0764213512 (R) (33 page)

Rowena sighed. “Aye. I told you about it last week. Or tried to.”

Dread sank in his stomach. Last week . . . she had indeed brought up Lady Pratt—and he had cut her off with a rather frustrated claim that he was tired of hearing about her.

Blast.
It was no wonder his wife held herself always aloof. Why had he not listened? The dread turned hard and twisted.
Listen.
So often he had gotten the impression he must, but he had assumed it a command to listen for the Lord’s whisper.

What if, instead, the Lord’s gentle command had been bidding him to pay attention to what his wife had been trying so hard to tell him? If he had failed to hear her on the simple matter of the resolution of matters at Delmore, what
else
had he missed? It wasn’t the first time he had misinterpreted the Lord, it was true . . . but it may have been the direst.

He had always prided himself on being attentive. How could he be so with everyone else and fail so miserably with his wife? He was a royal dunce.

Lady Pratt laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, isn’t that always the way with husbands? Our words just drift right over them sometimes.” Her gaze drifted yet again to the necklace.

Brice drew his wife back a step, even as he smiled. Catherine wouldn’t try something so obvious as snatching the thing right from her neck, but he didn’t know how quickly she might be developing subtler plans. Though the diamonds and rubies were also family jewels, his mother had never really worn them, always preferring the Nottingham rubies when a gown called for red. Which meant that no one really
knew
they were family gems, so Catherine may well think he’d had the piece commissioned to hide the jewels.

On the one hand, it made him glad he’d instead hidden them among the iconic ruby set—and that thanks to his wife’s unpierced ears, they never left her room. On the other hand, it made him wish he’d only draped emeralds and sapphires and topaz around Rowena’s neck these past weeks. He should have known Catherine would show up at some point and see his gifts.

He looked down at Rowena. Shadows drew hollows under her eyes, and her face was otherwise pale. The company? Perhaps, but he didn’t think so. “Are you feeling all right, darling?”

For once, the only thing in her eyes when she looked up at him was gratefulness. “Not really. I’d thought it just a light headache, but I’m afraid I’m feeling quite peaked now.”

“And here I’ve been chattering at you!” Catherine surged forward, abandoning her brother’s arm in favor of taking Rowena’s other one. “Forgive me, Duchess. We can catch up another time. In fact, why don’t you join me for tea tomorrow? I’ll send the direction for the house I’ve let. If you’re feeling better, of course.”

She actually left her a graceful way out of the invitation, which gave Brice pause. Though Rowena offered a polite smile and, after a hesitant glance at Lord Rushworth, said, “Thank you, Kitty. I do hope I feel well enough.”

His stomach went tight. She wouldn’t listen to him if he tried to warn her against going—and why should she, when he hadn’t listened to her? But he had to convince her not to go. Even if she thought Catherine needed help, thought she could offer it, he could surely appeal to her distrust of Rushworth.

He must. He
must
keep her out of their clutches.

“Go home and rest.” Catherine patted Rowena’s arm and then stepped back beside her brother again. “So good to see you this evening, Duke.”

He forced his teeth to unclench. Forced niceties to his tongue. “And you, my lady. I hope you enjoy your stay in Brighton.”

Her lashes fluttered down, but not before he saw the malicious gleam in her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m sure my visit will provide everything I seek.”

From anyone else, he would have assumed she meant rest and reprieve. From Catherine . . .

He steered Rowena away. “Would you like to go home?”

“Could we?” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I hate to pull you away from the concert.”

“There will be other sopranos, or this one another time. Your health is far more important.” Seeing Ella still stood where he’d left her, he headed that way. Mother was there too. Perfect. He interrupted the ongoing conversation as unobtrusively as possible, speaking only to his mother. “Rowena is unwell, so we are going home. Would you like me to send the carriage back for you, or—”

“Oh, poor dear.” Mother turned her full attention on Rowena, and her brows knit. “We’ll all go. No point in making Jones drive back out in this rain. Is it a headache?”

Rowena nodded. “In part.”

“I’ll call for the carriage and our wraps.” He lifted Rowena’s hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles before he stepped away. Since she would only let him do such things in public, he would take full advantage. The moment watchful eyes were no longer upon them, she would turn away with that perpetual sorrow draping her shoulders.

