If Ever I Should Love You

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

  “Come,” Roman gently ordered. “Let’s go to our room.”

  She nodded and as they took a step together his bare foot struck a bottle. It rolled on the floor and the soldier’s protest came back to Roman—Traded it for a bottle, she did.

  A white heat roiled through him along with a cruel understanding.

  Leonie had come down here for a drink? His wife had exposed herself to this danger for a tipple? No wonder she hadn’t woken him when she left their bed. She hadn’t wanted him to stop her.

  Roman looked to the innkeeper. It took all his control to ask civilly, “Do you have brandy?”

  Beside him, Leonie made a sound of protest as if she might be ill. He ignored her.

  “Yes, my lord.” He hurried to the taproom to fetch the bottle.

  “Roman, no. That is not necessary.”

  “Oh, but it is,” he said, unable to look at her.

  The innkeeper’s wife had roused from her bed. She gave an exclamation of surprise upon seeing Leonie, who tried to hide her head in Roman’s shoulder.

  The innkeeper came running back to them. “Here we are, my lord. And two glasses.”

  Roman took the bottle. “The glasses aren’t necessary.” He led Leonie past the curious stares of the guests who had been sleeping in the taproom and to the stairs.

  Mrs. Stoddard followed them. “Do you need anything for the cuts on your hands? Or for my lady?”

  “We shall be fine,” Roman said, and gave her a tight smile, even though nothing could be further from the truth.

  Leonie went up the stairs ahead of him. She limped slightly as if she’d hurt her foot in the ruckus. Well, the next time, she should put on shoes. Then he noticed she had one shoe on. The other was probably on the floor downstairs.

  He uncorked the bottle and took a healthy swig for himself.

  His wife looked back and caught him. The small worry line between her brows that marked when she was uncertain was there.

  As it should be.

  She reached the door first.

  “It is open,” he said.

  Leonie went inside.

  He stopped and stood for a moment, staring at the open door.

  What sort of hell had he entered?

  Less than an hour ago he’d believed himself the most fortunate of men. Now he feared his wife would be an iron weight around his life. He’d opened his heart to her.

  She had the power to pull him down, defeat him . . . she’d almost done it once.

  He could not let that happen.

  Roman walked into the room, shut the door, and locked it.

  Leonie was horrified at almost being raped again, and ashamed. Oh, yes, so very shamed.

  But all would be fine. Roman had rescued her and she would learn from this lesson. She didn’t like gin at all and she shouldn’t have been where she was. However, she would apologize and praise him and vow never to wander off again in that manner.

  She walked straight to the washbasin. There was water in the bowl from when she’d prepared herself for bed. She did not look at herself in the glass hanging on the wall. She couldn’t. She knew she looked a fright with her runny nose and with bruises swelling her face. The roots of her hair hurt where that monster had tried to drag her out of the inn. She’d like nothing better than to crawl into bed and pretend nothing happened.

  Still, she owed Roman an apology and an explanation. I only went downstairs for a moment of privacy . . .

  That was true. She’d say that.

  He lit a candle off the dying coals. Light filled the room.

  Leonie forced a smile on her face without meeting her eye in the mirror. The cut by her lip hurt. A wall of tears threatened to overtake her. She struggled to hold them back. Roman would not admire her blubbering. She prepared to turn—

  “I believed you when you said you drank to excess at our marriage ceremony because you were frightened of the wedding night. That you had to erase the memory of what Paccard did to you, but that wasn’t true, was it, Leonie? You just drink.”

  Leonie forgot excuses. She faced her husband, her hand holding the towel dropping to her side.

  “I do have bad memories of Arthur.” Couldn’t he see how her life had been affected? He, of all people, should understand because he had come to her rescue that night . . . as well as this one—

  Her own culpability stunned her into silence.

  Roman lifted the bottle he held in his hand. Even from here she caught a whiff of that tantalizing, sweet spiciness and felt a familiar yearning.

  Her husband’s gaze watched her. He knew.

  “Your hands shook slightly earlier,” he explained as if he knew what she was thinking. “I thought you had some maidenly apprehension about tonight. I didn’t want to believe there could be another reason.”

  “I was apprehensive.” Her mouth had gone dry. It hurt to speak. Or was that because of the tightness in her chest? Everything will be all right, she told herself. Just smile.

  But everything wasn’t going to be all right and both she and Roman knew it.

  “What are you going to do?” she dared to ask.

  “With this?” He held up the bottle. “Why, leave it here.” He set it on the bedside table.

  “About—?” she started, and then stopped. Perhaps she didn’t want an answer.

  He completed her question. “About this marriage?”

  About us. But she didn’t speak those words. She was wary of his mood. He seemed calm, too calm. Silence was best. She knew he was angry but there was another deeper emotion that she couldn’t quite define at play, and then she recognized it—disappointment. Disillusion.

  “Oh, we are married,” he said. “I need your money.”

  Those words were like pinpoints of pain. He only spoke the truth, and yet, she was startled by the heartache. And really—why? She didn’t owe him anything. They didn’t know each other, not well at least.

