Lord of Secrets (20 page)

Rosalie glowed with satisfaction. She’d found another way to be useful to David. Keeping so much to himself, he’d had no one to bounce new ideas off of, no one to make suggestions or shake up his routine. Even the dreariest of practices had gone unquestioned.

Which made it all the more important to reacquaint him with his neighbors. “The Rushes have asked us to dine with them this Friday,” she said as Farrell withdrew. “Unless you’ve some objection, I’d like to accept.”

David stirred his tea. “I’ve eaten at other people’s tables more often this week than I’ve eaten at my own.”

It was true enough. They’d already dined with the Gowers, the Foulks and the Bells, and even played cards with the vicar and his wife. Each time, David had begun the evening quiet and politely distant, but ended it talking and visibly more relaxed. It was almost as if he expected some disaster to occur whenever he was in a social setting, and even when experience proved him wrong, he saw each success as a mere aberration. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He glanced at her and broke into an unexpected smile, one that lent his strong, chiseled features an appealing lopsidedness. “Oddly enough, I don’t. It’s actually been rather diverting, mixing with our neighbors. It amuses me how surprised they are to find I’m neither a bearded hermit nor an overbearing swine. Some of them fairly goggle in amazement.”

“I think it’s only the ladies who’ve been goggling, David. They seem quite taken with you.”

The smile he’d been wearing vanished, as if she’d just insulted him rather than paid him a compliment. “I assure you, I’ve done nothing to encourage any of them.”

“Well, of course you haven’t—aside from being handsome and clever, that is. I was only teasing you, not accusing you of trying to seduce anyone.”

His smile returned, though stiffer now and no longer touching his eyes. “Ah. Of course.” He stood. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I’m meeting Corrigan in the estate village to have a look at the new building plans.”

“Please don’t let me keep you.”

He left the breakfast room with a bow. Rosalie looked down at her plate, pushing her ham about with her fork. Despite the cheerful answer she’d given David, she felt a strong sense of disquiet.

Why would her husband worry she might think him interested in seducing other women when he showed so little interest in bedding his own wife?

Chapter Sixteen

The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope.

—
William Shakespeare

At the end of their third week of marriage, Rosalie returned with David to London. Though she’d already grown to love Lyningthorp, she wasn’t completely sorry to leave it. Alone with David in the huge house, she was too aware that they were supposed to be on their honeymoon there. She thought too often about the closed door that still divided their bedchambers and about the nights they continued to spend apart, and she sensed that David thought about them, too.

She’d begun to wonder whether waiting for him to change his mind and make the first move was really the wisest course. In the weeks since she’d resolved not to rush him, they’d grown closer, and he seemed more at ease in her company. She still wasn’t sure why he refused to consummate their marriage, especially when his abortive visit two nights before their wedding had left her with the impression he’d meant to confess some amorous attachment. But if he possessed only limited sexual experience, or if some prior encounter had gone disastrously—well, perhaps he might appreciate a little encouragement, or at least some sign of interest on her part.

She certainly felt interest enough. Most evenings as she sat across from David, gazing at his dark good looks or admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the lean, flat plane of his abdomen as he lounged back in his chair, unfamiliar sensations swirled in her—a warmth low in her belly, a tightening in her breasts, a quickening of her heartbeat. She yearned to close the distance between them and experience something like that brief, passionate embrace they’d shared on board the
Neptune’s
Fancy
or that hungry kiss outside her bedroom door.

On the day of their arrival in London, her very first at Deal House, Rosalie hoped they might begin again, only on the right foot this time. It heartened her to think she was now the mistress of this house, too, with its graceful neoclassical lines and high-ceilinged dining room by Soane. Her bedroom here was every bit as lovely as her room at Lyningthorp, but its light, elegant creams and golds held no hint of ghosts or secrets. She spent several long minutes simply standing in the doorway, staring at the wide, inviting bed.

What would it be like to spend the night with David in that bed—to feel his hands in her hair again, his lips on her skin? Perhaps he would join her in her room as he had on their wedding night, still in his dinner clothes, only this time she would have the pleasure of watching him undress. He would strip off his coat, then his neckcloth and waistcoat, then his shirt, revealing the hard muscles of his chest. And then the trousers that molded to his slim hips—no, before he got that far she was quite sure she would leap into his arms, kissing him, clinging to him tightly as his mouth plundered hers. That maddening, pleasurable heat would warm her veins again, making her dizzy with need, until her knees would become so weak she would sink to the floor before him. She would reach for the buttons of his—

“Is something amiss, my lady?” the housekeeper asked, happening upon her.

