Bethanne picked Aunt Rosaline’s ring up from the table, put it on her finger so she wouldn’t forget it, and returned to her escritoire. She needed to finish these letters before luncheon, because her afternoon would be quite busy indeed.
She bent her head to her task, and Lord Roman quietly resumed whatever work he was doing this morning, and a good deal of time passed in near silence. Near silence, but not complete silence, because her heart hadn’t stopped thundering in her chest since the fluttery sensation had settled in her belly and refused to cease. Surely it was loud enough he could hear it from across the room, despite his efforts to concentrate on his own work.
A bit of her hair fell down over her eyes. She hastily brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear, then dipped her quill into the pot for more ink. She’d already finished and sealed the letter to Uncle Drake, and now was responding to Jo. Goodness, what should she tell her cousin? She couldn’t risk telling Jo that Lord Roman was now living in the cottage. What if the letter fell into the wrong hands?
No, it was better to leave that out, until such time that they could speak in person. Or until she could decide how to say it in such a manner that no one else would understand her meaning. She rubbed her nose in thought, trying to put into words all of the frustrations she’d been feeling. But she couldn’t.
Instead, she wrote a perfectly boring letter, saying nothing at all, yet filling two sheets of parchment. Jo would see straight through it, of course. She always did. But perhaps the lack of stating anything of import might alert her cousin to the fact that nothing was as it ought to be. Jo had seen how things were, after all. She would understand.
Folding that letter and sealing it with wax, Bethanne let out a sigh. How could she respond to Miranda? If Isaac came to the cottage, not only would the secrets Bethanne had kept about Aunt Rosaline’s health be revealed, but Miranda’s secrets about Finn would be as well. And, devil take it, Bethanne could not let that happen.
Her sister had been hurt once, and Bethanne had been unable to stop it. She’d be damned if it would happen again.
She dashed a stray tear aside and started writing.
Dearest Miranda,
I hope you are well when this reaches you. Give my undying devotion to your Lord Pickford. He’ll always have my heart for loving you as he does, as you deserve.
Rest assured, we are already well aware that Isaac has threatened a visit. Jo and Bethanne promise to do their best to dissuade such a journey, but even with all three of you working together, I don’t know that it can be prevented. If you discover he is on his way, send word as soon as you can so I will have as much notice as possible.
I don’t know what I’ll do to prevent discovery, but I will find something. I will send Joyce off with Finn on a holiday, if I must. But, dear sister, I will not fail you. I don’t care what it takes.
Your sister, forever,
Bethanne
After dashing away a tear, she set the quill down on the table, folded her final letter of the day, and sealed it with wax.
When she looked up, it was to find Lord Roman most decidedly watching her. This was no figment of her imagination.
“What? Do I have ink on my face again?” she demanded far more haughtily than he deserved. She bit down on her tongue for that one.
“Actually, yes,” he said, without even a hint of mirth. “On your forehead, on your ear, your nose, and now on your eyebrow. Not to mention your gown.”
She flushed at his words and at her behavior. She was acting out against him, much as Finn would act out against anyone he could when he was unhappy about something. Pushing her chair back, she rose to rush from the room and repair her appearance.
“I was more concerned by your tears, though.”
Bethanne stopped short at his words, and was forced to fight to rediscover her breath. She shook her head, as though she could shake away his concern or the way he left her tingling with an uncanny want she had no right to have. Staring at the silk brocade sofa, she tried to settle her thoughts.
His booted feet moved slowly across the hardwood floor, coming closer to her. Each breath became more difficult than the last. If he was kind to her after she’d been so churlish and rude to him…she couldn’t handle that.
He stopped only an arm’s distance away from her, perhaps closer. She could feel the warmth of him, sense his breaths that came so much more smoothly than hers. His hand came up, and with the pad of his thumb, he brushed away her tears. That only served to unleash a torrent of them, as though the dam had burst.
Selfishly, foolishly, she wished he would take her into his arms. But Lord Roman would never do something so inappropriate. He was the absolute soul of propriety and honor. Even his reasons for coming to live with them at the cottage were honorable, despite the appearance it would give to the rest of the world.
And, although he did not take her into his arms, he stood there brushing each tear away as it fell, his strong, callused hands gentle on her smooth skin.
When the worst of the deluge had ended, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry her eyes. “Is it something you can talk to me about?”
She wanted to. Bethanne wanted desperately to open the Pandora’s box of secrets and lies, to tell him everything and let him help her sort it all out. She wanted to lean on his strength and honor and damned calmness.
But she shook her head. “No, my lord.” She couldn’t do that to Miranda.
“Roman.” He chucked her beneath the chin, encouraging her to look up into his eyes. They were gray, like the sea on a cloudy, stormy day. “I’ve lived in your home for a week. You should call me Roman.”
The fluttering in her stomach increased and spread through her body until it felt like a swarm of angry bees had taken up residence inside her. “And you may call me Bethanne.”
His hand hovered near her cheek, as though he was debating whether to touch her or not. It took everything in her not to tilt her head, not to stroke herself against him like a cat. It took even more to refrain from stretching up on her toes and kissing him.