Until the nightmares seized her again, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later they had all climbed into the carriage under the umbrella Jones held for them, and after another half hour they pulled into the drive at Midwynd. Though glad for Jones’s sake that his family had come home with them, he rather regretted the chatter they provided. He had to speak with Rowena about Lady Pratt and Lord Rushworth. And now, unable to have accomplished it on the drive, he would have to see her to her room for the conversation.

Perhaps he ought to wait for morning and pray she was feeling better? No. If she chose not to join them for breakfast, she could well avoid him until teatime. So after they’d dashed into the house and turned over their wet overcoats and capes and hats, he took her hand again. “I’ll see you up.”

She didn’t bother arguing with him, given that he saw her to her door after nearly every outing.

Mr. Child appeared, clearing his throat as he approached. “Pardon me, Your Grace. But Humphrey returned while you were out. Old Abbott caught him sneaking in. The constable has him in custody in town, though my understanding is that thus far the boy has said nothing beyond cursing us all.”

Rowena shuddered under his hand and turned her wan face up to his. “You’ll need to see to this. I’ll—”

“No.” Was that disappointment in her eyes? He added a soft smile. “Morning will be soon enough to go back out. Constable Morris will have it all in hand. Thank you, Mr. Child. Did he cause any disturbance this time?”

“No, Your Grace. Not beyond stirring up the staff, who were all outraged at his audacity. We can’t think what he was about, trying to get back in.”

An excellent question. Another search for the jewels? Was his purpose only to upset them? Was it mere coincidence that he showed up just as Lady Pratt and her brother came to town?

Brice pasted on a smile. “Let us pray the answers are forthcoming—tomorrow. For now, I’m afraid my wife is feeling under the weather, so if you’ll excuse us, I’ll see her to her room. Good night, Mother. Ella.”

Behind them, the others continued to discuss the Humphrey situation, but Brice ignored them all. He’d spend some time praying about it—again—tonight. Let all the questions swarm then. For now, Rowena.
Lord, give me the words to talk to her. Give me the ears to listen.

She tugged her hand free of his under the guise of lifting her skirt for the stairs. “Ye needna see me up, Brice. Go and tend to this. I know ye must.”

“There’s little I could do just now anyway. And you’re more important.”

“Am I?”

He snapped his gaze to her, expecting her to have shrugged off her peakedness in favor of pique. But no, she still looked ill, tired . . . and emotionally weary on top of it all.

Well, no wonder. How could he have been so blind to how he was treating her? He’d thought . . . He’d thought her wrong. Himself right. And so, all his prayers had been geared toward convincing
her
to listen to reason. “Of course you are.” Yet he knew she didn’t believe him. “I am very sorry if I haven’t made that clear.”

She didn’t even look at him. “Oh, ye’ve made your feelings
verra
clear. Ye’ve let me ken exactly where I rank in your affections.”

“Rowena.” He halted her on the landing, leaping before her to block her way. Wishing her eyes betrayed anger, uncertainty, disdain—anything but the disappointment that made them dull as smoke. “I’ve made a mull of this, but it wasn’t by intent. I want . . .” He wanted to hold her. To draw her to his chest and let their hearts beat in rhythm. To be given the chance to know her well enough to understand the sparks flitting through the smoke of her eyes.

To make her nightmares go away—for good.

With a shake of her head slight enough to prove the headache was still present, she stepped around him. “Why pretend anymore, Brice? I’m not what ye want. I’ll never be what ye want. I’m not . . . enough. Ye’ve no respect for me.”

“That isn’t true! I realize I haven’t listened as I should, but it’s only because—”

“Because ye know best?” She picked up her pace, though her face went even paler. “Oh, aye. Yer judgment is perfect. Except, apparently, when ye judged that ye had best marry me.”

“Rowena.” He felt the puppy nipping at her heels as he followed her toward the family wing, mentally going over every memory from the past six weeks. All the times he had reacted from that basic assumption—he was right, she was wrong. All the times he had followed it up with a charming smile, thinking . . . what? That charm and flirtation would be enough for a marriage? That she would overlook where he ignored her thoughts if he showered her with attention in other ways?

