Chapter Sixteen #2
At length, he felt he had himself well enough under control to return to the ballroom. Pacing in, he scanned it quickly, relieved to see that it appeared Lady Altorn was no longer in attendance.
Had she come purposefully only to see him?
Thrusting out of mind the implications of that possibility, he looked around for Juliana. As he prepared to seek her out, he only then realized that he would probably need some excuse to explain his long absence.
He hadn’t yet figured out what to say when Claire and Hart discovered him. ‘There you are at last,’ Claire said. ‘Where did you disappear to?’
‘Winston and Claiburn asked some probing questions about one of the bills under consideration. As they might come to a vote soon, I slipped off to the library to think about them. Too noisy to think here.’
Hart raised his eyebrows, but didn’t challenge what he knew his friend probably thought a dubious excuse. Fortunately, Claire didn’t know enough about the current events in Parliament to be equally skeptical.
‘Where is Juliana? Has some impetuous swain whisked her away to the refreshment room?’ he asked before Claire could make further uncomfortable inquiries.
‘Would serve you right if one had,’ she replied tartly. ‘I’d been looking for you. Juliana was feeling ill. I tried to get her to wait until I located you, but she felt she must leave at once.’
Rafe felt a pang of alarm. ‘Nothing serious, I hope!’
‘Probably nothing out of the usual. I offered to accompany her home, but the most she would allow was for Hart to find her a hackney.’
‘I’ll leave at once,’ Rafe said, worried and wondering. Juliana was never ill. From childhood, she’d been able to tromp the woods and fields in all weathers, never seeming to contract so much as a cold.
Had someone been unkind to her, embarrassed her, or prompted her to do or say something she would feel might prove embarrassing to him? In such a case, she would have wanted to remove herself from the scene immediately.
‘I should hope so,’ Claire said, her expression still reproving.
‘I’ll see you both soon, I imagine,’ he said, giving Claire a quick bow and pacing off to bid his hostess goodnight.
There would be nothing she could have done that he would find distressing, but he knew, thanks to her detestable mother, she was much more sensitive about how her behaviour was perceived than he was.
Surely he could pull himself together enough to discover what had happened and reassure her, if she did feel she’d committed some faux pas.
Or make sure Baxter was taking good care of her, if she truly felt ill.
Worry might be a good thing, he thought ruefully as he tripped down the stairs, grabbed his coat, hat and cane and took one of the waiting hackneys. Concern for Juliana would distract him from his upset over Thalia.
A short time later, Rafe hurried up the stairs at Thornthwaite House. Pausing outside the door to their bedchamber, he listened, but heard no sound from within.
Opening the door silently, he saw by the dim light of the banked fire that Juliana was already sleeping.
Relief on several levels swept through him. She looked peaceful, not tossing and turning, so if she had felt ill, she must be better. And if there were some matter to discuss, it could wait until morning, as he had no intention of rousing her.
By morning, he’d have himself back under control and be able to act normally.
With that cheering thought, he tiptoed into the bedchamber, doffed his garments, and climbed into bed beside his sleeping wife.
Eyes closed tight, Juliana pretended to be slumbering as she heard Rafe enter the bedroom, tiptoe in and disrobe, then lie down beside her. After a few minutes, his deep, even breathing indicated he’d fallen asleep.
She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the searing image of Rafe staring at his lost love replaying over and over in her mind.
He’d claimed that, while he’d been devastated by the affair, he’d long ago moved on. Moved on to marry her, his good friend and lover.
But had he?
The anguish she’d witnessed argued otherwise.
But if he hadn’t—what did she mean to do about it?
A part of her wanted to flee back to Thornthwaite and avoid broaching a subject that couldn’t help but be painful to them both.
But precisely because it was so painful, if they were to recapture their previous easy camaraderie, it would have to be resolved.
One way or another. Running away wouldn’t solve anything.
But how even to begin? She might confess that she’d seen him—what?
That she’d observed him staring at the lady?
That she thought he’d worn an expression of anguish?
But claiming that might make him feel she was accusing him of some kind of wrongdoing, putting him on the defensive or even leading him to shut down the conversation before it had truly begun.