But then he lowered his hand and cleared his throat. “Is there anything I can assist you with, even if you can’t explain it to me?”
Bethanne started to shake her head, but stopped herself. “Actually, I need to go into town later this week—”
“Give me your list, and I’ll take care of it.”
She blinked up at him. Then she allowed herself a tiny smile. “I need to visit the bank, my lord. I just thought to ask if you could help me prepare the carriage.”
Roman frowned and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll prepare the carriage, and I’ll drive it for you. And I’ll have Joyce prepare a list.”
He was bound and determined to infuriate her, trying to take all of her responsibilities from her and onto himself. But in this weather, she’d be daft to refuse his assistance with the carriage.
“Very well. Thank you.” She gave him a curt nod. Then, before he could do anything else to either garner her wrath or incite her to kiss him, she hurried away to change her gown and wash the ink stains from her face.
Despite herself, Bethanne was growing more comfortable with having Roman around each day. Well, not entirely. He still always seemed capable of causing a torrent of tingles to race through her with the slightest provocation. But so far, he’d held true to his promise of not pressing her to reveal her secrets. When she told him she couldn’t discuss something with him, he simply left the subject alone.
In the late mornings, when he’d join her in the parlor to work on his ledgers or plan out a new crop rotation for Hassop House, she was no longer anxious to rush away and find something else to do. For that matter, she had even asked for his opinion on how best to utilize the allowance Uncle Drake had sent on for the management of the household.
It had, quite simply, shocked her when the words came from her mouth. But then, when she allowed herself to think about it, it really wasn’t so shocking. He had a good business
sense, and was always very clear-thinking. She, however, had not found thought to be so clear lately.
Even with his assistance, and even with knowing that he was watching over Aunt Rosaline at night, Bethanne had found herself unable to sleep soundly.
She tossed and turned more often than not, with worries over when and if Isaac might arrive on her doorstep, and what would happen to them all then at that point. Would he discover that Roman was living with them in the cottage? Would he discern the truth about Finn’s birth? At the very least, he would see for himself how dire Aunt Rosaline’s condition had become and insist on informing the rest of the family.
Her life had become a big, smelly pile of worry.
Yet when Roman would come and sit in the parlor with her, his always calm presence and quiet strength seemed to envelop her, wrapping around her like a warm quilt.
So when the time for luncheon arrived today, and he had not yet joined her, Bethanne worried even more. He always rose about an hour before luncheon. Every day, without fail—like clockwork. But today, Mrs. Temple poked her head into the parlor to call them into the dining room, and Bethanne was still alone, working at her correspondence.
“Has Lord Roman not joined you yet, Miss Bethanne?” The housekeeper looked as alarmed as Bethanne felt at the realization.
Pursing her lips, Bethanne shook her head. “Should I knock at his door, do you think?” She flushed with heat at the thought of knocking on the door to his chamber. What if he had not yet dressed? But then, she had seen him without a shirt once before and had not expired where she stood from the sight.
“Perhaps it would be better for me to do so,” Mrs. Temple said, with a slightly chastising tone. She chuckled. “At least I’m an old, widowed woman.”
Even more reason they needed a manservant in the house. But who could they find to work for them now, when she was still unmarried and had a gentleman living beneath her roof? It would be a miracle if she could find someone to fill the post.
But Mrs. Temple had not seen Roman as Bethanne had on that morning, when he’d had the crazed look in his eyes and was covered in perspiration. If he were to wake like that normally…
“We’ll do it together,” she said with a decisive nod.
The two women moved as one through the corridors of the house, working toward the back, far away from any of the rooms they typically used, where Roman had insisted his chamber should be. When Bethanne reached up her hand to knock at the door, it opened and her hand fell on empty air.
Roman stared at them as though they’d gone mad, or perhaps as though he had. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy circles fell beneath them, as though he’d not slept a wink. “What are you doing?” He grasped Bethanne by the elbow and pulled her away from his chamber door, not holding her hard enough to hurt her but surprising her by the unexpectedness of the action all the same. “You should never—it isn’t safe. You can’t—”
Suddenly, he released her elbow as though she had burned him and took a step back. Her pulse roared through her body.
Roman pressed his eyes closed for a moment, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh. When he opened his eyes again, he nearly impaled her with the stoniness of his gaze. “For your safety, you must promise me that you’ll never come to my door when I’ve locked myself inside. I implore you.” With a meaningful glance in Mrs. Temple’s direction, he said, “All of you. I know you can’t possibly understand…”
Bethanne pressed a hand to his chest, wanting to ease whatever his suffering may be experiencing but not knowing how, and then just as suddenly pulled it away. She shouldn’t touch him. It wasn’t proper. And he’d pulled back from touching her, as though it had pained him. “You’ve not asked me to reveal my secrets. We will do the same for you.”
He took a series of deep, gasping breaths, and slowly the wildness fled his gaze. Almost absentmindedly, he felt the inner pocket of his coat. Then he nodded. “I presume it is time for luncheon.”
