by Anne Gracie
Thomas saw the punch coming but made no attempt to dodge it. Delivered with fury, strength and no small degree of skill, it sent him reeling. He staggered back, steadied himself against the wall and straightened, but made no move to retaliate.
Ashendon waited, and when it was clear Thomas had no intention of fighting back, his lip curled with scorn. “Still a coward, I see.”
Thomas felt his jaw gingerly. “I probably deserved that.” Or at least his twenty-three-year-old self had. No brother could be blamed for reacting so to the news that his innocent young sister had been seduced. In Ashendon’s place, Thomas would feel much the same.
“Probably? You deserve a horsewhipping.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I don’t advise you to attempt it.” He’d allowed that one punch, but that was his limit.
Galbraith intervened. “Now, now, gentlemen, we’re not here to brawl.”
“I know I shouldn’t have lain with your sister,” Thomas said, “but once I had, I did my best to protect her from any consequences of our imprudence. It was the only honorable thing to do, to give her the protection of my name.”
“Honorable?” Ashendon practically spat the word. “You smooth-tongued villain, prating of honor and love! You seduced a young girl and married her for her fortune!”
Thomas didn’t respond. It might not have been true back then, but he’d be lying if he claimed that Rose’s fortune wasn’t very much on his mind now.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Galbraith interrupted again. “Going over old ground is pointless. We need to sort out what is to be done about the situation.”
“Nothing to sort out,” Thomas said. “I married her, and I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep her.”
“Fight?” Ashendon made a scornful sound. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Thomas gave Ashendon a level look. “I haven’t yet begun to fight.”
“Well, I’ll fight to ensure that she’s free to choose her own husband.”
“She’s already chosen. She chose me.”
“It’s my job as head of Rose’s family to protect her and—”
“I’m Rose’s husband. I will decide what’s best for her.”
“I’ve only been a member of this family for a short time,” Galbraith interrupted, “but one thing I’ve learned is that Rutherford ladies don’t take kindly to being told what they can and can’t do. Shall we go to Ashendon House and let Rose speak for herself?”
Chapter Four
Know your own happiness. Want for nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name: Call it hope.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
The dog heard them arrive first, pricking his ears and then scrambling to his feet, facing the door with an expectant expression and a gently wagging tail. Then came the rumble of deep voices and the sound of crisp masculine footsteps.
The men had arrived. Finally.
All conversation died. Every face turned toward the door.
Rose had, quite unconsciously, been pleating the fabric of her dress between nerveless fingers. She looked down at the crushed fabric and tried to smooth it with her hands. It was one thing to change out of the dress she’d put on to marry another man; it was quite another to greet this one wearing a badly crumpled gown.
Oh, what did it matter? He was here. Thomas was here. Any moment now he would step through that door.
She still didn’t know what she was going to say to him. Or even how she felt. She was as skittish as a kitten. And possibly even . . . shy?
Which was ridiculous. She was the boldest of the Rutherford girls—everybody said so. She was never shy, never nervous.
She never fainted either, except that today she’d fainted—in church, of all places.
And she never let Aunt Agatha intimidate her, and yet earlier she’d allowed her to rant on for what seemed like hours.
The door opened. “Ah, here you all are,” Cal said.
Rose swallowed. Her heart was thudding so hard it was a wonder the others couldn’t hear it.
“What took you so long?” Emm asked. “I thought you’d be here ages ago.”
Cal jerked his head at Thomas. “Beresford wanted a bath.” He sat on the arm of Emm’s chair, snagged a sandwich and munched it down in two bites.
Ned entered and seated himself next to Lily.
But nobody took any notice of them. All eyes were on Thomas, who’d just stepped into the room.
And what a sight he was. Tall and freshly shaven, with his dark hair cut short in a brutally masculine crop, he looked . . . Beautiful, Rose thought. A crisp white shirt emphasized his deep tan and, unfashionable as that was, it highlighted the blazing intensity of his silvery blue eyes.
They burned into her, those eyes. For a moment it felt as though there was no one else in the room, just Rose and Thomas. Thomas and Rose.
“Oh, my,” Aunt Dottie murmured. “Doesn’t he clean up a treat?”
Rose breathed again. He did, oh, indeed he did. He was wearing a neatly knotted neckcloth, a plain dark waistcoat and fawn breeches tucked into gleaming black boots. A tightly fitting coat in dark blue emphasized a pair of powerful shoulders, muscular arms and a deep chest.
He stood, surveying the inhabitants of the room with unconscious arrogance. As if commanding the deck of a ship. Or facing a firing squad.
Her cheeks heated. This wasn’t the boy she’d fallen in love with.
This was a man.
Thomas’s gaze devoured her. Her skin prickled with awareness. She couldn’t look away. Without the beard and the wild sun-streaked hair, she could see his face properly now: the long angular jaw, his cheeks hollowed and thin, so thin, the skin stretched tight across his cheekbones.
A pale, narrow scar ran down from his ear and curved around his jaw. Who had done that to him? And his nose, his once beautiful straight nose was now a little crooked, as if someone had broken it. Though she had to admit it didn’t detract from his looks at all. Quite the contrary.
