“To my bedchamber. To sleep.” He made his voice sound faintly surprised and felt like a brute when her shoulders slumped.
“Oh, I see,” she replied in a wavery voice. “Well, good night, then.”
“Good night.” He nodded at her with ludicrous formality and left through the door connecting their chambers.
Inside his own bedchamber, he tossed his clothes onto the floor and stripped off his shirt and drawers again, crossing to the ewer and basin to wash away the traces of her blood.
When he was clean, he threw himself onto his bed and lay for a long time, looking at the ceiling. They were leaving for Weartham tomorrow. He wondered how long it would be decent to stay before he could come back to London. Would a week be too short? The thought of a week, or worse, two, in Rose’s company depressed him. He had nothing to say to her, no wish to spend time with her. No wish to repeat what had just happened, no matter how good his climax had felt.
Was this how life would be from now on? Dreading and resenting the duty visits he would have to pay his wife? It was not the life he had hoped for. Just a month ago, he had been dreaming of a very different marriage to Tilly. One in which he would not dread the marriage bed or feel like the worst sort of boor afterwards for tupping his own wife.
It was almost dawn before sleep finally took him.
Chapter Four
The next day, the newlywed Viscount and Viscountess Waite left for Northumberland, with Cousin Harriet in tow.
Miss Harriet Browne was a lady of around fifty years. Her role in life was that of poor relation to the Earl of Stanhope. For many years, she had been companion to the earl’s mother and, more recently, his sister. Now she had been asked to go to Weartham to live. A companion for Rose for when her new husband was away.
Rose had been informed of this by her new father-in-law on her wedding day. Since she was entirely in awe of the earl and since Cousin Harriet was standing beside him and beaming when he imparted the news, Rose had not felt able to protest. Besides, she had been too busy wondering just how much time Gil intended to spend away from Weartham, if he felt she needed a companion to fill his absences.
The first day’s travelling was brutal. Despite the luxurious upholstery of the earl’s carriage, Rose was jolted and jarred till her bones ached. Harriet pointed out, sympathetically, that it was harder on Rose because she was slender and her bones were nearer the surface, whereas Harriet was more “padded”. Rose tried to smile at this gentle self-deprecation, but her stomach was upset by the constant motion, and it made her peevish.
She liked Harriet, though. Harriet was chatty when Rose felt like talking and silent when she needed to think. Rose felt like she could be herself with Harriet.
She couldn’t be herself with Waite. Gilbert. With him, she felt like a tongue-tied schoolgirl. Not that she had much opportunity to speak to him as they travelled.
After the first few hours, they stopped at a small hostelry. Even by then, Rose felt sick from the lurching of the carriage and the smell of the warm leather upholstery. It was a relief to climb out and walk in the open air. She followed Waite and Harriet into the taproom of the inn, which was far from plush. In fact it was dingy and dark, the chairs and table rough-hewn and uncomfortable.
“My apologies, ladies,” Waite said as he seated them, wiping a rough wooden chair with his fine silk handkerchief before Rose sat down. “But there is no other hostelry for many miles. I thought you would prefer to stop now rather than wait.”
Rose smiled up at him shyly. “Thank you,” she murmured. She felt a little hurt when he nodded stiffly and looked away.
She didn’t feel hungry and merely picked at the food the landlady brought them, unenthusiastically sipping a little ale. She wondered whether, after their meal, Waite might join Harriet and herself in the carriage. But when they left the taproom half an hour later, Waite signalled to a groom for his horse. Apparently, he hadn’t yet tired of his long hours in the saddle.
While she waited for Harriet to climb into the carriage before her, Rose glanced at her husband again. He was talking to an older gentleman who also seemed to be waiting for his horse. Next to the older man, Waite stood a full head taller. He was young and strong and perfectly groomed, from the top of his dark head to the toes of his well-shined boots. When he laughed at something the man said, he flashed white, even teeth and—amazingly—a dimple in his left cheek. Bright-eyed and laughing, he looked almost as youthful as herself, she thought. Perhaps two and twenty wasn’t so very much older than seventeen after all.
Waite turned to his horse which a stable hand was holding for him. He disdained the mounting block, casually wedging his foot into the stirrup and mounting the beast with athletic grace. Rose’s mouth went dry at the sight, and she was overcome with an almost childish admiration for this casual display of physical prowess. She stared at him, eyes wide, like a little girl watching her older brother doing something dangerous and forbidden. And then his eyes met hers, catching her gawping at him. For a moment, their eyes met, and she saw that his smile was gone, his expression very cool now. She couldn’t imagine what he made of her, of her gaucheness, and she looked quickly away, flushing hotly, scrambling into the carriage after Harriet.