“Mama. Papa,” she said with reverence upon entering.
She had not been in closed company with her parents in days—since the first night of the house party, to be exact—but she found that she didn’t quite dread it as she normally did. Robert was somewhere in this house and his love gave her strength.
However, the looks on her parents faces, the raw anger there, had the power to dissipate even the strongest person. And she certainly was far from that.
She shrank back in her skin, awaiting what was to come.
She didn’t have to wait long.
“What have you done?” Lord Blythe spat.
“Wh-What?” Rose stammered.
“What. Have. You. Done?” The words were bellowed throughout the space and Rose resisted the urge to shrink back further.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Papa,” Rose answered, injecting a calm she didn’t feel into her voice.
“And I’m sure you bloody well do!”
“What is going on?” she asked, unable to keep at bay the terrified tremor as her father stalked towards her.
Lady Blythe, in the most unexpected moment of Rose’s life, waved her husband off the hunt. Then she sunk a worse blow than her papa ever had. “Lord Brighton left last night.” The words were cold, menacing and accusatory.
“What?” It was barely a breath and certainly not a word. It was more of a pained sigh.
Lady Blythe continued, unaware that her daughter had even tried to speak. “What did you do, Rosalyn?”
Rose was too shocked to answer. Her eyes were flooded, her stomach wrapped around itself, her breath stolen away, and her mind empty of all thoughts save for one.
I love you.
He had said it. Repeatedly.
He’d sworn to protect her, never to leave. And he had done just that. He’d left.
What had happened?
How could he have left her? How could he make her love him and then leave her?
She was drowning. Yesterday, she had welcomed the feeling. Yesterday, she would have happily drowned in him. Now, the actuality of her death by drowning was a reasonable possibility, and it was much more painful than it was passionate the day before.
“He’s gone.”
Rose wasn’t sure which one of her parents spoke. All she heard were the words.
He’s gone.
And now she was alone, with her parents who assumed it was because of something she did. They were right to believe so, of course, but it hurt all the same.
Rose closed her eyes for a bare moment, pressing back the tears. It was all she could do to keep her face from twisting wretchedly. When she spoke, it was with a careful calmness she again did not feel. “What of his excuse?”
“He did not make one. Didn’t even leave a note.”
“How could he be so rude,”—she hardly more than whispered—“sneaking off in the night without a word to his hosts?” Without a word to her…
“He hardly snuck off, Rosalyn,” her mother bit off. “And he is a duke, he need make no excuse to me or anyone other than the king himself.”
“It’s not right,” Rose muttered. “It’s not right.”
It was not right that he had left. And without a word even to her.
He said he loved her. How could he do this?
Rose swallowed. It felt somehow that her heart had become permanently lodged in her throat.
She tore out of the room before either one of her parents could assault her with more of their disappointment. She didn’t stop when she passed by her room. She didn’t stop until she was outside in the fresh air that was rising with the sun and she was beneath the behemoth of a willow tree, crying a river which quickly turned into an ocean.
“Rosalyn,” came the soft voice of Isabelle hours later when all the tears had drained away.
Rose was seated on the ground, her back pressed against the rough bark of the old willow.
“Mama sent me to fetch you. We will be departing for Hillsdale shortly.”
Hillsdale, the sight of Whitefield Abbey’s old dowager house that had succumbed to a nasty fire over a decade earlier. It had never been rebuilt and thus the ruins had become something of an attraction for the people in town. Today, the entire party was to take a picnic to the remains, but their numbers would lack one.
“I’m not going,” Rose said resolutely.
She felt as though she had already been destroyed by fire and water, by Robert. She couldn’t handle anymore destruction. Some might choose to see the remains of Hillsdale as beauty rising up out of the ashes. What Rose saw was the truth. The truth that the house would never be the same, would never return to its former glory. Oh, they could commission it be rebuilt, but it could not be exactly replicated, and no one could ever bring back her deceased grandmamma who’d died in that fire.
No, the site would never be beautiful to Rose. Never again. There was beauty there, to be sure, but it was just the shell, the cover. The actual house, and its inhabitants, was dead and gone. Just like Rose.
If her mother’s image was any indication, Rose’s beauty would not fade for years to come. But what would never recover was the soul that Robert had so easily stolen away from her. Her spirit was broken, crushed, drowned and burned. She would never be what she once was, who she was just yesterday. All she would be was a beautiful shell masking a broken self.
“Rosalyn…” Isabelle sighed. But she was a smart girl and kept her distance, her eyes trained on Rose’s feet.
Rose was thankful for that. She didn’t think she could stand the contact. She couldn’t look into her sister’s eyes and see that Isabelle knew how ravaged she was. She didn’t want to see pity or sympathy or anything.
All she wanted was to be alone.
Rose closed her eyes, willing herself left alone. “I cannot go. Tell Mama I’m not feeling well.”
“She won’t believe it, you know,” Isabelle whispered between them.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry he left.”