Perhaps it was just surprise, and she was overreacting.
But a moment’s reflection, replaying that hideous scene again in her mind, argued that she was deluding herself if she tried to dismiss his reaction as mere surprise. She ought not to take him to task for the emotion she’d read on his face, but she knew she’d not misinterpreted what she’d seen.
Raw, naked pain. Grief and longing.
Well, what could she expect him to feel?
Thalia Heathcote had been his Grand Passion, the agony of losing her the reason he’d become convinced that a marriage was better made between friends.
To avoid the highs and lows of extreme emotion, he said.
But she knew it was to avoid ever again caring so deeply that the loss of that person could devastate.
She, more than anyone, ought to know one never ‘recovered’ from such emotion. The only alternative was to bury it, as he had. As she’d tried to do.
Had he effectively banished it? Had the misery she’d witnessed been the last, final death throes of his one-time passion? Or had Thalia’s sudden reappearance revived all the love he’d once felt? And if it had…what was he going to do about it?
He wouldn’t leave her to pursue the lady; he had too much sense of his duty to the estate and too much honour to abandon her.
Besides, however unsatisfying her marriage had become, Lady Altorn was unlikely to want to forfeit her position in Society or be forever barred from seeing her children by running away with her former love.
There were other arrangements that could, and in the aristocratic world, often were made to accommodate two married people who wished to spend time together. She felt nauseated again just thinking of it.
Would Rafe contemplate establishing an illicit relationship? If they were discreet, Society would not fault either of them. Rafe could continue to manage the estate and would always, she was certain, treat her with kindness and respect. While visiting his true love when he could get away.
The mere thought was so painful she could scarcely draw breath.
Could she lie with him—for he still needed an heir—live with him, talk over household and estate business, knowing his heart was elsewhere?
It was one thing to accept she would have only his respect and affection when she would also be his sole partner. Quite another to subsist on warmth and honour when she knew his passion was being spent on another.
Could she share him? The prospect was so revolting, she had to push it away.
She might create a furious scene, demanding he give Thalia up. But that would likely only alienate Rafe and cause them both embarrassment once Society learned of the disagreement, as with whispering servants and a tidbit of gossip that juicy, sooner or later, it inevitably would.
Not that she would care about being ostracized. But she didn’t think she could survive setting in motion something that might lead to a permanent estrangement between them.
What cut deepest, though, was she’d thought…hoped…he might have come to not just like, but to love her. Not in the manner of a Grand Passion; she couldn’t expect that. But in a warm and cherishing way that, with children shared between them, would be enough. More than enough.
Had she ever encountered the lady before tonight, though, she might well have held out against marrying Rafe. What man could forget such incandescent beauty?
How could someone like her compare? How to entice him enough for him to generate even some small bit of love?
She forced herself to take a shuddering breath, then another. She must stop torturing herself with useless speculation and pull her shattered self back together. She must talk with Rafe and discern how he truly felt about the lost love who had suddenly careened back into his life.
She couldn’t address the matter directly, of course.
Perhaps, after apologizing for leaving the ball without waiting for him, she could ask if he’d chatted with anyone interesting while she was gone.
Perhaps, after the initial shock, he’d recovered his composure and would tell her about the meeting, reassuring her the relationship was well in the past. Pass off the encounter with a jest framed in army terms about being ambushed by an enemy one thought vanquished, but who’d been beaten off once again.
Might he even say that, after the shock and remembered pain, he’d felt…nothing?
Reassuring as that speculation was, it was unlikely. In a thousand years, she would never get to the point of feeling ‘nothing’ about Rafe, even if she never saw him again.
Still, this had to be faced. After telling him she felt better and apologizing for abandoning him, she’d inquire further about the ball.
If he mentioned the encounter, admitted regret and a lingering pain while reassuring her about the strength of their own relationship, she would know her fears were groundless.
But if he omitted any mention of Lady Altorn, if he acted strained or uncomfortable, she would know the cosmic collision had created a seismic shift in their relationship.
What would she do if there had been?
She had no idea. But lying here, staring sleeplessly as the fire in the grate burned down to faint glowing embers, she was filled with foreboding.