CHAPTER EIGHT #4
Yet the blame was his for the close call.
Had he not taken her to task last night for refusing to wear the new gown?
If he was bowled over by her appearance, it was scarce Rosina’s fault.
He dared swear he might expect to see her return to her old garments tomorrow.
She was unlikely to invite his cursed insanities a second time.
He sighed wearily, as he turned for the dining room. Their relationship was deteriorating. He was no nearer to gaining either her trust or her confidence.
Rosina was so choked with upset she could not eat. She was glad of the excuse afforded by the delay of Raith’s appearance, telling Kirkham curtly, as he came to serve her, that she would await his lordship. His hateful, impossible lordship!
How could he be so unkind? Let him wallow in his bitterness, if he chose.
Was she supposed to care? If he wanted her, he might have her at any time.
It was his right. She had nothing to say to it.
He knew as much. If he hesitated, she was perfectly aware it was not through any reluctance on her part, but from the dictates of his own masculine pride.
He had confessed, in the heat of the moment, his desire for her.
But she had already known it — if not in her head, in the frenzied fire of her blood in response to him.
A lump constricted her throat. Such tenderness as he had shown tonight when first he kissed her.
It was that she wished for, if he only knew.
If he used her thus, he might overcome all the hideous remnant of her guardian’s rude betrayal.
Kirkham had poured her wine, and she reached out a quavering hand. A few sips of the red liquid sent a comforting warmth inside her. The slight relaxation released her tight thoughts, and the truth of her distress seeped into her mind.
She felt isolated by Raith’s rejection. He was her husband.
She would have taken him only for protection, but he wished for more than that.
Yet in her darkest hour, she could not look to him for succour.
Both his condemnation, and his insistence she should enter into public acknowledgement of her position — the occasion of her wearing this horrid gown and its wretched sequel — were alike to blame.
A thought struck her. What if Raith should not be content with showing her to this small public circle?
He had already proven that the arrangement she had believed them to have made had not marched with his own understanding.
Did she dare trust him? Might his decision in this not be as changeable as his moods?
Her fears rose to the surface as Raith entered the room and took his seat.
She tried to quiet them for, as things stood between them, the last thing she needed was to let him see her apprehension.
If only she could think she might have overestimated the dangers.
She might hope that Herbert Cambois was too drunk to read the journal.
And that other? Why should he take time from his gambling to seek her out now?
If it were only true that her acquaintance would be confined to the coterie of this small area, she might be less concerned. Impulse leaped to her tongue.
“My lord?”
He glanced at her. “Ma’am?”
Her heart sank. Were they back to that? “I wished only to ask — just how public a life you want me to lead?”
What was she at now? Had his unthinking reference brought on a reminder of her fears? Who in thunder was the fellow? But he must not ask that, not before the servants. Let them at least maintain some semblance of rational behaviour.
Yet Raith found himself unable to help an acid note. “You can hardly call it leading a public life to be toadying to a parcel of neighbours.”
Rosina breathed a little more easily, nodding at the butler who was offering her a serving of artichoke pie to accompany the baked sole nestling on her plate. “You will not then seek to take me to London?”
“London!” he repeated with loathing. “You may be sure I shall not.”
But his wife was evidently not satisfied. “Raith, do you swear it?”
He found the black eyes upon him in that vulnerable look that had always power to melt him. He fought the sensation, responding with impatience.
“Have a little sense, Rosina. Do you suppose anything would induce me to lay myself open to the sort of vulgar curiosity I would be obliged to endure there? The very sight of me would set tongues wagging. No, you need not be afraid I will drag you into London society.”
Rosina doggedly held his eyes, an unyielding compulsion in the black depths of her own. “But do you swear it?”
Raith could not withstand her. His chest tightened, and he spoke without hesitation. “I give you my word.”
He watched a measure of relief creep over her features, and saw her draw in a slow but unsteady breath, sighing it out.
Then she turned away, and began to address her food.
Raith followed suit, a stabbing at his gut for the hideous certainty that attacked him.
If she was this much afraid, how could he doubt of his suspicions?
She would tell him nothing. Was it because she feared to meet the villain, to her undoing?