Unforgivable(14)

Those initial minutes had been exciting. Despite how it had ended, she was curious to discover more. But she was a woman—she would have to wait for her husband to visit her.

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, she frowned. Did she have to wait for him to visit her? Perhaps he thought she had hated their wedding night and was holding back until she signalled that she would welcome him in her bed again? Perhaps he was being considerate? It was a novel thought, and one that made her bite her lip with uncertainty. She stared out the carriage window, not seeing the countryside they travelled through, thinking instead of what she should do tonight, after dinner.

Tonight was their last inn stop. They would arrive at Weartham tomorrow afternoon. It would be very easy to let tonight follow the same pattern as all the other nights of this uncomfortable journey. It would be very easy to simply wait to see what tomorrow night would bring at Weartham. Yet Rose was seized all at once by a need to act. Perhaps her adventurous streak, which had seemed to entirely vanish when she had been ill, was beginning to reassert itself?

She rested her forehead against the glass of the carriage window and imagined going to Gilbert tonight, pulling the bedcovers aside and sliding into bed beside him. He would put his hands on her, and this time, she would put hers on him. She would explore him.

She smiled at herself in the carriage window. She was being ridiculous.

Or was she? Why should she not go to him tonight? After all, what was the worst that could happen? Surely he wouldn’t reject her? He was her husband, after all.



After dinner that evening, Rose retired to her bedchamber as usual. Thankfully, there was a connecting door between her bedchamber and Waite’s so she wouldn’t have to venture into the inn corridor in her nightgown.

Sarah helped her undress and slipped her nightgown over her head. She felt like a child, having a servant dress and undress her. Her nurse had stopped doing all her buttons for her years ago. But she needed a maid now that she wasn’t wearing her old gowns with their practical fastenings. Her new gowns were all frivolous impracticality.

After Sarah had brushed Rose’s hair—a task that took all of half a minute—Rose dismissed her, then sat at the dressing table for a long time, paralysed with uncertainty. The thought of Waite in bed next door was both exciting and alarming. She wondered whether he would be pleased or disapproving of her taking the initiative.

She wandered over to the connecting door and stood in front of it for a long time, her pale hand resting lightly on the wooden panel. Twice she lifted her hand, and twice stopped just before she made contact, feeling uncertain and ridiculous. Eventually, she steeled herself, made a fist and firmly knocked. Her stomach was in knots as she waited. She had to clasp her trembling hands together to still them.

After a moment, the door swung open. Waite stood on the other side looking surprised. His broad chest was bare, although he still wore his breeches. She must have caught him in the act of getting undressed.

He looked very male. Alien to her in every possible way. His chest was lightly covered with dark, crisp-looking hair, and his body was large and hard and muscled. There was no softness to him at all. Rose flushed scarlet.

“Yes?” he said, appearing surprised. “Is something wrong?”

Rose swallowed. “No,” she squeaked. “I just thought, that is—” She swallowed again. “I thought I would—come to your bedchamber tonight.”

Waite frowned and looked away. Immediately, she wanted to sink through the floor. It was quite obvious that her approach was not welcome.

“All right,” he said eventually, his voice unhappy. “But go to your own bed. I’ll come to you in a few minutes.” He closed the door then, and she stood staring at it miserably for a moment before she turned around and walked back to her own bed.

She wished, desperately, that she hadn’t knocked on that door. But there was no undoing it now. So she removed her nightgown and slid under the bedcovers, hoping that it would be possible to stay under them, shielded from Waite’s gaze. As soon as she closed her eyes, she saw his frowning, averted face again.

The minutes that followed felt like an hour to Rose as she lay waiting, staring at the ancient beams in the ceiling, trying to hold back the hot tears that were lodged in her throat. The weeks of doubt had finally coalesced into a firm certainty.

He doesn’t want to be married to me.

She had assumed he felt as she did: hopeful, determined to make something of this arranged marriage. Plainly, he did not. He must have only wanted her dowry. Or perhaps his father did. He certainly did not wish to share her bed. He was probably counting the minutes until he could rush back to London.