He was a blithering fool.

“Darling, please. I’ve acted an idiot, and I’m sorry. I thought . . . I thought I was giving you time to see my side. I didn’t realize I was dismissing yours so fully.” They reached her door, though she didn’t even glance at him. “I won’t do the same now. I swear to you. But we
must
discuss the danger you would be in if you went to Catherine’s tomorrow with Lord Rushworth there.”

He expected her to shut the door in his face. Instead, she left it wide behind her. He took that as an invitation, though he was careful to advance no more than two steps inside when he saw Cowan wasn’t within. The last thing he wanted was to put her in a panic.

She finally came to a halt with her back to him, her hand pressed to her dressing table. “So ye grant he’s the problem, then? Not her?”

“I . . .” He paused to draw in a careful breath. “I readily grant he is a problem. He is dangerous. I am not, however, as convinced as you that Catherine would be any better were she free of him.”

“Why will ye not let me help her?” Tears burned her eyes, and panic burned her voice. The sweep of her arms was tremulous. “Ye canna ken what it’s like to be always under the control of a man like that. Ye canna. But ye helped me, ye got me free of Loch Morar, of Malcolm, of Father. Is that what you want to hear from me, Brice? Ye saved me. Rescued me. My noble prince, as Ella would say. But it means nothing—
nothing
—if I canna stand on my own. If I canna help another.”

Given a century, he wasn’t sure he’d understand this woman. But in that moment, he knew for a fact that if he spent a century trying, it would be years well spent. The vulnerability made him want to shelter her forever . . . and the steel made him want to kiss her until it melted, and melted him along with it.

Somehow he doubted that would go over well just now. He took the time to draw in a long breath and let it soothe the questions. Let it back out slowly, measuring the moments. “I appreciate that you want to help. I admire it. I would love to see you give aid to others who have suffered as you have. It is just that I am not certain Catherine is one of those women.”

She shook her head, looking so very different from the first time he’d seen her. No hiding behind anyone now, no ill-fitting clothes, no arms folded protectively over her stomach. No bruises, thank the Lord above, marring her perfect ivory skin. Now she stood in the finest silk, her spine straight.

Her eyes flashed, lightning dissipating the smoke. “I grant that ye saw
my
truth quick as a flash. But ye’re not infallible, Brice. Ye’re blinded, in this case, by yer dislike for her husband. But Lady Pratt is just a doting mother and a widow.” She tugged the gloves from her hands with enough force that he half expected the seams to rip. “One too long whispered about and judged. Too long reviled. One who could verra well be a fine woman if taken apart from the men in her life.”

Cowan slipped into the chamber from the dressing room entrance, but Brice kept his focus on Rowena. “I realize you see yourself in her. But, darling, this is what she does. She appeals to one’s vulnerabilities in her deceptions.”

Rowena slapped her gloves onto the table. “Why can ye not admit that perhaps ye’re wrong? Why can ye not see that she’s a victim, an outcast—”

“An
outcast
?” He reached for the magazine his mother had handed Rowena earlier that day, flipped it open to an advertisement. “Does this
look
like an outcast to you? Would anyone pay her to pose and say that ‘Fuller’s Biscuits are the
only
biscuits I serve with tea’ if she were reviled? She has made herself into a celebrity, Rowena, and she revels in every bit of it!”

She stared at the colorful rendition of her supposed friend, and a crack appeared in her wall.

He strode a few steps nearer, now that Cowan was in the room to help her feel safe. “Please, darling. Please don’t be taken in. This is her skill—convincing whomever she’s with that she is like them, that she commiserates, that she’s the perfect friend. But she’ll betray you, just as she did Brook when—”

“I am not
Brook
!” The questions, the crack he’d seen forming, snapped away, replaced by the anger he’d wished for five minutes earlier.

Stupid request, that.

She slashed a hand through the air. “One would think you would be the first to realize that, given how little you esteem me and how highly you esteem
her
! Tell me, darling, how much of the gossip is true? Exactly how close are you? Is it merely that you were in love with her once, or was your little trip to Whitby Park from Delmore that day not so innocent?”