Rose worked her throat for a moment, swallowing a sob, before answering. “Me too.”
“He seemed like he cared for you a great deal.”
Her sister’s acknowledgement of what she too had believed, was enough to break her. She felt she had already been broken as much as she could be. Yet, every word spoken and every second spent with her sister proved her wrong.
“The key word in that sentence being seemed,” Rose answered in the same schooled tone she had perfected long ago. Because if she couldn’t control her feelings than the least she could do was control how the world saw them, interpreted them.
They were sisters, she should have wanted to tell her, wanted to open up. But she couldn’t burden her sisters with her own troubles now anymore than she ever could before.
“Perhaps he has a good explanation for his sudden departure,” Isabelle offered, but her tone bore less conviction than Rose’s broken heart.
“Perhaps he does,” came out as nearly a choke. Rose swallowed and tried again, steel in her heart and tone, “And perhaps he doesn’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. Now, tell Mama I cannot attend her picnic.”
She was ruined. Not just in Society’s eyes. She was ruined in every way imaginable. She was ruined for all others. And that hurt, but as she sat there beneath that tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, so in need of a hug that she resorted to doing it herself, it wasn’t merely her own pain that she dwelled upon. It was the pain her sisters would endure at her expense.
She wasn’t the only one ruined. She wasn’t the only one turned over by a duke. Their marriage was imminent, and he’d left. He’d left her. And by the end of the day everyone in attendance would know that their marriage would be no longer. Females didn’t survive broken engagements—not even unofficial ones, and especially not ones to dukes—with their reputations intact.
She was a ship sinking in the ocean, bringing down everyone she loved with her. And s
he couldn’t understand where she had gone wrong.
He loved her! He’d said it!
No matter how many times she replayed the day prior in her mind, it always ended in bliss. The entire afternoon was perfection. And still he had left.
He had left and now the life she had never wanted would never be, and the amount that it devastated her was insuperable.
*****
Robert was tired. Exhausted really. It was nearly impossible to keep his eyes from slipping shut as he rode in the saddle. The beat of his horse’s hooves beneath him, the rhythm of the pace, was as good as a lullaby.
He’d seen hardly a moment’s rest the night before. His head had all but settled upon his pillow, filled with nothing but Rose, when his valet hurried in, interrupting his dreams of golden hair and pale, grey-blue eyes with a most urgent note.
He’d been summoned in the middle of the night by his steward. One of his wealthiest tenants had taken ill two days prior and it was now clear that there was little hope for his recovery.
Robert had not been in town very long, but for the short period he had been he had made it his duty to become acquainted with his tenants who so provided for his ability to maintain his position. Indeed, he respected them and had held them in this high regard even prior to his recent return to Brighton Castle.
He did not have to go. There was nothing requiring him to see to the dying man. He was a duke after all, and besides he was at a house party and it was extraordinarily rude to steal off in the night without a word of goodbye to the hosts. But a man was dying, which was not something he could conscionably ignore.
Thus, the whole of the night was spent in the home of the dying man, assuring him as the life slipped away that his family would be cared for. It was spent in the company of the man’s wife and five young children, all under the age of ten. And when the man finally succumbed to the fever and slipped from life, Robert did not withdraw immediately and return to Whitefield Abbey. He stayed until morning, making the proper arrangements for the man’s funeral and burial. He comforted the widow and distracted the children. It wasn’t until there was nothing left for him to do, when his presence was merely a nuisance, that he withdrew with his sincerest apologies.
Even then, Robert didn’t race back to Whitefield Abbey. He first spoke to his steward about finding the widowed Mrs. Long a new residence, a cottage in town she would be able to retire to at her own convenience, where she would be secured in all things and she and her children would long for nothing.
The hour was just past noon when he finally returned to Whitefield Abbey, only to realize upon riding up the drive that, in his rather exhausted state of mind, he had forgotten that there was to be held a picnic today and that there would be no one at the house.
It was just as well. It had been an emotionally and physically exhausting evening—watching someone die was not an easy task. Robert could use the reprieve. He could use the time alone to reflect and to rest.
He let himself down from his horse, his mind already picturing him in bed and in slumber, when he had a rather peculiar sensation prickling the hairs at the back of his neck. He was struck with a supernatural awareness that had him turning.
Perhaps he had seen her and only his subconscious had noted it—which was quite likely, considering his current sleep-deprived state. But for whatever reason, he turned, and he saw Rose walking across the lawn.
Even at a distance he could distinguish it was her by her poise alone, by the way she walked. She always walked as though she were floating.
She was wearing grey today, which suited her. Though, he must admit, everything suited her in his eyes. Her skirts whipped around her as a slight breeze rose and she grabbed hold of her bonnet as if it might just up and blow her away.
His bed all but forgotten, his feet followed in the direction his eyes had settled upon. Robert’s stride was not so much unlike a run, for he was eager to see her again. It wasn’t merely what had happened between them yesterday in the library that spurred his desire to be close to her. It was the events of the past night.
