CHAPTER EIGHT #2
She was nettled by his sarcasm. “On the contrary, I chose several to be made up to my measurements, but I have cancelled the order. I do not need them.”
“How many did you choose?”
“I do not know how many!”
“How many?”
She jumped, quivering a little. “Four.”
The obvious restraint in his tone was worse than a shout. “Then be so good, madam wife, as to go back into that shop, and order the other four gowns.”
“No, I —”
“Rosina!” She fell silent, glowering at him. “I am not going to argue the matter, Rosina. But I warn you that we will remain here, all day, if necessary, until you do what I tell you.”
Rosina hesitated. His gaze was unwavering on hers, the glint at the back of his eyes dismaying.
Hurt rose up and she felt the prick at her eyes.
She would not let him see her distress. Capitulating, she turned from him, and went back into the shop.
Once through the entrance, she slowed, wondering what in the world she could possibly say.
Her humiliation was intense. How could Raith make her do this?
Fervently did she wish she had not let her determination to thwart her husband override her good sense.
She might have known he would react thus.
To her cost, she knew him to be uncommonly dictatorial, if not always as peremptory as this.
She had no choice but to obey him. How she hated her marriage vow!
She must think fast, for Nadine was coming towards her, a look of interest in her sharp French features. “Milady?”
“I think —” Inspiration failed her. Dear Lord, what could she say? “The other gowns, madame… his lordship…” Oh, but this was hateful! She would never forgive Raith.
A look of comprehension came into the modiste’s face, and her eyes registered a quick flash of amusement before she veiled them. “Can it be that milady has changed her mind?”
Rosina was torn between relief and embarrassment, but she seized the excuse. An idea came — too late, but still of use. “His lordship has reminded me that we have a number of engagements. I think it would be better to order the other four gowns that I liked. Can you recall them?”
“But yes, milady. The samples are not yet packed away.” The modiste moved in the direction of the back, clapping her hands at one of her assistants. “The gowns will be delivered within a day or so, milady.”
Rosina thanked her, feeling humiliated by the understanding smile until Nadine made it clear it was not directed at the ignominy of her capitulation.
“If milady will permit —” She offered the added assistance of arranging the purchase of suitable accessories — bonnets, shoes and gloves — to go with the gowns, and would ask the traders to send their bills to his lordship. “If milady will trust to my judgement?”
Milady was only too glad to do so. She had not thought of the inevitable need for accoutrements to go with the new styles. Thank goodness it had not struck Raith’s mind! Nadine ascertained the sizes required, and the matter was settled.
Rosina left the shop in a much happier frame of mind.
Her heart jumped a little when she saw Raith waiting by the open chaise door.
But, forestalling criticism, she spoke the instant she reached him, in a low voice meant for his ears alone, for Parton was in the act of letting down the steps of the chaise for her.
“I have no further bandboxes, but you need not scold. Nadine is to have the gowns made up and delivered, together with anything else I may need.”
Raith nodded, and handed her up into the chaise. But once the door was shut upon them, to her surprise, he turned to her. “I apologise for my treatment of you, Rosina, but truly, it was the outside of enough.”
She looked away, fidgeting with her fingers.
Had she not borne enough? What sort of apology was it, that contained its own excuse?
From the corner of her eye, she saw his hand reach out.
It closed over her own, and the warmth of it sent a charge of violent emotion hurtling into her chest. Her breath stopped.
“Rosy.”
The word was softly alluring. A compression seized her heart. She felt him shift beside her, and then his free hand cupped her face, drawing it round to face him. The grey eyes were tender.
“I can’t bear this between us. Can we not find a way through it?”
Rosina fought against the riot in her bosom. Her voice did not wish to obey her, coming out in a husky whisper. “It was not — of my making.”
“I know.” His fingers played with hers, sending waves of warmth into her bosom. “You did say you preferred me to rail at you than to retire into my shell.”
She felt her lips curve a little in an uncertain smile. “I did, my lord.” His gaze became warm, but impelled, Rosina’s tongue took the words from her mind. “But that was before. There were things said, Raith. I do not know how they are to be got over.”