Bethanne didn’t have time to adjust to the rapid change in his demeanor before he took off down the corridor toward the dining room.
What on earth had she almost walked into? And why, when he had taken on the look of a stark raving lunatic, did she wish more than ever before that he’d kiss her?
Roman was growing entirely too comfortable at the cottage. Too comfortable with these women. He’d let down his guard, thinking that, perhaps, his nightmares had come to an end, since he had been sitting up with Lady Rosaline at night and not sleeping until daylight. It had almost proven to be disastrous.
Because of course, the nightmares weren’t gone. He doubted they’d ever leave him completely. Roman had done too many horrible things, seen too much, to ever be free from the screams that haunted his sleep, the visions that accosted him when he was least able to guard against them.
Yet he’d somehow left his door unlocked, and had come out of another episode just in time to prevent Bethanne and Mrs. Temple from walking in on him in the throes of his agony.
What if they’d come in ten minutes earlier? Would it have been one of their necks his hands had been wrapped around and not the bedpost?
He couldn’t take another chance like that. He couldn’t let himself hurt them.
For the next week, every time he entered his chamber, he bolted the locks, and then checked them a second and third time before allowing himself to fall asleep.
Lady Rosaline’s nighttime episodes had slowed again, only occurring on three occasions during that week.
Roman’s nightmares, however, had increased to near daily instances. It was enough to make him fear falling asleep, lest he should neglect to take every precaution possible to protect the household from his madness. He grew ever more anxious each day as he watched over Lady Rosaline in the pre-dawn hours.
He was far from the only person in the cottage failing to sleep enough of late, however. One of his primary reasons for coming to live with the Shelton women was to relieve some of Bethanne’s worries—yet she seemed more tired than ever before with each day, despite the fact that she was no longer being awoken in the dead of night to care for her aunt’s needs.
Every day as they worked across from one another in the delicate blue parlor, she seemed more withdrawn, more scattered, less rested. When he’d ask her how he could help, she would simply inform him, yet again, that he couldn’t.
Short of demanding to know her secrets, how could he root out the truth of the matter? Something was keeping her awake at night still, weighing her down and leaving her jumpy.
It was enough to drive him mad.
The sun was just beginning to rise behind the heavy curtains in the chamber, and the smells of the day starting anew wafted up the stairs to tickle his nose. Coffee, bread, some sort of sausages… Joyce must have already arisen.
Once Lady Rosaline woke, he would escort her down to sit with the cook and then take himself off to bed. Try to sleep at least a little. After all, if he didn’t get at least some sleep, he’d be no good to anyone. Roman had seen the effects that a lack of sleep could have on a soldier, after all. Certainly, the insanity brought upon by not sleeping was not reserved solely for soldiers.
The lady started to stir, so Roman left his chair in her chamber and went into the corridor, so as not to surprise her by his presence. Some days, she knew him well enough to know why he was there. Other days were a different story.
The bed coverings rustled, and he heard the pad of her feet crossing the room. A minute later, the door opened and she poked her head out, scanning the dim corridor. “There you are,” she said when she spotted him. “I knew you’d be here waiting for me.” She placed her hand on his arm, and they made their way down the stairs together.
When they reached the kitchen, Joyce turned to smile at them over her shoulder. “Good morning, Lady Rosaline. And did you sleep well last night?”
The lady took up a seat at the table and inclined her head, indicating he should take the seat next to him. “I did, thanks to Lor
d Roman looking after me.”
He stilled, momentarily taken aback that she recognized him today. She didn’t just know he was there to protect her, but she knew who he was. Such a very rare occurrence. He wondered, briefly, if he ought to wake Bethanne and allow her to experience her aunt’s lucidity. But then he remembered how exhausted she had been lately and thought better of it.
So he sat. After all, a momentary discussion with Lady Rosaline was a far better means to divert his nightmares than taking himself off to bed to await them.
Joyce brought them coffee and overly filled plates to break their fasts, but then Mrs. Wyatt called out from upstairs and Finn let out a wail. Joyce quickly brushed her hands over her apron and excused herself.
Lady Rosaline took a sip of her coffee and smiled at him. “That Finn is proving to be quite the little rascal of late, isn’t he? But then, I’m sure Bethanne realized he would be when she suggested it.”
Suggested it? Suggested what? Roman’s eyes shot up to meet Lady Rosaline’s, but he held his tongue.
“You didn’t know that raising Finn as her son was Bethanne’s idea?” She pursed her lips, like she’d swallowed something sour, bitter. “Damn, I shouldn’t have said anything. But Miranda couldn’t very well go back to society with a child underfoot, and Bethanne had already given up her chance at marriage to come and care for me. I love my niece dearly, but she’s always put everyone else before herself. This time, he put her sister’s chance at a future before her own.”
Roman nodded, letting the new information settle, despite the sudden pounding of his pulse. Finn was her sister’s son, not hers… “That does sound like the Bethanne Shelton I’ve come to know,” he murmured.
The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah Page 16
