The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (20 page)

Almost against his will, he moved closer to her until they stood just a hair’s breadth apart from one another. He wanted to kiss her, to take on the weight of her world as though it could be transferred through her lips. He wanted to taste her. To hold her.

This was even more startling a revelation than before.

His fingers moved—at will, it would seem—to play in the tendrils falling about her neck. His gaze was drawn to the curve of her ear, the long line of her neck, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

She swallowed, and he watched the slight bob within her throat. It took every ounce of his willpower to refrain from kissing her there, from trailing his tongue over the bump and feasting on the taste of her.

But he—Lord Roman Sullivan, Widow-Maker, Betrayer, Murderer—today he’d added a new title to the litany.

Character Despoiler.

He had no right to take what he wanted from her.

With tremendous effort, he removed his hand from her person and took a step back. It did not matter that she already had a sullied reputation within the community. It did not matter that she refused to refute the claims against her.

He—Roman—should never, ever, do anything to further besmirch her name.

Yet he’d just committed himself to do precisely that.

“Well,” he said, backing away several more steps and straightening his coat, lest he use his hands for something decidedly more noteworthy and undeniably less honorable. “I should go then. Leave you to—to preparing. I’ll be back shortly.”

Then before she could stop him, he left her standing there and made his way around the house.

Damn him. Damn him to hell and back again.

Lord Roman sat opposite Bethanne in the blue parlor, he behind a desk where he was scribbling away at some ledger or another from Hassop House, and she behind her escritoire where she tried to determine how to allocate the funds due from Uncle Drake any day now.

Even though half the room separated them, tingles of awareness trickled along her spine at his presence. It was all she could do to keep her focus on her figures, and not look up at him every few minutes.

Since he’d returned yesterday afternoon, not long before teatime with a trunk and an entirely too sparse supply of possessions, she’d been unable to think of little else. In particular, she found it increasingly difficult to think of anything but the fact that she’d desperately wanted him to kiss her out in Aunt Rosaline’s rose garden.

Well, aside from what a ninnyhammer she was for agreeing to allow him to stay in the first place.

She was a fool. Plain and simple. Surely, the staff at Hassop House was aware that he’d moved his things from the dower house to the Cottage at Round Hill. Within days, if not sooner, word would have spread into town. And then how long would she have before Uncle Drake heard about it from Mr. Talbot or one of the other merchants? Or how long would it be before someone thought to send word to her father about what an immoral woman she’d become?

Yet, bother and blast, she needed his help. Despite however wrong allowing him to stay with them might be, she couldn’t think of a better solution.

In particular, she needed his help at night. For when night fell and everyone took to bed, Aunt Rosaline was at her most unpredictable. His presence at the cottage at night, even if he didn’t take a room and sleep there, would undoubtedly be noticed as quickly as his moving in would be.

The last week had been rather troublesome—perhaps the most problematic of all the time Bethanne had spent with Aunt Rosaline. This time of year was always particularly bad for her, when winter was settling in and the memories of waiting for Lieutenant Jackson’s return weighed heavier than in other times of the year, but it had never been quite like this before.

It seemed that, though there had been the one lucid interval, Aunt Rosaline had gone from having two or three episodes a week to having two or three a day.

Some things in life were far more important than protecting a reputation Bethanne no longer possessed.

A knock sounded at the door, and Bethanne jumped. Her family couldn’t possibly have already found them out, could they? With wide eyes, she looked over at Lord Roman.

“Sorry,” he said calmly, pushing his chair back from the desk so he could rise. “I should have warned you to expect Milner this afternoon. We’re to have a daily meeting about Hassop House affairs.”

“Oh,” Bethanne mumbled, trying to calm the rapid pace of her heartbeat.

She stood as he left the parlor and made her way toward the front door to answer it. By the time she reached the corridor, Mrs. Temple was coming in from the back of the house with a duster in her hands, trying to get to the door. He reached it before either of them could and opened it, as though he were the missing manservant at the cottage.

Bethanne shook her head slightly, dumbfounded. What was she to consider him? She didn’t know, any longer.

Lord Roman ushered his butler into the parlor then gestured for Bethanne to precede him into the room.

“I’ll just have Joyce prepare a tea tray for you, then,” she said sheepishly.

He cocked his head at her, then shook it, halfway scowling as he did so. “That won’t be necessary. Milner won’t be here long. Won’t you join us?”

She must have looked quite the fool for standing there, staring at him for so long.

After several moments, he stood up straighter. “I apologize, Miss Shelton. Would you prefer we take our business elsewhere? I’ve no wish to make you uncomfortable within your own home.”

“No, that’s not…I’ll just—” She was blubbering just like the fool she knew she must look to be. “Pardon me,” she finally said and turned, making her way up the staircase. To do what, she had no earthly idea—other than simply to get out of his presence, since she couldn’t seem to put more than two words together when she was around him today. Good gracious, what was happening to her? And why was she allowing it?

But how could she not?

