CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
The front door slammed, and she jumped with shock, her heart thudding. She set down the candlestick and ran to the window, peering close against the light behind. A coach was approaching from the stables, and a shadow moved towards it.
Rosina’s pulse began to thunder in her head. He was gone, and Raith was done. He would be coming up in a moment. Now that the time was upon her, she wanted to hold it back. She collected her candle and went with lagging steps through to the antechamber door.
Why was she doing this? Anton had told her to go to bed. She was still dressed in the Turkish robe, the most modest of her new gowns, its scalloped folds of the neckline covering the area about her bosom. Would he berate her for having remained up? Why for that, when he had a more cogent reason?
She heard footsteps in the corridor. Her heart fluttered. For a craven moment, she was tempted to withdraw. But her fear of having been betrayed was too strong. She must know!
Drawing a breath for courage, she opened the antechamber door. The room was empty, and in darkness but for the feeble light from her own candle. She moved to Raith’s dressing room door, and hesitated, feeling sick. But it would not do. She lifted her hand to knock, and the door opened.
Rosina stepped back quickly as Raith moved into the doorway. He was stripped to his shirtsleeves and his hair was untied, a dishabille that enhanced his masculinity.
Rosina’s throat dried. But the candelabrum he held showed his taut features. Her heart sank. “Has he gone at last?”
The response was cold. “He has gone.”
Raith moved to the fireplace, and set the candelabrum on the mantel.
He was conscious more than anything of fatigue.
The effort to contain himself, to beat Forteviot at his own game, had exhausted him.
Like that numbness after battle, before reaction set in.
Yet he had heard her moving in here as he had begun to undress, and entered on impulse.
The questions must be asked, though he dreaded her response.
He turned and looked across at her shadowed face by the window.
“Were you afraid he would tell me everything?”
Rosina’s defences went up, overriding the intensity of his attraction. He was unnervingly right. But she was angered to think he assumed her guilt proven. She refrained from answering.
Raith’s voice hardened. “You had as well tell me as not, ma’am. It makes no difference now. What is this man to you?”
She bit her lip. How could he be anything when Anton was by? Impossible to say that. Yet she must speak, or she would draw his temper. “Nothing.” It was scarce adequate. She swallowed and added flatly, “I do not like him.”
“That does not answer me.”
Rosina was disinclined to answer him. He had made his own judgements, the more hurtful in light of the sensations his own appearance was invoking. If it made no difference, why should she say anything at all? He would not believe her.
Raith waited a moment. Was she still so stubborn? Why, when she must know how futile a gesture it was to defy him? He turned his eyes away, unable to bear the glinting pallor of her features as they flickered in the light of the candle, gripped tight so that her knuckles stood out white.
“The man is a gambler. Not as reckless as my brother, but quite as determined. He consorts with men of ill repute, and I know him for a loose-living rake. He is tolerated by the world for his social veneer of charm, I imagine, but men of my father’s stamp would not give him the time of day.”
She heard it with resentment, crushing down her awakened senses. Whence this catalogue? To make her feel how low she had sunk in his esteem?
“Why do you tell me this?”
The barb of his bitterness sounded in his voice. “How do you imagine it makes me feel, to know that you have had dealings with a man of that sort?”
Rosina stiffened in the shadows. “Dealings? What, pray, is your meaning?”
“You know well enough. You have had some … acquaintance with him.”
Acquaintance! Why did he not say it outright? “You will have to be more explicit, my lord, if I am to understand you.”
Raith moved towards her, slowing as she shrank back.
The candle guttered as her hand shook, drawing his attention.
He took it from her and set it on the window sill, his eyes on her face as it darkened with the removal of the light.
His chest felt as though it must burst. It came to him he felt jealous to the point of madness? Heaven help them both!
He spoke in a guttural whisper. “I ought to be whipped for my thoughts, Rosina.”
His eyes met hers and a flare of need took him as he read a confusion of messages there.
Resentment, but yearning too. Was it possible she cherished desire for him as he did for her?
Or was he a fool? His gaze fell to the shiver at her lips, and his mouth came down.
But the image of Forteviot’s mocking eyes intruded, and he jerked up again.