And his mouth . . . Oh, dear God, his mouth . . .
A delicate shudder rippled through her as she recalled that mouth and what he could do with it. Fighting a blush, she glanced down, hoping nobody had noticed. Having just admitted to her female relatives that she’d lain with him—before marriage!—they were sure to be watching her closely.
“Well, Ashendon, don’t sit there gobbling sandwiches,” Aunt Agatha snapped. “Introduce us.”
Cal, recalled to his duties, introduced Thomas to everyone. Thomas responded politely enough, though in a curt, no-nonsense manner. Was he just going through the motions? Was all his awareness directed at her, as hers was to him?
Part of her wanted to rise from her seat and drag him off, to be alone with him, to talk, and touch, and know him again. Another part hesitated, dreading the explanations she was going to have to make. This Thomas wasn’t the same as her Thomas. He seemed so much bigger and tougher and somehow . . . remote.
Oh, Thomas. She’d let him down in so many ways. Her mouth wobbled. She clamped down on it.
George’s dog, Finn, rose and approached him, his claws clicking on the parquetry floor. He sniffed at Thomas’s boots. Thomas glanced down but otherwise didn’t respond.
“Please be seated, Mr. Beresford.” Emm indicated the chair next to her, on the opposite side of the room from Rose. She signaled to the butler who hovered in the doorway. “A fresh pot and more sandwiches please, Burton.”
Thomas took the seat offered. Finn followed him. Thomas offered his fingers to sniff, then absently fondled the dog’s rough head.
“His name’s Finn,” George said gruffly. “He doesn’t usually take to strangers.”
Aunt Agatha cleared her throat. “Well, Ashendon, I must assume since you have brought this fellow into your home that you consider there is some truth to his sorry ta
le.”
“I told you there was,” Rose said. “And don’t call him ‘this fellow.’ His name is Mr. Beresford. And it’s not a sorry tale!” She wasn’t sorry—well, she was about some things. But sorry she’d married him? Not at all.
“I do not recall addressing you, Rose.” Her aunt raised her lorgnette. “In my day, young misses spoke only when spoken to.”
“But I’m not a young miss, am I? I’m a married woman.” There, she’d claimed him.
Aunt Agatha thinned her lips. “That remains to be seen.” She turned back to her nephew. “Ashendon?”
Cal nodded. “I’ll investigate the claim, naturally—”
“Naturally. We cannot let Rose be brought to ruin by an adventurer.”
Thomas made no attempt to defend himself. His expression was flat and hard, his eyes unreadable. Rose looked at him, wishing he would deny the accusation—he wasn’t an adventurer, not the way Aunt Agatha meant it—but instead he sat there, looking grim and unapproachable, saying nothing.
Cal continued. “But it seems very likely that a wedding was performed, and I expect there will be evidence to support it. Do you have your marriage lines, Rose?”
Rose nodded. Did he want her to fetch them? Why hadn’t she thought to bring them down before? Her mind was so scattered.
“Documentation aside, I cannot believe such a ceremony can be legal, however,” Aunt Agatha said. “Rose was a minor at the time, and it took place without permission from her father or any other guardian. An annulment is the only option—”
A nerve flickered in Thomas’s jaw, but he still didn’t speak.
“Despite the fact that consummation took place—and worse, before the wedding,” Aunt Agatha finished acidly. “Did he tell you that, did he, this seducer of innocent gels?”
“I told you, it wasn’t like that!” Rose flashed. “If anything, I seduced him.” She was shaking.
Thomas finally spoke. “I take full responsibility for what happened.” He didn’t even look at Rose. He seemed quite indifferent.
Aunt Agatha snorted. “I’m sure you do, knowing it will strengthen your grubby case. But no matter what you say, we will press for an annulment.”
“I tend to agree with you, Aunt Agatha,” Cal said. Emm and Rose began to speak at the same time, but Cal gently squeezed his wife’s shoulder and continued, “But four years have passed since the wedding ceremony, and with half of London being informed of it this morning, there is no hope of quashing any scandal. I think it must be up to Rose and—actually, as far as I’m concerned, it’s entirely Rose’s decision.”
“I agree,” Emm said. “If she wants an annulment, we will press for it. If she wants the marriage, it stays.”
Rose sat back. Her decision? What about Thomas? Didn’t he get to decide too? She glanced at him. He looked so stern and forbidding, she had no idea what he was thinking.
“Nonsense! We know what’s best for her. Rose is still a gel and she will do as she’s told.”
Cal said dryly, “Oh, yes, she’s famed for her obedience.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Aggie,” Aunt Dottie said. “This isn’t your decision. Cal is the head of this family and if he says it’s up to Rose, it’s up to Rose.” She turned to Rose. “So, Rose dear, what do you want?”
There was a long silence.
Rose swallowed, and opened her mouth, then closed it. Before she could make any decision, she needed to explain some things to Thomas—admit one particular thing—and afterward, well, it all depended on how he reacted. Now, with her entire family looking on, she had no idea what to say.
Thomas said nothing, but those blazing blue eyes bored into hers. She dropped her gaze and saw his big, battered hands clench into fists.
