Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed (38 page)

She’d made that more than clear.

When he’d settled an allowance on Roberta and accepted financial responsibility for William’s sons, he’d offered Sidonie a stipend, too. At the time, he’d still felt bruised that she’d put her sister before him—how lowering to recognize jealousy was at least partly to blame for his outburst. But even in his anger, he couldn’t bear to think of her scratching out a meager living. He wanted her to be able to buy a pretty dress or a new bonnet.

Some City lawyer had replied on her behalf, rejecting any assistance from the Hillbrook estate. She’d made no acknowledgment of the gift as a personal matter. Her chilly refusal left Jonas feeling like she’d sliced open a barely healed wound. Common sense and self-preservation insisted he left their dealings there. Common sense proved a deucedly cold bedfellow on a winter night and he was near to consigning it to the devil. If he chased Sidonie, he risked humiliation. Humiliation seemed a luxury compared to this endless, gnawing yearning.

In Devon, Sidonie had wanted him. He’d been wrong about so much, but surely he wasn’t wrong about that. Perhaps if he groveled low enough, she’d deign to bestow her favor again. So pathetic he’d become in his loneliness.
All his life he’d imagined that if he claimed his heritage, wiped the stain of dishonor from his parents’ memories, acquitted that brute William for his spite, he’d be happy. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been unhappier.

As he said, pathetic.

Even he was sick of how he moped around Merrick House. He needed a good kick up the arse.

“My lord?” the butler prompted, extending the silver salver with Roberta’s card once more.

Jonas realized he’d drifted off again. His continual distraction was another thing to blame on Sidonie. He’d been hailed as the most incisive financial mind of his generation. Nobody would say that these days.

Roberta was here at Merrick House. Probably to cavil about her allowance—Jonas had hedged the payment with strict conditions to curtail her gambling and extravagance. To hear news of Sidonie, it might be worth enduring a tirade about his stinginess.

His pride really was in tatters.

He glanced at the butler. “Show Mrs. Merrick in and have tea brought, Jenkins. Inform the stables that I require Casimir saddled once my guest has left.”

Roberta must want something—she never came near him unless she did. This time, he wanted something from her in return.

Sidonie let herself out of the tall white house in Paddington and sucked in a breath of fresh morning air. Well, fresh as London air got. Late February offered scant promise of spring, although yesterday in Hyde Park, she’d noticed a few brave snowdrops. This year winter lasted forever.

Or perhaps she carried winter with her.

Shivering, she shrank inside her brown cape. Since arriving in town two months ago, she’d bought a couple of secondhand dresses, but she couldn’t summon interest in ordering a wardrobe befitting her new independence. She barely summoned interest to struggle out of bed each day.

The morning was advanced but hadn’t warmed much from frosty beginnings. As a woman past first youth lodging in an irretrievably middle-class neighborhood, she at least could wander abroad unchaperoned. She was later than usual. It had been especially difficult to rise and dress today.

As always lately, the need to make permanent arrangements for her future nagged at her. For weeks, she’d battled the lethargy that had gripped her since visiting Jonas in Newgate. At first she’d been too heartsick to care where she went, so she’d returned in a fog of despair to Barstowe Hall. But Roberta’s caprices soon grated and Sidonie couldn’t forget how her sister had blithely abandoned Jonas to face accusations of murder.

Life in Wiltshire became increasingly disagreeable as Roberta whined about Jonas Merrick stealing her place in the world—however many times Sidonie explained that if anyone was a thief, it was William and by association, William’s family. Inevitably once confirmed as viscount, Jonas requested possession of Barstowe Hall. This sparked another storm from Roberta, who eventually moved with ill grace and at Jonas’s expense to a pleasant villa in Richmond.

After they left Barstowe Hall, Sidonie decided for the sake of sanity to live apart from her sister. Her birthday had passed and she’d received her legacy. Her own establishment was finally a possibility.

But the actions to make that establishment a reality had proven beyond her.

Staying with a former governess in Paddington provided a stopgap. Each day Sidonie intended to make plans. If only about where to live. But each day passed in a pall of desolation and ended with no more concrete arrangements than at the start. She didn’t want to stay in London. She’d decided to move to the north, Yorkshire or even Northumberland. If only because either was a long way from Devon. But village or city? And right now, she couldn’t manage the journey out of London to find a house.

Instead she spent too many days skulking in her room like a wounded animal, only doing the minimum to maintain health. She hated what she’d become, but didn’t know how to break free of regret and guilt and longing. Hester, her hostess, had attempted to draw Sidonie into her social circle. Sidonie resisted, just wanting blessed numbness.

As time passed, blessed numbness proved harder to maintain. The necessity for action clamored beyond the glass wall that shielded her. Eventually she’d heed the demand, but right now, she drifted with no more conscious volition than a twig in a stream.

Trudging toward the park for her daily walk, she ignored the traffic. Her focus remained on the gray, miserable round of days since she’d left Castle Craven. The gray was almost comfortable now. In this limbo, nobody prodded her to feel anything.

She crossed to Hyde Park. While nothing offered peace, the nearest she came was here among the trees. Blankly she stared into the Serpentine’s green water. She had no idea how long she stood there, not thinking, not feeling, before the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

These days, such awareness of her surroundings was unfamiliar. Vague annoyance more than anything made her raise her bonneted head. She surveyed the area. The oily surface of the pond. Swans. Ducks. Seagulls squabbling over a crust. Children wrapped against the cold like round dolls. A trio of nursemaids gossiping on a bench.

Still that uncanny sense that someone watched her.

Reluctantly she turned. She wasn’t surprised to observe Jonas leaning against the trunk of an elm several yards away. His arms were folded over his powerful chest and he was better dressed than she remembered. While she couldn’t read the expression on his face under the stylish beaver hat, she could tell he wasn’t happy to encounter her.