Rosalie jumped, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming. “No, I was only admiring the room.”

She walked away red-faced but hopeful. Now that they’d traded the stately quiet of Lyningthorp for the bustling sophistication of London, perhaps their nights would be different.

The dinner she shared with David left her feeling even more optimistic. Before they’d left Lyningthorp, the modiste whom Bridger had recommended had made up six new gowns for her, and she was wearing her favorite, a periwinkle-blue silk. David, growing more animated with every detail, told her about the book of Elizabethan poetry an agent had just obtained for him. That prompted her to describe the visit she and her father had once made to a monastery in Verona to see Juliet’s tomb.

“I can’t say whether it was
truly
Juliet’s tomb,” Rosalie admitted, “as Juliet certainly wasn’t in it.”

David actually grinned. “I’m not sure whether I find that disappointing or comforting. You didn’t lift the lid to look, I trust?”

“There wasn’t any lid. It was an open stone casket. It looked rather like a trough.”

“A trough.” He chuckled. “Now do you see why language fascinates me? With a single Old English word, you’ve managed to dispel half the romance of a timeless love story.”

She laughed at his teasing tone. “Not
half
, surely.”

He asked more about Verona, and she did her best impression of the voluble guide her father had engaged there, dissolving into giggles when her accent went awry. David laughed along with her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

In the first days of their marriage, Rosalie had sometimes worried that his feelings for her were more like those of a guardian for his ward than those of a husband for a wife. She knew she was young and rather gauche, and she realized David had married her more out of concern for her welfare than because he couldn’t live without her. But she was beginning to believe, even so, that something in her temperament complemented the sensitive nature he kept buried beneath his reserve.

For David
was
sensitive. She would never forget the sympathy he’d shown her following her father’s death. Whenever he lost himself in talk of books and language, flashes of boyish enthusiasm broke through his customary reticence. And he’d brightened noticeably after each successful meeting with their neighbors around Lyningthorp. The chilliness society ascribed to him—the shuttered gaze, the aloof bearing, the cool silences—emerged only when something troubled him, and that was happening less and less.

When their dinner came to an end, they repaired together to the drawing room. Rosalie went to the sideboard and poured David a drink. He’d seated himself where the light was better for reading rather than on the sofa, but she came to perch with one hip on the arm of his overstuffed chair. “Claret?”

With a questioning look, he accepted the drink she offered. “Thank you.”

“I used to pour my father an after-dinner Madeira every night, but I know you prefer claret.”

“Madeira? I thought your father suffered from gout.”

“Oh, he did, but he persisted in drinking Madeira anyway. I think it was because when my mother was alive, she used to pour him a glass after dinner every night. Isn’t that so tragically lovely it makes your heart ache? He preferred to suffer rather than give up a single reminder of her.” The parlor maid had drawn back the window hangings to let in the late spring daylight, and Rosalie smiled at David, admiring the way the setting sun brought out bronze flecks in his dark eyes. “David, what really made you go to New York?”

“Hmm?”

“The more I learn of you, the more I realize how unlike you it was, especially since you ended up selling the newspaper there. It seems a long way to travel just to see a business you didn’t mean to keep, even if you did wish to learn more about the way Americans speak. When we were on the
Neptune’s
Fancy
, you told Captain Raney you went because you were feeling restless.”

“Did I say that? I’d forgotten.”

“You did, and it left me wondering why you took it into your head to sail to New York when you’d gone thirty-one years without setting foot outside of England.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head—I’d gone thirty-one years.” He studied the wine in his glass. “I’d been feeling increasingly dissatisfied with my life since I passed my thirtieth birthday. And Lyningthorp seemed especially empty this past Christmas.”

“Why was that?”

He reddened. “Well—my dog died.”

The encouraging smile she’d been wearing disappeared. “David! Why did you never say so? No wonder it seemed so quiet there!”

He set his claret on the little table by his chair, clearly embarrassed. “Yes.”

“What kind of dog? Had you kept it long?”

