoulder. And he did not come back. No note, no letter, no appearance of the man who had apparently expected to be told her entire life story for an arrangement. For a job.
He could have been anywhere. He might not even have been in London anymore, though his valet was still at the townhouse last she knew. He’d traveled without one before, though.
And just because the library had been his favorite room in the house…
Rose inhaled slowly, then entered the library.
She immediately regretted it. The place was Samuel, through and through.
His favorite cigar smoke still lingered on the shelves.
On the table were three books that he had been concurrently reading.
Rose lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing the bookmarks.
Over there was one of his jackets, evidently cast off while reading and not moved by a servant who clearly supposed their master would not wish for it to be removed.
In a strange sort of way, it was almost as though Samuel had just stepped out of the room, just for a moment. As though he could walk back at any time.
There were footfalls, and Rose turned swiftly with a smile, apologies ready on her tongue and her hands outstretched, ready to take his own—
Arden cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, my lady. Have… Have you heard from the master at all?”
Rose’s spirits sank as rapidly as they had risen. “No.”
What more was there to say? She had no further information, no knowledge of where Samuel was or what he was doing. She had considered sending a note to his club but realized she could not recall which one he was a member of.
There was so much she did not know about him. Yet everything she did know, she loved.
The butler cleared his throat once again. “And is the master expected back at any particular time, my lady? Or…or day?”
She was not going to cry. Of that, Rose was certain. She was absolutely and completely in control of herself, and that meant she was not going to cry.
The prickling at the corners of her eyes might have suggested otherwise, but she was not going to succumb.
“Are—Are you unwell, my lady?”
“Definitely not,” Rose said thickly, turning away from the butler just in time to catch the first teardrop.
It and the second were hurriedly dashed away with the sleeve of her gown before she turned back to the servant.
“No, I do not know the master’s movements.
I suppose you…you need him to sign something, or relay instructions to his valet or… or something?”
Goodness, it had been so long since she had lived at home, she had almost forgotten what the master of the house did. From what Rose could recall, it had been her mother who had done almost everything. Not Lord Dalton.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Rose continued, trying for a smile and probably achieving a grimace.
Arden stepped back. “No, no, I am sure I can manage. Thank you, my lady.”
He backed out of the room perhaps a little faster than was polite, but Rose could hardly complain. Not now the tears were flowing without any ability to halt them.
Should she leave? Was it foolishness itself to remain here, in this cavernous townhouse? Did she even have a right to be here, if her husband was at this very moment undoubtedly speaking with Mr. Todd to secure their annulment?
Though a certain lie would have to be told on that score…
Would he instead seek a divorce? On the grounds of her withholding information? No, that might not do it. He’d have to say she had been unfaithful. But she hadn’t been.
Would he care if that wasn’t the truth, though? He’d seemed as hurt by her explanation of her past with Luke as he might have been had she been talking about a recent lover.
He doesn’t want you here. You knew this was always going to be temporary.
Leave, and start again. It would only be the third time she had done it, after all. How difficult could it be?
The very thought weighed heavily on her bones and so sinking slowly into the large leather armchair upon which Samuel had lain his jacket, Rose leaned into it and inhaled.
Samuel.
That was what it smelled like. It was difficult to describe in words, even for an actress like herself who had lived on her ability to speak clearly across a wide theater.
It was…Samuel. His smile, and his laughter, and that way his nose crinkled when she said something outlandish. It was cedarwood, and spices, and a Samuel-ness that was entirely his own.
Rose dashed away a few more tears and, knowing she was being completely foolish, lifted the jacket from the chair and pulled it around her shoulders.
It was too big for her, far too big, but it was like having Samuel’s arms around her once again. Rose allowed her eyes to close. If she ignored the reality around her—which was very tempting—she could almost pretend he were there.
Samuel. His strength, and his goodness, his way of looking at the world that was completely ridiculous and at the same time so charming.
Samuel, with his desire to help his family and his ability to learn how to look beyond his horizons and help others. Samuel, with his drive for money that had somehow not tainted his character.
Samuel. The man who had walked out of their home, their pretend life, and only then had Rose realized just how desperately she had wanted it to be real.
She almost laughed, even with her eyes closed, at how ridiculous she must look. Sitting here with her temporary husband’s jacket and tear-stained cheeks—
“Am I interrupting?”
Rose’s eyes shot open as her legs suddenly unfolded underneath her and she tried to stand up. The trouble was, her feet weren’t expecting it and her hands had to shoot out to grasp the chair to prevent her falling down in front of—
Frank.
Samuel’s youngest sister blinked at her owlishly from the doorway where Arden had been only moments ago.
Rose stared back.
“Lady Francesca, my lady,” said Arden, who stood beside her and bowed before leaving once more. “And no… companion.”
Samuel had told Rose his youngest sister was rather clever at leaving her chaperones behind. Rose had been so far removed from those kinds of restrictions for so long, she almost hadn’t thought twice about it.
Frank glared at the man’s back as if he had offended her honor, not letting up until he was out of sight, then she turned back to Rose. “I think it’s your turn to say something,” Frank said slowly. “I’m almost certain I went last.”
Rose sank back into the chair, not bothering to pretend that she was not wearing her husband’s jacket. “Come in, do.”
Well, what else was she supposed to say?
Ladies were expected to be hospitable, and she had been raised a lady.
True, she had attempted to escape all that by running off to Gretna Green and marrying a man, a boy, really, whom she had barely known, and liked even less the little more she’d come to know him, then she’d run away to Rome and lived her dream as an actress before returning to Brighton and marrying a marquess for a year and a day, if they lasted even that long…
But she was still a lady.
Frank closed the door behind her and stepped into the room with her back straight and her eyes wandering this way and that, as if she had no apparent nerves, but a great deal of curiosity. “I’m not sure that’s your cut.”
Rose blinked.
“Though I admire the effort. I find trousers to be the most troublesome, but I know a tailor,” Frank continued conversationally, “who knows the style I like. I can recommend her, if you want.”
Rose could only blink.
“The jacket,” her sister-in-law said kindly, and a little slowly, as though her hostess were having trouble not only in the hearing department, but in the thinking department as well. “It doesn’t fit.”
“It isn’t mine,” was all Rose could think to say.
Frank nodded sagely as she stepped across the library and threw herself into an armchair opposite. “Yes, I find that my brother Benjamin is the closest fit to myself. The poor man doesn’t know where he keeps leaving his trousers. Keeps having to make Father’s valet purchase new ones.”