“Now, don’t be childish,” he said.
That seemed to rile her even more. “Oh, God, how I hate you!” she cried. “I can’t believe that I asked you to come to me last night. I must’ve been mad.”
He stared at her unlovely face for what felt like a long time, forcing himself to stay calm in the face of her anger. Her normally pale cheeks carried two splotches of scarlet, and a red wash was making its way up her neck. His gaze dropped to the sharp points of her collarbone. They seemed too prominent on her meagre chest. There was nothing of her at all, really. All skin and bone, but for all her size, she was practically vibrating with rage and passion.
When he felt he had himself under control he said, very calmly, “I realise that last night I was tactless—”
“Tactless?” She laughed at that, or rather half laughed, half sobbed. “Showing your disgust, you mean?”
Genuinely shocked, he immediately protested, “No! I didn’t mean that. It’s only—” And then he broke off, because how could he possibly explain? He frantically searched his brain for an explanation that wouldn’t insult her. She saved him the bother.
“It’s only that you didn’t want to marry me—or bed me. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Rose…” He trailed off. God, what could he say? It was true, and she’d worked it out easily. And now she probably hated him. Well, maybe that was for the best. He could never be what she wanted anyway.
She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders began to shake. She was crying. He reached out a hand and touched her arm gently, uncertainly. Immediately, she thrust him off with a violent gesture. “Don’t ever touch me again.” This time, she didn’t raise her voice. Instead, she spoke with a quiet emphasis that he couldn’t mistake.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was. She didn’t respond. Just whirled round and yanked open her bedchamber door, slamming it behind her. The fumbling scrape of the key in the lock sounded somehow panicky.
At first, he just stood there, dumbfounded. Then, feeling foolish, he moved close to the door. “Rose,” he said in a low voice. “Rose, are you all right?”
Silence was his answer. He knocked on the door and called her name again, louder this time. And again. Nothing. Eventually, feeling foolish and hoping no-one had overheard their exchange, he entered his own neighbouring bedchamber.
He could, of course, enter her bedchamber through the connecting door. He had a key. She could not deny him. He was her husband. Her lord.
But he knew there was no question of that happening. The least he could do was grant her privacy.
He lay awake for a long time. Not merely sleepless but waiting, though he knew not what he waited for. He didn’t expect her to knock on his door, after all.
Perhaps he waited for the realisation that settled on him in the early hours of the morning: that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be forgiven.
He regretted the pain he’d caused her, but she wasn’t the only one nursing wounds. The memory of his last meeting with Tilly still hurt. He’d not told Tilly everything, but he’d said enough that she knew it was not his choice to marry. She’d been sweet and understanding, but she’d had tears in her eyes too.
No, Rose was not the only one who’d been hurt.
Rose said she never wanted him to touch her again. The sentiment mirrored his own feelings precisely. After a week of oppressive politeness, this sudden, raw honesty between them, painful as it was, was something of a relief. Perhaps it was better. Perhaps it was even worth his dishonour.
As the clock on the mantel rang three dull chimes, Gil made a decision. He wasn’t going to wait at Weartham a week. He was going to go back to London tomorrow. Despite their differences, he and Rose were in perfect accord on the desirability of that course of action. He was going to save them both a lot of pain and trouble by leaving Rose alone, just as she wanted. Just as they both wanted.
Rose woke late the next morning. She glanced at the clock as she sat up and reached for the bell rope. Half past ten! It must have been the exhaustion of the long journey. She was normally awake long before now.
As she waited for Sarah to appear, the events of the previous evening came back to her. The mortifying argument with Gil. Her outburst. Lord, he’d looked shocked! She groaned, remembering her words. “I wish to God I never had to set eyes on you again… I hate you… Don’t ever touch me again…” She regretted her outburst now. She’d been so determined not to let him see how much he’d wounded her, but last night, she’d showed him that soft, hurt, raw part of her, and now she felt naked and exposed. She was still groaning when Sarah entered the room, a pot of hot chocolate on a tray.