“A spaniel. I’d named him Burr, because he always stuck to my side no matter where I went. That’s how I knew he was dying, in fact, on his last night—he didn’t follow me up to bed. He’d had a hard time climbing the stairs for almost a year, and I would carry him up sometimes, but he never failed to get up and leave a room with me when I went out. On that last night, he just lay by the fire in the library. I went upstairs and changed for bed, and when I came back to check on him, he only lifted his head and looked at me, then put his head down again without a whimper. I spent the night in the library with him, thinking he deserved a little company after all the loyalty he’d shown me. He died in the middle of the night. I’d had him for fourteen years.”

“Fourteen years? No wonder you felt restless. You must miss him terribly.” On an impulse, she reached out and took David’s hand. She was heartened when he offered no resistance.

“Yes, but I’d been itching for months to make some kind of change. Losing Burr was only the final push I needed.”

Rosalie leaned across and kissed him—gently, tenderly, but full on the lips. He lifted his hands to her shoulders, to hold her in what was half steadying support, half caress. For a few brief, blissful seconds, they shared a kiss of such extraordinary sweetness, her heart swelled.

Encouraged, she brought her arms around his neck and leaned into the solid wall of his chest. His arms likewise tightened about her, though his kiss remained lazy and gentle. Desire swept through her, bringing a cartwheeling happiness.
He
does
want
me
.

Merciful heavens, but she loved the way he kissed, and he felt so strong and smelled so good, like shaving soap and antique books. The kiss deepened as David began to return her ardor. The tips of her breasts tightened, and the same warm heat she’d felt between her legs when he’d kissed her after the Meltons’ dinner party came rushing back.

Instinctively, she shifted, transferring most of her weight from the arm of the chair to his lap. She made a soft sound of pleasure deep in her throat.

An instant later he was pushing her off him, jerking to his feet with a look of alarm. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his face pale.

“I was—I was kissing you—”

“Well, don’t kiss me. For God’s sake, it’s broad daylight—”

“It’s nearly nine o’clock. And what difference does it make what time it is? We’re married, and we’re alone here.”

“If I want to be kissed, I’ll—I’ll kiss you myself! I’m perfectly capable of kissing my own wife if I feel so inclined.”

A string of retorts sprang to mind:
When
? and
Then
why
don’t
you
? and
But
you
never
do
feel
so
inclined
. With one glance at his face, however, all thought of arguing with him vanished. He looked so strange, so tense and determined, no words seemed adequate.

Rosalie stared in confusion. He wasn’t angry, but taut with dismay.

Why would David—handsome, urbane, intelligent David—feel dismay at the prospect of kissing his own wife? It made no sense. Not unless he had so little experience of women, or such an unfortunate history with them, he was unwilling to risk putting himself forward even the slightest bit.

She suppressed a tension-laden sigh, wondering how to get to the bottom of his reluctance. “Very well. I’m sorry if I did something to make you uncomfortable. Do come back and sit down again, David, and we’ll both forget it ever happened.”

* * *

The next day, David had an important vote in the House of Lords and was out for the latter half of the day. Rosalie sent a message to her cousin Charlie, informing him she was back in London. On an impulse, she added a postscript.
If you would not mind too much, could you come to Deal House at five o’clock? I have something I would like to discuss with you.

She wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or apprehensive when Charlie arrived on her doorstep promptly at the stroke of five. As the butler showed him in, Rosalie hurried into the front hall to greet him. “Charlie! Oh, I’m so happy to see you. Thank you for coming.”

His thin face split into a grin. “As if I wouldn’t come pelting over here to check on you the instant I learned you were back in Town. I’ve been worrying about you, you know, and wondering how you were faring. How was Lyningthorp?”

“Unbelievably beautiful, like a castle in a fairy tale. You must come and see it for yourself the next time we’re there.”

“Never fear. Now that you’re married, I mean to batten myself on Deal as much as possible.” He winked at her.

She linked her arm through his. “Come and sit with me in the drawing room. We can talk there, and there’s something I need to ask you.”

He glanced at her uncertainly but allowed her to pull him along to the graceful, inviting room with its striped silk upholstery and smoke-blue walls.

They talked for a few minutes about the events of the three weeks since they’d last seen each other, while Rosalie worked up her nerve. Charlie had purchased an ensign’s commission and was waiting to be gazetted into the Royal Fusiliers. He was brimming with excitement, looking forward to joining his unit in France. Rosalie listened as he waxed rhapsodic about commencing his army career and marrying his sweetheart in Shropshire as soon as she came of age.