Unforgivable(61)

He let out a humorless laugh. “Well, you wanted to come to town, Rose, and here you are. This is how it is in London.”

“When I came to London, it was to talk to you. I certainly didn’t come here to flit from party to party, or to sit in a stuffy drawing room all afternoon, day after day, making idle chitchat with people I don’t know and don’t care to know. I only ever wanted to take my place as your wife, but you’ll never let that happen, will you, Gil? You had no choice about marrying that ugly girl, and I’ll never be allowed to forget that! And it’s going to be like this forever, isn’t it? You hating me and making me pay, even—even when you’re sharing m-my b-bed!” She halted abruptly, shamed by her rising hysteria, by the tremor in her voice and the sudden flooding of her eyes. She slumped against the side of the carriage, hiding her face in her hands as she began to sob.

“Rose—” Gil uttered her name into the silence, a shocked plea that she ignored. She felt him stand, then move his body into the seat beside her. He leaned over her, brushing aside a few tendrils that had come loose from her coiffure and tugging her hands from her face. She turned farther away from him, toward the window. “Rose, please—” He sighed. “Please stop crying. I don’t hate you. I truly don’t.”

“Well, you certainly don’t like me,” she sobbed.

“That’s not true,” he replied softly. But she thought he sounded uncertain, and when she glanced at him, he looked thoughtful and serious.

For a while, they sat there silently. He rubbed her back awkwardly while she finished crying, the silence between them punctuated by her stuttering breaths and sniffles. When she finally got herself back under control, she felt like an idiot. She’d never been one for fits of tears. It must be the baby, she decided.

She felt stupid now, and transparently desperate. It was childish to crave love and affection from him. She should sit up and talk rationally. But she didn’t want to. It was easier to stay where she was, her head leaning against the side of the carriage, her body obedient to its lurching rhythm. There was something oddly soothing about it.

She must have fallen asleep. When she next opened her eyes, it was to encounter Gil’s shoulder. He was carrying her into the house, a footman with a branch of candles lighting the way. Gil looked down at her, unsmiling.

“You fell asleep,” he explained. “I’m taking you to bed.”

She shifted in his arms. “Let me down. I can walk now.”

“Stay where you are. We’ll be there in a minute, and I’ll help you out of your gown. Save you waking your maid.”

She didn’t want to wake Sarah, and she needed help with her buttons, so she let him carry her. When they got to the bedchamber, the footman withdrew, and Gil put her down. He began to tackle the delicate fastenings of her gown with quite as much skill as Sarah would have shown. Must be all that practice, she reflected bitterly. Then, pathetically, she felt a fluttering of excitement as his fingers brushed her bare flesh.

He peeled away her gown and petticoat, her stays and her shift. He sat her on the bed and removed her evening slippers and garters. He rolled her stockings briskly down her legs. When she was quite naked, he only said, “Nightgown?”

“Nightgown?” she repeated stupidly. By then he was already rifling through the drawers of the armoire. He brought out a delicate thing of silk and lace that she’d only just bought and never worn. When he handed it to her, she blushed but took it and put it on, shivering when the delicate fabric whispered against her skin. It revealed more than it concealed, and she looked up at him, embarrassed but hoping, against all sense, to see interest warming in his gaze.

He wasn’t even looking at her. He was picking up the silver-backed hairbrush from the armoire, apparently quite genuine in his stated intention to act the part of her maid. She’d already pulled the pins out, letting the mass of her hair fall to her waist, and he therefore applied himself straightaway to the task of brushing it out. Long strokes of the brush, from the top of her head all the way down. Slow, soothing strokes, one hand pulling the brush, the other smoothing down her hair after.

Such an innocent intimacy. The palm of that smoothing hand was warm and broad, and it gentled her till she felt quite boneless. Little by little, she relaxed against him, until her back was against his chest and the silver hairbrush lay discarded on the mattress beside him. His arms came round her, and she felt something—his cheek?—rubbing against the top of her head. She sighed.

After a while, he murmured, “Ready to go to sleep?”