Unforgivable(51)

Oh, I do.

“You cannot know,” Harriet went on, “how difficult it was for her when she came here. And what a—success, yes, really, a success she has made of her life here. When I think! My goodness, Gilbert, she was only seventeen years old when she came here. To be mistress of a house like this at seventeen. She has done wonderfully well. Weartham thrives. But of course, you must know. You’ve seen the estate and the books since you came.”

“She has done very well,” Gil replied, his tone suggesting a distinct lack of interest. Harriet frowned.

“She has done more than that,” she said, and her tone was gently chiding. “She has made friends of your neighbours. She has improved the lives of your workers. Did you notice the new roofs on the cottages on the home farm? And the new well? And the schoolroom?”

It was impossible to stay cool with Harriet badgering him.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “And you are right, cousin, she has managed exceptionally well.”

Harriet beamed, but her smile quickly faded. “She will be missed,” she said. “By everyone, but by me especially.”

“Well, why don’t you come to London with us? You will always have a home at Stanhope House—or at the Abbey, if you prefer. My father always said so; you know that.” He didn’t even think about it before he spoke. He’d always been fond of Harriet, even during these last few years when she’d made it plain how she disapproved of him. Perhaps especially then.

She beamed again, at him, this time, quite in her old way. “Oh my dear!” she exclaimed, her voice a little surprised sounding. “What a kind thing to say! As it happens, I’ve thought a great deal about this, and I do wish to remain here. And Honeysuckle Cottage is absolutely perfect for me, I must say. But how very decent you are, Gilbert!” Her warm brown eyes searched his face, and he felt his cheeks warming.

“It is such a relief to see you have not changed as much as I had feared! But I can’t understand why you and Rose—” Her eyes slid past him, and she stopped mid-sentence. “Ah, well, never mind. Here is Rose come to join us.”

He turned to see Rose entering the room, and his heart leapt. He felt as though he’d been transported back months to Grayson’s ball. She wore a green gown, and her hair was dressed just as it had been that night. It was as though his heart thought, Eve, the sight of her gave him such a leap of unexpected joy.

She must have seen something in his face in that instant. A smile began to animate the corners of her grave mouth, tremulous and eager. But then his mind caught up with his stupid heart, and he scowled and watched her tentative smile fade and die away.

Somehow, his mouth spoke conventional words of greeting, and Rose replied in kind, walking toward him. A sudden and overwhelming need to put space between them assailed him. He turned and strode to the fireplace, lifting the poker from its stand and stirring the coals. Once he’d invigorated the fire, he lingered there, staring down at the flames, while Harriet began telling Rose the day’s news, which seemed to involve the betrothal of one of the vicar’s daughters.

He gazed into the glowing embers of the fire until the heat made his eyes smart. Until the physical discomfort distracted and centred him. Only then did he turn back, a polite smile pasted on his face, to join their conversation.

He reminded himself, as he half listened to Harriet, that he had said he would be going to Rose’s bedchamber tonight. To partake of his marital rights.

Why had he done it?

Why had he imagined he could bear to touch her?

He stole a look at her then. She was listening intently to Harriet, her lips parted in a half smile, her eyes sparkling with humour. She was lovely. He felt the full force of her loveliness in his gut, in his hardening cock. Yes, he remembered exactly why he had asked to go to her. Even as he resented her bitterly, he remembered exactly why he had smiled and looked down at her and said, “Shall we go to your chamber?”

God, what fools men were.





To distract Harriet’s attention from her poor appetite, Rose kept up a constant stream of chatter over dinner. Gil didn’t say much, merely maintained the same façade of polite attentiveness he’d been wearing since she walked into the drawing room earlier.

Eventually, the two women fell into reminiscing about their years together at Weartham. Rose wondered what Gil thought of the life they described as they spoke; such a quiet, unsophisticated life. And yet she felt happy to remember it all, in a melancholy sort of way. When the last of the dinner had been cleared away, a deeper sadness settled on her. This life was over now. Harriet would be living here at Weartham, hundreds of miles away from Rose’s new home. And Rose hardly knew anyone in London. She would have to start all over again.