“Nor I.” A heavy sigh left his lips, and he released her fingers.
The loss struck Rosina hard. A bleak look had crept into his eyes, and she saw it with pain. Her heart wavered. He must not think she did not care. With barely realised intent, she reached out, wanting to touch him.
She hardly realised it was his damaged cheek. But Raith’s hand shot up and seized her wrist before her fingers could reach his face. Her hand was jerked off, away from him, and Rosina saw that his hand was shaking.
“You are hurting me!”
Raith’s pulse was thundering in his head. He had not meant to hurt her, but he could not help himself. Recollecting himself, he loosened his clutch, and let her go. Rosina snatched her hand back.
Raith groaned, dropping his forehead into his hand. Hell and damnation! After a moment or two, he straightened, and looked round at her.
“There does not seem to be anything I can say, except to beg your pardon.”
“It makes no matter,” Rosina said in a subdued tone. “It was foolish of me.”
“For God’s sake, don’t try to take the blame!”
She was silent. Raith sank back into his corner of the chaise, and closed his eyes. It seemed that no matter how he tried, he was doomed to failure. What in thunder was he to do?
Rosina was dressing with a good deal of care.
She did not wish to provoke another such outburst as had greeted her last night when she had dared to appear for dinner in an old gown.
Raith had flown into one of his rages, demanding to know whether she was determined on behaving in this rebellious fashion for ever, and adding a rider to the effect that she might hate him as much as she pleased but she was his wife, and she had better dress the part, whether she wished to or not.
“And don’t dare to tell me the gowns are not yet delivered, for you brought one with you!”
“Yes, but I did not think it mattered quite yet,” Rosina had defended herself.
“Why the deuce do you suppose I troubled to take you?”
“I know, but there is no one here to see me.”
“Except,” her husband had declared bitterly, “myself. Spare me the insult of telling me you don’t care how you look before me, for that I know already!”
With which, he had stormed off into the dining room, leaving her to follow how she might.
A frosty silence had reigned at the dinner table, and Raith had vanished after she had left him to his port.
Rosina had not seen him since. He was undoubtedly off about his estate business, a convenient excuse for his withdrawal from his wife.
She had spent the day in a state compound of misery and resentment.
How had she been expected to know he desired her to change her appearance when they were in private?
Was she supposed to be able to read his mind?
It was typical of Raith to take an affront into his head.
She had not meant anything of the kind, though she might readily have done so had she thought of it.
Well might she hate him! Only did he suppose her to be determined to provoke him deliberately?
In his wild moods his tongue was uncontrolled.
The memory of his face in quite other mood came back to her.
He was, when softened, all too endearing, and so difficult to hate.
Either side of him could make her pulse race.
It was the lightning changes she found so unsettling.
It was better not to take any risks. Accordingly, she enlisted Joan’s willing assistance with her toilette, bidding her put forth her best efforts.
If there was a stirring at the back of her mind of a wish to know how her husband thought she looked in the new fashion, Rosina suppressed it.
She was doing this only so that he might not rail at her again.
She was a trifle late, for Joan was as unhandy yet with her hair as she was herself, never having previously attempted to secure it in the topknot advocated by Nadine.
At the first attempt it was a degree lopsided, and a vision of Raith’s cynical look made Rosina tear out the pins.
He would be bound to make some caustic comment.
“But, my lady, I thought it looked very well,” protested the maid, sighing.
“It was not straight, Joan. I cannot appear before his lordship looking like a scarecrow. Let us try it again.”
Thus adjured, Joan set to with a will, and Rosina presently arose from her dressing table with a style she considered to be at least respectable.
She waited while the maid placed the green net cloak about her shoulders, and examined herself in the long glass with a critical eye.
The gown was deceptively simple, with a cross-over front cut low to the bosom, from which the skirt fell in soft folds, and with little sleeves ending in ruffled bands, worn over long tight undersleeves of muslin through which the glow of her flesh could be seen. The green net appeared superfluous.
“Not the cloak,” Rosina decided, slipping it off. “In the daytime, perhaps, but not now. I hope I don’t freeze to death.”