Still she didn’t feel anything. Grayness permeated her soul to the point where even seeing Jonas didn’t bring her alive.

Jonas waited for Sidonie to start or gasp or run away. But as her eyes rested upon him, she seemed calm. Uncharacteristically calm. She was deathly pale and her face was drawn. Only now that the crackling energy was absent did he realize how essential that quality had been to the Sidonie he remembered.

“Jonas,” she said evenly as if continuing a conversation.

“Good morning, Sidonie.” Through seething anger and his damned invincible, unwelcome delight in her mere presence, he struggled to keep his voice neutral. He didn’t want to frighten her away.

“I assume you’re looking for me.” Her manner betrayed no trepidation. Purple shadows under her eyes hinted she’d slept as little as he had since their rancorous parting. “It seems too coincidental to run into each other.”

She sounded distant, uninvolved. She didn’t sound like the vibrant, exciting woman who had shared his bed. This woman was literally a shadow of her former self. She’d lost weight. He couldn’t see her body under that ghastly cloak, but her cheekbones protruded and hollows formed in her neck.

“I followed you from your lodgings.”

Not even that admission seemed to bother her. Her gloved hands clasped loosely before her and her shoulders slumped. “I suppose Roberta told you where I was.”

That wasn’t all Roberta had told him. “Yes. She came to visit me yesterday.”

Dull brown eyes examined his features as if trying to discern his thoughts. With difficulty he kept his expression cool. “You said you never wanted to see me again,” she said flatly.

“I didn’t,” he said equally flatly.

“So why are you here?”

“Circumstances have changed.”

“They’ve changed for you. I hear you asserted your claim to the title with minimal fuss.”

After deploring his disinheritance all these years, he hardly cared anymore whether he was Viscount Hillbrook or plain Jonas Merrick. Both were pitiful sods. “Once the clergyman’s signature was confirmed, all barriers crumbled.”

“Congratulations,” she said with no warmth, although with no spite either. It was as though she didn’t care. This new Sidonie didn’t seem to care about much. “Is being a viscount all you expected?”

“It has its benefits.” He couldn’t immediately think of any when he stared at the woman he wanted but could
never have. “It means dealing with a lot of toadies and sycophants.”

“So it’s not worthwhile?”

He shrugged. “It’s what I was born for.”

“Yes.”

An awkward pause fell. He’d descended upon her certain of what he meant to say and how he meant to say it. But this wan, impassive girl vanquished his domineering intentions. He’d thought Sidonie vulnerable in Newgate when he’d played the bully fit to rival William. This woman before him now was so fragile, she looked as if she’d shatter into a million pieces if he so much as touched her.

She sidled toward the path, carefully keeping her distance. “I’m glad you got what you wanted, Jonas. I’m glad you’ve reclaimed your name and your parents’ honor is no longer in question. I wish you well. I know you won’t believe it, but I only ever wished you well.”

She must think him the biggest slow top in Creation. Fragile or not, he wasn’t letting her go like this. “Not so fast,
bella
.”

The endearment slipped out inadvertently. He cursed his reckless tongue. He’d promised himself no matter how livid he was, he’d be calm and reasonable and treat her as a beautiful stranger. He’d persuade, not coerce. He’d prevail without unleashing either rage or hurt.

Jonas should have known she’d shoot good intentions to hell. She
always
shot good intentions to hell.

He mightn’t trust himself to touch her, but nonetheless he reached for her arm. Through the cloak, he felt its thinness. His grip gentled, although he’d meant to be stern with her, not tender.

She didn’t withdraw. He had a horrible feeling she hardly noticed his touch. She’d always noticed his touch. Three months apart had turned her into someone he barely recognized. She stood docile under his hand as if nothing united them, as if that tumultuous, radiant week had never existed, as if they were indeed strangers.

Anger stirred but he ruthlessly reined it in. He had a task to accomplish and losing his temper wouldn’t help. “Don’t you have something to tell me?”

She didn’t look at him but her face under the ugly bonnet went deathly white. “No.”

“Don’t lie, Sidonie.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Jonas.” Slowly she turned to him, her eyes glassy. Trembling in his hold, she raised her free hand to her bloodless lips. “Please let me go.”

“Not on your life,” he said grimly, tightening his grip.

“Please… I beg of you.” To his alarm she started to sway. Her complexion developed a green tinge to rival the Serpentine. “Please.”

The Sidonie he’d known would defy him, insist he removed his hand. This woman spoke in a faded voice that made him want to smash something.

“Hell, Sidonie, you break my bloody heart.” He caught her as her knees crumpled and she slumped toward the dry winter grass.

S
idonie basked in warmth and safety. She knew immediately that Jonas’s arms held her high against his chest. How she’d missed this feeling. She’d been cold, so cold since he’d gone away. With an inarticulate sound of contentment, she pressed her cheek into the fine wool of his coat. If this was a dream, she didn’t want to wake.

Reluctant awareness pricked like a knife. Jonas only carried her because she’d collapsed at his feet. How humiliating. How distressing. How…
revealing.

Her beautiful fantasy where Jonas wanted her shattered into bitter reality. She cursed her weakness. She’d tried to eat breakfast, but she’d felt too tired and ill to do more than swallow a few mouthfuls. Last night, she’d forced herself to eat but hadn’t been able to keep any food down.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she gone north immediately after leaving Wiltshire instead of staying within Jonas’s reach? But she was so sick all the time, the long coach journey
wasn’t feasible. And she was grimly aware that if Jonas wanted to track her down, the likelihood was that he would.

“Put… put me down.” For the sake of the pride that was all she had left, she wanted to command, but her request emerged as a breathy whisper.