Chapter 14 #2
She couldn’t. If she looked at him, she was afraid she would read the lie in his eyes, or worse, the truth of his regret. She pulled her hand back from his arm, resting it in her lap.
“She is very beautiful,” Tamsin said quietly, her eyes fixed on the harpist who was adjusting her instrument for the next piece.
“She is nothing to me,” Rowan said fiercely, his hand finding hers again and refusing to let go. “She never was, Tamsin.”
But as the harpist began to play, the beautiful, melancholic melody did nothing to quiet the cold fear blooming in Tamsin’s heart. Would he one day be telling another woman the same thing about her?
As the harp’s sorrowful chords reverberated through the room, Rowan struggled to understand how things had gone so terribly wrong. A yawning distance had opened between him and Tamsin, and he didn’t know how to cross it.
Why hadn’t he realized that Elena might be here tonight? She often performed at this sort of gathering. Why hadn’t he picked something else to attend with Tamsin?
He was cursing both himself and Elena, and wishing heartily that they’d stayed home tonight, when a low, familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Well, here’s something I thought I’d never see.”
Rowan looked up, his defensive posture melting instantly at the sight of Lysander Thorne, the Marquess of Ashford.
Lysander stood there with an amused smirk, his coat impeccably tailored, his eyes sparkling with the dry humor that had gotten Rowan into a dozen youthful scrapes.
Lysander had been taking care of estate business in the country, so they hadn’t spoken since before Rowan’s world had exploded in Vauxhall Gardens earlier in the month.
“Ashford,” Rowan said, his voice carrying a genuine relief he couldn’t quite mask. It was good to finally see a friendly face in this crowd of vipers.
“And this must be Lady Haversham,” Lysander said, offering Tamsin a warm, entirely respectful bow.
“I must apologize for interrupting, but I hope you’ll allow me to steal your husband away for a few minutes.
He is my oldest friend, and I only just now heard about your recent nuptials.
I intend to take him to task about not inviting me to the wedding. ”
Tamsin’s face was a pale, polite mask, her eyes fixed on Lysander with desperate composure.
Rowan felt a sickening wave of guilt. Leaving her now, right after Elena’s predatory display, felt like throwing her to the wolves.
But he needed to take a step away and compose himself, figure out how he could repair the damage Elena had done.
“I don’t mind,” Tamsin said quietly, her voice perfectly level, though Rowan could feel the faint tremor in her fingers. “Please, Rowan. Do not let me keep you from your friend.”
“I won’t be long, Tamsin,” Rowan whispered, leaning in so his lips brushed her temple. He hated the way she slightly stiffened. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
With a nod to Ashford, Rowan rose and led the way out of the crowded parlor.
They navigated the busy hallways of the Radcliff town house, slipping into the quiet sanctuary of the host’s vacant billiard room.
The air here was much cooler than it had been in the drawing room, smelling of chalk, beeswax, and stale brandy.
The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, Ashford let out a low whistle and leaned against the edge of the billiard table.
“Leg-shackled. You, the Rake of September, brought to the altar in less than a fortnight. I had to read the Brazen Belle three times to ensure I hadn’t succumbed to brain fever. ”
Rowan ran a hand over his face, knowing that his cool, aristocratic mask was slipping to reveal a deep, exhausting weariness. “Do not start. I am in no mood.”
“I am not teasing—well, perhaps a little,” Ashford corrected with a grin.
“But in all seriousness, what happened? The gossip sheets are calling it the scandal of the decade. How on earth were you caught in the Dark Walks with Fairchild’s little sister?
She’s a beauty, but didn’t you know you couldn’t compromise someone like her without paying the price? ”
“I didn’t compromise her,” Rowan said flatly, pacing the length of the green felt table.
“I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We both were. But after the Brazen Belle wrote that article, I had to do right by her. The alternative was a duel, and I was not about to kill Wilding or let him kill me.”
“So, you married her.” Ashford’s expression softened, the amusement fading into genuine concern. “How are you holding up? Is it horrible? What is she like?”
“She is magnificent,” Rowan said softly, stopping his pacing. The confession surprised even him. “She is sharp, brilliant, and holds herself like a queen, even when her world is burning down around her. And she... she frightens the life out of me.”
Lysander raised an eyebrow. “The Earl of Haversham frightened of a slip of a girl?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Rowan admitted, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he stared at the piece of chalk he hadn’t even realized he was holding.
“You know how badly my father and mother despised each other. I have never seen a husband who didn’t look at his wife with either cold indifference or bitter resentment.
I don’t know how to be a husband. And if she...
if we have children... God help me, I have no idea how to be a father, either. ”
He thought of how Tamsin had looked just minutes ago, small and pale under Elena’s cruel remarks, pulling away from his touch. He was bound to fail her. His past would probably always come back to haunt him in one way or another.
“Happy marriages do exist,” Ashford told him. “My brother and his wife are ecstatic with each other, even after half a dozen years. And my parents seemed to rub along together reasonably well. My mother was devastated when the old man died.”
Rowan met his friend’s gaze, realizing Lysander had never really spoken to him of his parents before.
Was that the key? Did one have to grow up in a happy home to be able to recreate that?
No, he realized, thinking suddenly of George and Julia.
They were happy. Almost nauseatingly so.
Just yesterday, he’d been thinking that a happy marriage was possible, but Elena’s appearance tonight had sent him spiraling into negativity once again.
“I have enjoyed my time with Tamsin more than I ever expected,” Rowan admitted, his chest tightening.
“And to my great surprise... I don’t want the clubs.
I don’t want White’s, or the gaming tables, or the dancers.
When Elena came up to us tonight, all I felt was disgust. I didn’t want her. I didn’t want anyone but my wife.”
He looked up at his best friend, feeling a raw, shocking vulnerability. “I just want to go back to that drawing room, take Tamsin’s hand, and go home. I want to lose myself in my wife’s arms and pretend the rest of this godforsaken world doesn’t exist.”
Lysander stared at him for a long, quiet moment. The silence stretched between them until a slow, warm smile spread across his face. He stepped forward and clapped Rowan firmly on the shoulder.
“Then you are a much better man than your father ever was, Rowan,” Lysander said softly.
“The very fact that you are terrified proves it. You care enough to be afraid.” He squeezed his shoulder.
“And if you want to go home with your wife, then go. The gossips are already abuzz. Deprive them of their fodder. They will talk no matter what you do.”
Rowan let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since that night in Vauxhall Gardens. “She thinks I regret marrying her. Especially after Elena tried to prove that I was still hers. Not that I ever was.”
“Then go show her that you don’t,” Ashford advised, steering him back toward the door. “Now, get out of here before I have to listen to you wax poetic about her eyes. I have a reputation to uphold, even if yours is utterly ruined by domestic bliss.”
Rowan gave a short, genuine laugh—the first real one of the night—and clapped his friend’s arm in return. “Thank you.”
“Go,” Lysander said, opening the door. “And Rowan? I’m happy for you. Truly.”
With his heart pounding a frantic, hopeful rhythm against his ribs, Rowan didn’t waste another second. He strode back out into the crowded corridor, his eyes fixed on the distant doorway of the drawing room, desperate to get back to the only woman who mattered.