  He’d said he loved her. If he did, he wouldn’t have this frightening coldness about him.

  Leonie reached for her pride, her defiance, except that it was hard to hold her head high—especially since she was so aware of the brandy bottle close at hand.

  Roman acted as if he waited for an answer from her. When she didn’t speak, a mask dropped over his face. “I thought we had a chance.” He turned away from her. “You see, I meant the vows I spoke, the ones you can’t remember.”

  She deserved that as well. What sort of woman could not remember her marriage ceremony?

  “I’m not without sin myself, Leonie. I’m not perfect and I do not expect that of you—but this, the drinking, I can’t support this. I will not. I’ve seen what it does to men and to women. I’ve seen your mother—”

  “I am not my mother.” That brought her head up.

  “Or your father?” he queried. He shook his head. “We are all products of our parents. And I am the blind fool who wanted to pretend it wasn’t true.”

  It wasn’t true . . . Except, a small voice warned her from within, how could it not be?

  But Roman wasn’t finished. “You must understand, Leonie, your shame is not that you were raped or that you killed the man who did it in self-defense. It is that you can’t look yourself in a mirror.” He raked his fingers through his hair, pressing his lips together as if he had said too much.

  And then he seemed to reach a decision.

  He shrugged, his eyes bright with anger. “You can return to London. Live the life you want. But you’ll not do it with the money I sold my soul to earn. That goes to creating a life for me and my family. A good one. You may have your bottle. Enjoy your night.” He picked up his boots, his shirt, and his coat, and before she knew what he was about, he unlocked the door and walked out.

  Leonie stared as the door closed behind him.

  He’d left her? What did this mean?

  She thought about going out into the hall and ordering him back . . . a silly idea because the man who ha
d confronted her was in no mood for a reconciliation of any sort.

  Indeed, he’d already made his judgement. She was irredeemable. She was like her parents!

  Well, there were many people who admired the Charnocks . . .

  Leonie’s eye caught her reflection in the glass. Even in the room’s shadowy darkness, she could not recognize herself.

  She raised the towel to her check. The reflection raised a towel to its cheek. It was her.

  And there, beside the bed in the reflection, was the brandy bottle. Uncorked.

  If she had a sip, she would feel better.

  The pulsing pain in her cheek and lip would ease.

  The world, her world, might become a bit more tolerable.

  You can return to London. Live the life you want. Hadn’t that been what she’d asked?

  Except, the ultimatum did not fill her with joy. He wasn’t offering freedom.

  She gazed at the cursed bottle. “I don’t even like gin,” she complained to the air around her. Her voice sounded shaky and petulant.

  This was not the woman she thought herself to be. And, God help her, if she wanted to be that woman, she dared not take a drink . . . except she wanted one badly.

  Still, she knew brandy would not make matters better. She knew that as clearly as she knew her name.

  Leonie skirted around the bed away from the brandy bottle. She gave it her back as she sat on the bed and reached for the covers. Curling into a small ball on the mattress, she covered her head with the sheets. They smelled of Roman. His scent was all around her here.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and prayed that she could either disappear or be saved. Please, oh, please let her be saved.

  In this way, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  A pounding on the door woke her. “My lady? My lady?”

  Leonie’s eyelids seemed sealed shut and they had no desire to open. She rubbed her nose in the bedclothes. She didn’t feel good. Something was not right—and then she realized where she was and what she had done.

  Groggily, she forced her eyes to open and looked over at the empty side of the bed. Roman had not returned. He was true to his word.

  “My lady?” The knocking had not ceased.

  Leonie sat up. Her hair was a tangled mess and she was wearing the dress she’d worn yesterday.

  The brandy bottle was still on the table.

  She had not touched it. She had kept her resolve, a small victory.

  “My lady?”

  Leonie looked to the door. “Yes?”

  The relief in the voice on the other side was noticeable. “My lady, it is Mrs. Stoddard, the innkeeper’s wife. Such a hard night you had and I wouldn’t bother you save the earl bid me tell you he is ready to leave. He wishes to know if you are coming with him or if you wish to take a hired chaise back to London?” The question in her voice said she didn’t know if she’d got it right.

  Leonie had no doubt she did. Roman would dearly enjoy sending her packing.

  She looked again to the untouched bottle. Something inside of her felt its pull, but her pride would not let her bend. He expected her to hasten back to London and live on what? The man who had delivered ultimatums was not one to support an errant wife. Why, he’d set her aside—and she would not give him the satisfaction.

  “Tell him—” Her voice had to be cleared. It was hard to sound proud when one’s throat was so dry. “Tell him I will be down shortly to continue our trip to Bonhomie. I will expect to break my fast.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Footsteps could be heard leaving the door and going down the stairs.

  Leonie knew Roman would be impatient. He was done with her. If she wasn’t quick, he would leave. At the same time, she couldn’t let him treat her as if she was little more than a servant. She was his wife. She had pride—although now that he had her dowry, pride was all she could claim.

  She pulled out a traveling dress Minnie had rolled carefully and tucked into her valise. It was robin’s-egg blue with capped sleeves and rows of pleating across the bodice. She always felt very feminine when she wore it. She now dressed quickly, including pulling on clean stockings.