Battered hands? Old scars, white against the tan. How had that happened? And when? They were waiting for an answer, but her mind was full of questions.
“It’s not fair,” Lily said suddenly. “It’s been four years since she and Thomas have seen each other and you haven’t given them so much as a moment alone. Rose is still coming to terms with the fact that the man she thought was dead is alive. With so little warning, and with all of us staring at her, how can she possibly think clearly about what she wants?”
Rose gave her sister a grateful look. She should have said that herself, but she was not herself at all today.
“Lily’s right,” Emm said. ‘The last thing we want to do is rush you into any decision, Rose dear. Take as long as you need. A day, a week—as long as it takes.”
“The longer the better,” muttered Aunt Agatha. “Better yet, let Cal arrange an annulment and you will have all the time in the world to come to your senses.”
Rose closed her eyes. All this sniping and arguing and pushing for an annulment would go on forever, unless she stopped it. She couldn’t bear any more uncertainty, any more waiting. She’d waited for four long years and now it was over. Thomas had returned to her, and if he didn’t want to stay married to her, he shouldn’t have stopped the wedding.
And if he wasn’t the Thomas she remembered, so be it. People changed.
She was married to this tough-looking, enigmatic man with the eyes that burned, and if she could see nothing in him of the charming boy she’d married four long years ago, if he was gaunt and taciturn and somehow . . . hardened, what did it matter anyway? She wasn’t the same girl he’d married.
Whatever had happened, whoever they were now, she and Thomas would cope. She couldn’t go backward—the past was the past—she could only move forward and hope for the best.
She’d heard a military man say once that it didn’t matter what decision you made, the important thing was to make the decision, and then throw everything you had into making it work.
She opened her mouth to speak.
“If you try to annul this marriage against our wishes”—Thomas addressed Cal in a deep, harsh voice—“I will fight you all the way. And I warn you now, when I fight, I fight to win.” His eyes were hard, bleak, silver shot with blue, and Rose was reminded again of that feral cat.
“So do I,” snarled Cal, bristling.
“It will be a very public fight,” Thomas said silkily. He glanced at Aunt Agatha. “Will that please you, Lady Salter?”
She swelled with outrage. “Impudent jackanapes!”
“Stop it!” Rose jerked to her feet. Her voice shook—she was far more nervous now than when she’d been about to marry the duke—but she managed to say, “There will be no fighting. Four years ago I made vows before God, and it doesn’t matter what has happened since, I’ll honor them.”
There was a short, shocked silence, then a babble of talk.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, gel,” Aunt Agatha began.
“You’re still in shock, give it a week,” Cal said.
“Are you certain this is what you want, Rose?” Emm asked.
Rose wasn’t certain, but then life wasn’t certain, was it? She’d lost Thomas once, and if there was the smallest chance of getting him back—and surely, somewhere inside this grim, taciturn stranger was the man she’d fallen in love with—she wasn’t going to risk turning him away.
And anything was better than watching her family tearing themselves apart.
Rose shook her head and said in as firm a voice as she could muster, “There will be no annulment. Thomas Beresford is and shall remain my husband.”
“That’s the way,” Aunt Dottie said. “Good girl.”
There was another short silence, then all eyes turned to Thomas.
* * *
* * *
Thomas ignored the silence that hung in the room. He stared across at Rose, staggered by what she’d just done. She’d honor her vows to him? Just like that? When only a few hours ago she’d been about to marry a duke?
Why would she do such a stupid thing?
He’
d been certain she’d take the offer of annulment.
She was as pale and washed-out now as she had been when she lay unconscious in his arms. Her voice had trembled as she spoke the words, but she’d said them clearly and without equivocation. She would honor her vows.
He had a flash of memory of Rose on her wedding day—the first one—when a radiant young girl had pledged her heart to an idealistic young man. She’d been blazing with joy that day, like a thousand candles lit her from within.
Today she looked like a girl going to her execution.
He’d come prepared to wrest her—and her fortune—from the protection of her family. He’d told himself he was justified in doing it, that she’d moved on, forgotten him, wiped him from the record. That it was just another betrayal in the long line of betrayals.
And now this, an offer that took his breath away with its preposterous generosity.
In his determination not to let Ashendon get the better of him, to hold on to the rights that were legally his, Thomas had all but forgotten: Rose wasn’t just a rich society heiress who could solve all his problems; somewhere, underneath that composed ladylike exterior, she was still the rash, warmhearted, ridiculously generous girl he’d married, too tenderhearted and impetuous for her own good.
If he’d been fool enough to anticipate a joyful homecoming—which he wasn’t, thank God—his reception by her and her family would have taught him better. If she’d thrown herself into his arms, kissed him, if she’d even recognized him at the beginning instead of staring across the aisle at him like a frozen doll . . .
But she hadn’t. In the old days he’d been able to read her easily; every mood, every thought was reflected in her eyes. Now what she thought, what she truly thought, was anyone’s guess.
It should have made it easier to think of her as a means to an end. And for a while, it had.
But now she’d risen to her feet, pale but determined, and in the face of clear family opposition—and all common sense—she’d offered to honor her long-ago vows. Giving him herself and everything she owned on a plate, no questions asked.