In the week since he’d taken up a room at the cottage, Roman was astounded at the amount of work he’d accomplished. Not only had he installed locks on the door to his chamber, ensuring that he couldn’t escape and accidentally hurt one of the women under his care during one of his nightmares (or, heaven forbid, the boy), but he’d also created an ordered list of other tasks to tackle, checking them off as he completed them.

While initially, Milner had vehemently argued against Roman moving from the Hassop dower house to the cottage, citing the staff’s previous insubordination, he now agreed that the stewardship of Hassop House had not been neglected in the slightest.

The daily meetings, taking place each afternoon at Round Hill, had proven to be an ingenious installation. Indeed, were he still living at the dower house and not at the cottage, Roman had the sense that such meetings would still be incredibly useful. They were working together quite well, formulating plans for renovations and the hiring of new staff, amongst countless other projects.

He should have thought of it when he’d first arrived. After all, Roman had met with his fellow officers on a regular basis for over seventeen years in the Dragoons, sometimes hourly, depending on the situation. Meetings like that allowed for the free flow of information.

Best of all, since he was only as far as at the Cottage at Round Hill, should any new problems arise at Hassop House, he was only a brief ride away.

All in all, Roman was quite pleased with the turn of events. Well, apart from the fact that Miss Shelton still scurried away as soon as Milner arrived each day. For that matter, she seemed entirely more unsettled in his presence than she had been before, blast it all. He had the sinking sensation that his near-kiss in the gardens was the cause for her discomfort. Even more reason he should resist such improper impulses in the future.

Perhaps the best result of him taking up residence in the cottage was the lack of nightmares taking control of him. Not once in the entire week had he awoken in a cold sweat while imagining himself in the throes of battle. It could still happen at any time, so he was sure to maintain his vigilance in taking precautionary measures to protect the household, but he couldn’t help be pleased with the path such things had taken.

Lady Rosaline, Finn, and the three servants, Roman had duly noted, had not taken up a similar inclination as Miss Shelton and instead seemed often to search out his company.

In the early afternoons, after he’d arisen from his sleep, Mrs. Wyatt and Finn frequently joined him in the parlor or the music room, wherever he’d gone that day to sort through a cost analysis on certain crops or a report on rents due from the tenants on Herringdon lands in the area. Finn would often ask Roman to play with him, despite his nurse’s admonishment to “Leave his lordship to his work.” He didn’t mind. While the boy had a bit of a willful streak, he was far more often a delightful reminder to Roman of what it meant to be young and carefree, two things he’d not been in a great many years.

Later in the afternoon, Mrs. Temple would often come searching for him to bring him in for tea with Lady Rosaline. Whether the lady recognized him or not on a given day, she always seemed to enjoy his presence, and Mrs. Temple rather enjoyed the brief respite from her duties, if her frequent winks and sly looks in Roman’s direction were any indication.

Then in the evenings, after the kitchens had been cleaned from the day’s meals, it was not at all uncommon for Joyce to seek his company. She’d rather taken a liking to long-winded discussions of the Gothic novels she so often read to Lady Rosaline, and he was more than happy to give his opinions on most any matter.

It was only Miss Shelton who seemed never to seek him for something.

She wasn’t avoiding him. Not precisely.

She’d be in the parlor in the late mornings, when he’d rise and join her. And she’d stay there for a while, poring over her own ledgers or correspondence, or something else of the sort. But then, before he’d been there for too long, she would find some excuse to leave him, something of dire import which required her to go.

Then, when it was time for tea, she’d join them in the parlor—at least for as long as could be considered the bare minimum for politeness’s sake—before scurrying off to complete some task or another.

In the evenings, she’d come down for supper and do her best to avoid his gaze as they ate, then beg to be excused as soon as the dishes were cleared away.

Even during the after-supper gatherings, when Finn was off in bed, fast asleep, and the rest of the household was gathered to hear the Gothic novels and do some sewing, while Miss Shelton was present, she still seemed to be distant.

Roman had no doubt that he was the cause of her discomfort, but damn if he knew what to do about it. Well, other than leave, but that was out of the question.

Even now, as he came into the parlor for afternoon tea, she looked up at him from her divan with troubled eyes, which then darted out into the corridor for a moment before the door closed and finally rested on him again.

It was as though she was imprisoned and he was her jailor.

Lady Rosaline, today, had not been awaiting the arrival of her beau…but she also didn’t really know who any of them were. She seemed to recognize Mrs. Temple a bit, but was leery of the housekeeper still.

At least she wasn’t screaming and crying, however. Just fretful.

She wore a lovely periwinkle blue gown today and was seated beside the window, looking out through the opened drapes at the steady stream of snow falling on the landscape. When he entered, she looked up and smiled at him. “I wasn’t expecting callers on such a dreary day as this. How very kind of you, sir.”

A gentleman caller today, was he? Roman supposed he could play that part, though he was dreadfully out of practice. He hadn’t called upon a lady, not in that fashion, since well before his days in the military.

While she was looking out at a passing horse and rider, he snatched up a bouquet of dried flowers from the mantle and carried them over to her.

“Lovely flowers for a lovely lady,” he said, sweeping an elegant bow for her.