It had been a dreadful affair watching Mr. Long succumb to death after contracting a fever that would not subside. But Robert found that the presence of Rose could make it all tolerable. He found that the thought of seeing her, speaking with her, could ease the pain that he felt ripping through him.
And it was pain that he felt. He didn’t pretend to hold any deep affection for Mr. Long—he barely knew the man—but in the short time that he had, he found him to be a strong man of good character. Robert was sad to see him go from this world and felt even worse for the family left behind. Robert did not wish it upon anyone to lose such a person, especially kids who were still so young.
A deep rest would not heal him quite like the soothing presence of the woman he loved. As he drew near to her, he had the awful sensation that she held all the cards, that from this day forward he was beholden to her. He needed her like air. Or rain.
“Rose,” he called out when he was not very far off, mostly because he liked the taste and feel of her name on his lips and tongue, but also because she had not yet stopped. He knew that she could not have been ignorant of his chasing after her as he had done nothing to disguise the pounding of his feet on the ground. Oh, it was not as though he sounded much like a chaise and four on cobblestone, but neither was his approach silent.
As she did not immediately stop, he would have been otherwise inclined to interpret that she had not heard him, but as he noticed her shoulders stiffen at the call of her name, he knew that she very well had. And so he stopped in his advance and called after her again, much pleading adding its weight to his tone, “Please, Rose.”
She turned on him then and he discerned immediately why she had not done so in the first place. She was crying, evident by her red and puffy eyes and the trails of tears that marked their way down her cheeks. She looked absolutely miserable, and all of his own need for comfort vanished as his concern for her grew.
“Rose,” he said, his voice in utter agony, “Whatever has happened?”
“You left.” The words were like a bullet in his chest. Her voice was traumatized and full of aching. Her lush lips were moist and swollen from the tears that drained onto them.
He hadn’t left a note. He hadn’t even thought to leave one. He hadn’t thought of her at all when he received the missive from his steward, Mister Danvers.
Robert took two steps towards her and then stopped as she looked like an animal preparing to bolt. “No, please, let me explain,” he hastened to say, holding up his hands in surrender. “I was called away on a matter most urgent last night.”
He coughed at the discomfort working its way up into his throat as he recalled the death of Mr. Long. It was difficult to discuss, even with her. Especially with her. He didn’t want her to taint her with his flaws, his weaknesses. His demons. But he had no choice. He no longer needed to tell her what happened to seek consolation for himself. She needed to know.
He looked into her despairing eyes.
She didn’t just believe that he’d left. She believed he’d left her, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
He would never leave her. He had made a promise and not one that he took lightly.
“One of my farmers died most unfortunately last night, leaving behind a widow and five young children. I had to go. I should have left a note,” he added taking a tentative step forward. “I should have and I realize that now. It just all happened so quickly. I’m so sorry I frightened you. I meant what I said yesterday, I’m not going anywhere.”
Rose’s face, which had been a crumpled by her pain, melted into a mixture of shock and horror and self-disgust. “It is I who am sorry,” she gasped.
Rose was the one to close the distance between them, taking Robert’s hands into her shaky own, squeezing them to show just how much she meant the words she spoke.
“Here I was, selfishly thinking only of myself, while you were dealing with…” She tra
iled off, clearly at a loss for what to say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It is alright. It is better now that I am with you.”
One of her perfect, porcelain, ungloved hands reached up and brushed a stray tear from her equally perfect, porcelain, unmasked face. “I just… I thought you had left me,” she said, choking on each word.
Robert reached for her and pulled her to him. “Never,” he promised.
Then he kissed her and the moment was magical. The birds were singing and the sun shined down on them in spectacular delight. It was a moment of pure joy.
They were both laughing then, both hopeful and happy, and Robert smiled, brushing her nose with his. “What did you think? I left my mother and sister here to clean up the mess I’d made?” he asked, amused.
Rose gasped in realization. “I really had not considered that. I can’t honestly say I even knew they were still here. I didn’t think,” she said, shaking her head.
“You are forgiven. But only if you promise to forgive me,” Robert said, pulling her tighter.
She giggled, lightly, like a dusting or tickling in his ears, and he could honestly say that the sky could be afire above them and he wouldn’t have noticed in that moment. All that he noticed was her, and all that he felt was the tightness in his chest that was undoubtedly the physical manifestation of the emotion called love.
Chapter 21
Left alone with an entire empty household at their fingertips—empty if one did not count the dozens of servant’s—the two could have decided to do anything. It was already scandalous enough were they to be found alone in each other’s company, why not give the scandal merit?
And yet, nothing truly scandalous happened over the course of the next hour.
They had just recently—very recently—admitted their own emotions to themselves, and had even more recently declared their love for each other. But while their chemistry was undeniable, neither felt the need to display that love in a carnal fashion. Instead, they did something far more appropriate—and what some would consider entirely mundane—picnic on the grounds at the edge of the pool.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 25