  She brushed the snarls from her hair and twisted it at her neck, using pins to hold it in place. The splash of cold water on her face felt good and reminded her she could not put off the inevitable.

  Leonie looked at her reflection in the glass.

  An angry purple bruise marred her cheekbone. There was additional bruising around one corner of her mouth where the cut was. It didn’t hurt anymore but Leonie was very grateful the soldier hadn’t broken her nose when he’d struck her.

  She lifted her chin. The marks from his fingers were on either side of her windpipe. Those bruises would fade swiftly. The ones on her face would take longer.

  Stepping back from the mirror, she told herself to not be ashamed. She had not been the attacker.

  From its place on the bedside table, the brandy bottle mocked her.

  Leonie quickly stuffed her clothes, including her nightdress, into her valise and closed it. Roman would have someone fetch it for her. She needed to go downstairs. She put on her pelisse and picked up her bonnet and gloves.

  Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and walked briskly to the stairs and down them. She stopped at the water closet.

  The sounds of a busy taproom carried down the hall. She was certain that the soldier was not there. If she’d been him, she would have run from Roman’s temper with all haste. However, she didn’t know who all had witnessed her attack. She had a memory of what seemed to be scores of people gathered around afterward. Certainly, some of them had not left the inn.

  It took all her courage to leave the water closet and walk to the taproom. At her appearance in the doorway, the room went silent.

  Mrs. Stoddard was hovering anxiously around a small table set for one with what could only be generously described as the inn’s best silver. “Here, my lady.” She pulled out a chair.

  Over a dozen pair of eyes watched Leonie take her seat.

  She was familiar with being observed by jealous mothers who considered her their daughters’ rival and men of ages and sizes who enjoyed a leer, but this was different. She knew she had been the topic of conversation and it had not been flattering.

  Leonie placed a napkin in her lap. The action allowed her to keep her head down and her injuries from the gawkers.

  Mrs. Stoddard hurried in with a plate of eggs and beefsteak. Leonie didn’t know if she had the will to eat it. However, she was not going to allow these people to intimidate her—

  She felt Roman’s presence before she saw him.

  The air in the room literally changed. Those who stared became very busy with their own affairs. A hum of conversation returned to the room.

  Of course, what Leonie experienced was this extra sense about him. She had not needed to look up to know he was there.

  He stood by the door and surveyed the room. After that quick glance, she tried to keep her concertation on cutting her meat. It was hard. She feared he was coming to tell her that he’d changed his mind about her options and was sending her to London whether she chose to go or not.

  The chair across from hers was pulled away. He sat in it and placed his hat on the table. “An ale,” he called to the innkeeper. He looked to Leonie. “Ale for you?”

  Was this a test like the brandy? “I prefer tea,” she said.

  “Tea for my lady.”

  His lady. Leonie’s heart lifted at the title. Or was he being formal? She set down her knife and fork. “I’m going with you.”

  He glanced around the room as if seeing who still had the audacity to stare. Eyes were quickly averted. He faced Leonie. “Mrs. Stoddard said as much.”

  There was no hint of kindness in his tone.

  Any apology she might have attempted died on her lips. Instead, she focused on her food, and did find it easier to eat. He was not going to abandon her or send her away. Yes, he was angry. Time would heal that,
time and her very honest efforts to be the wife he wanted.

  The tea tasted good.

  “I had Mrs. Stoddard prepare a hamper for our noonday meal,” Roman said.

  They were going to share another meal together. A picnic. This was a good sign.

  “That is an excellent idea,” she murmured.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked, seeing she had finished her plate.

  “I am.” She picked up her hat. “When shall we arrive at Bonhomie?”

  “Late afternoon.” He rose to his feet, took his own hat, and motioned toward the door with it.

  Leonie was only too happy to escape the taproom. She took a moment to thank Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard for their hospitality. Tears were in Mrs. Stoddard’s eyes and she kept saying, “We are sorry, my lady. Very sorry.”

  “It is not your fault,” Leonie assured them, conscious of a certain stiffness in Roman’s shoulders that let her know whose fault he thought it was—and he was right.

  She could blame only herself. Once they were alone in the coach, she planned on apologizing to him. The words he’d said last night came back to her—I want to love and protect you and create a good life for us. She would challenge him to remember them, to let her prove that they were true.

  It was with a lighter step that she went out into the day. The sun was shining on a lovely early spring morning. The sky was blue, new grass was coming in, and the trees were budding. Anything was possible on a day like this one.

  The post boy held the coach door open for her. Leonie climbed in. Despite the huge hamper taking up a good portion of the floor, she settled in, leaving the majority of the room for her husband. However, instead of waiting for Roman, the post boy closed the coach door. She frowned and slid across the seat to look outside.

  Roman held a horse by the reins as he talked to Mr. Stoddard. Tipping the innkeeper, he then swung up into the saddle.

  Leonie called his name. He frowned, but came up to her.

  “You aren’t riding with me?”

  “I’m tired of being confined.” His was a flat statement. There was no humor or warmth behind it.