He saw, at last, what he’d done to her. And he hated himself.
“I truly did not think,” he said at last, “that you would hear about the—the other women. I certainly did not think you would care. You said—the night before I left you at Weartham after the wedding—you said you never wanted me to touch you again. That you wanted nothing further to do with me.”
“And do you blame me?”
“No. No, I don’t. I know I behaved abominably. All I can say is that I felt so very…” He paused, searching for the words that would explain his appalling behavior, and added finally, inadequately. “Cheated.”
She gave another of those scornful laughs. “Well, you were not the only one. I thought I was marrying someone willing. When I learned how you really felt, I wanted to shrivel up and die.”
He swallowed, sick at heart. “I’m sorry, Rose.”
She turned away from him and opened a drawer of the armoire. There was something about her bowed head and slumped shoulders that made him want to pull her to him and never let her go but he knew, instinctively, that she’d shove him away. Instead, he stood, impotently waiting as she selected a nightgown from the drawer. Only then did she let the last layer of her clothing, her shift, fall in a puddle around her feet.
For a moment, she was naked, the elegant line of her back long and ivory-pale in the candlelight. The next moment, white linen spilled down her body to cover her, pure and demure and remote.
When she turned back to him, all the anger seemed to have gone out of her. She looked bone-weary.
“For what it’s worth,” she said dully, “I’m sorry you had to marry me. If I’d known you were unwilling—if I’d known you were all but promised to Tilly Drayton, I’d never have agreed to it. But there’s nothing to be done about it now. Your love is married to someone else, and you are married to me.”
Her hand went to her belly. He wanted to slide his own hand over hers. Wanted to feel his child inside her and tell her how much the baby—her and the baby both—meant to him. But when he reached out to her, she flinched back.
“Rose, please, I—”
“I wish I could release you,” she continued, interrupting him. “But there is the child to think of.” The sight of her small hand resting protectively against her belly made him ache.
“I don’t want to be released,” he whispered. “Everything’s different now.”
I love you.
Maybe he was a coward, but he didn’t think Rose would welcome a declaration of love from him right now. Plainly, she did not return his feelings, and that discovery, though hardly a revelation, was proving to be surprisingly painful. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said instead, after a careful pause. “I was selfish and thoughtless, but I did not intend to cause you pain.”
She sighed and looked away. “I’m tired.” And he could see that she was, her eyes shadowed with weariness, her face drawn with exhaustion.
“I’ll leave you to your rest,” he said. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”
“Fine,” she said tonelessly, not even looking at him.
He let himself out of the bedchamber as she was climbing into bed. Once he’d closed the door behind him, he leaned against the wall for a moment, feeling gutted and empty.
The house was unbearably quiet, the atmosphere heavy in the aftermath of their dispute. He had no wish to spend the rest of the night here, replaying their conversation in his mind.
He strode downstairs and called for the carriage.
Chapter Twenty
The first twinge woke Rose in the early hours of the morning.
She came to, blearily blinking into the blackness. And then she felt a cramping pain, low in her abdomen. After a moment or two, it was gone, but in that moment she came to full wakefulness, fear quickened her heart. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide and alert, staring at the ceiling as she waited.
Nothing.
Several minutes passed of nothing. Her panic faded, and her eyelids began to droop. And then it happened again. The same low cramping she was used to experiencing during her courses.
And she knew.
She put her hand between her thighs, and her fingers found unexpectedness wetness, a sticky, quick-drying sort of wetness. Even in the profound darkness of this ungodly hour, she could see that whatever coated her fingers had colour. And she could smell the faint coppery tang of blood.
“No,” she whispered into the indifferent darkness. “No, God, no.”
Shaking, she sat up.
“Gil!” she called. Then again, louder. “Gil!”
He couldn’t hear her. She sat up and got out of bed. Her legs felt wobbly. She felt something trickling down her thigh in a thin line as she stumbled to the connecting door between their chambers. She could ring for Sarah, but she wanted her husband.