He took in an unsteady breath. “Rosina, I ask you again, what is that man to you?”
“Nothing! He is nothing to me.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
He heard her breath catch and her voice was quivering. “You can m-make me afraid b-by these means, Anton, but you w-will not loosen my t-tongue.”
He flung away. His conduct was disgraceful. How she aroused him! He had wanted to remain cool in her presence. Impossible. Dangerous in every way to be near her.
“Your pardon.” He moved back to the empty fireplace and thus out of range of touching her again.
He tried a soft approach, but knew the frustration was in his voice.
“Rosina, there is no point in concealment. You know as well as I that you gave yourself away the moment you heard his name. Even if you had not, he has said enough to incriminate you.”
She took a hasty step towards him, her voice husky. “What did he say to you? What did he tell you?”
“Nothing beyond what you heard. The moment you were out of the room, he changed the subject.” He heard her give a little sigh. The conviction grew that Forteviot could incriminate his wife in a deed he dreaded. He tried again. “Must you persist in denial, Rosina? You are acquainted with this man.”
Rosina’s head came up. “What of it? So also are you, sir.”
A jolt seemed to kick at his chest. “Then you admit it!”
She threw her hands up to her face, her chest hollowing out. She had not intended to admit anything. Dared she say that she had meant her acquaintance with him had begun today? To what purpose? He would never believe it. She sighed, capitulating.
“Yes, I have met him before.”
Raith did not move from where he stood. His tone was dull now, a deadness within it. “What was he to you?”
Impatience seethed out of Rosina. “What do you imagine, Raith? You have seen how I regarded him. Can you then suppose me to have been in love with him?”
“Not in love. But I’d stake my oath he was the man towards whom you exhibited such fear. He was — in despite of your wishes, perhaps — your lover.”
He had said it at last. Had she not known this was what he believed?
But to hear it from him was more wounding than Rosina could ever have imagined.
Her heart bled. She had as well have endured her guardian’s lust, and allowed herself to be sold into Forteviot’s possession.
What had it availed her to escape? She had snatched at some other life, and been found wanting.
In the process, she’d had a glimpse of tenderness, of what love might be, and lost it.
She picked up her candle, and regarded him, her heart bleak. “There is no more to say, my lord. I am going to my bed.” Then she turned to her door, and quietly left him.
Raith spent the night in an agony of affliction.
When he remembered back to those moments prior to the fated arrival of Lord Forteviot, he could not but be struck with a burning sense of the unfairness of it all.
He was ashamed of his treatment of Rosina.
He had come home to make his peace with her, and had ended in a worse quarrel.
A curse upon the villain! What was his association with Rosina?
He wished fervently for Ottery’s return, knowing he could not hope for it for another day or two at least. Yet how might the guardian’s testimony help?
Only it must, or Rosina would not have left his house.
Had not her nurse intimated there were two men involved?
Forteviot must be the other. What was the connection between them?
He had resolved to curb his impatience and treat his wife with the civility that was her due. He must refrain from questioning her further, and let her be. Though how he was to do either of those things when the sight of her threw his hurt into high relief, he did not know.
He could only be glad she did not appear at breakfast. He had determined to resume his inspection of the estate, and had accordingly donned riding dress.
It was Wednesday, and his agent did not yet know he was back.
But he would send to Longridge, and meet him wherever the man had currently reached in their investigations. He needed occupation.
“Your pardon, my lord.”
He looked up from the coffee he was drinking. “What is it, Kirkham?”
“Does your lordship plan to use Parton this morning?”
“Why? I was going to send him to my agent, but what do you need?”
The butler coughed. “You know how short of staff we are, my lord, and I would be obliged if I might ask Parton to ride to Kington to deliver a letter for her ladyship.”
A cold hand seemed to seize within Raith’s chest. “Kington?” He stared at the man, a startled query in his mind. “Where is the letter?”
Kirkham went to the sideboard and picked up a salver. It was of pewter, there being no silver remaining in the house. He brought it to Raith, who snatched up the sealed missive and read the inscription. All thought of inspections went out of his head. He leaped from his chair.
“Have Parton saddle my horse. I will take the letter myself.”