Unforgivable(8)

Besides, she had a new home to look forward to. When her father informed her that she and Waite would be living at one of the earl’s estates on the Northumbrian coast, she had been touched. Her physicians had been saying for months that a period of recuperation in the country, and preferably near the sea, would be the best treatment for her. She had been surprised and gratified that Waite had chosen where they would live with so much care.

She was relieved too that she would be away from town. She hadn’t relished the thought of attending Ton events, even as a newlywed viscountess. Not now, when her old school friends—young girls with apple-fresh cheeks and round bosoms and gleaming tresses—would be making their come-outs. She didn’t want to be presented to the Queen. She didn’t want to watch gorgeous, sumptuous fabrics being pinned around her skeletal form by fashionable dressmakers. She didn’t want to be the inevitable wallflower at the events of the season; a wallflower with a thin, marked face and brutally short hair. Not even a married wallflower, thank you very much.

She was so grateful to be going to Weartham. It would be a welcome respite. A haven. Somewhere to get well again.

Papa had explained that Waite wouldn’t be able to stay with her at Weartham all the time. He would need to spend time in London and at his other estates too, of course, notably at Stanhope Abbey. But perhaps that was a good thing? They would have time to get used to one another gradually rather than being thrown too much together at the beginning. And when she was better, they could travel together.

The thought of what married life would be like consumed her waking thoughts. Lottie had told her about the physical side of marriage. It sounded petrifying, though fascinating too. Lottie had tried to assure her that however frightening and embarrassing it sounded, it could be wonderful, but since that only made Rose think about Lottie and her father together, she had hurriedly cut the conversation short. It was easier, and more pleasant, to think about the other intimacies of marriage: learning each other’s preferences, dining together every day, making plans for the future, bringing children into the world. She found herself reflecting too that, as time wore on, her hair would grow. Hopefully the marks would fade too. Perhaps one day she would be halfway pretty again.

She imagined what Waite would think of that, of the real her. She daydreamed about him coming home to Weartham, after an absence away, perhaps, and being stunned by her improved looks. She imagined his expression, how astonished he’d be, how thrilled. And how she would feel, to have her husband return to her, to their home. Not a stranger by then, but a beloved. Coming home to her.

The idea of that home, a house that had been in Waite’s family for generations and that she need never say good-bye to, thrilled her in ways she could not give expression to. Her first permanent home. A home she would share with Waite. Together, they would be “we”, “us”. The Viscount and Viscountess Waite, man and wife, two parts of a larger whole.

A light tap at her bedchamber door interrupted her thoughts. She drew away from the window and the miserable sight of the driving rain. “Who is it?”

“Lottie. May I come in, cara?”

“Yes, of course.” She went to the door and opened it herself, and Lottie slipped past her. Her long black hair was simply plaited, and she wore a loose crimson robe.

Lottie was not coming to the wedding, of course. Her presence would be scandalous. The bride’s father’s mistress. It felt strange, though, that she wouldn’t be there. For the last few months, she and Lottie had seen each every day. They had even become friends, Rose realised, half reluctantly. She saw more of Lottie, much more, than she saw of her father.

“Not long now, cara.”

“I wish you were coming today,” Rose said suddenly, surprising herself. Lottie blinked, then smiled more widely.

“Me too, cara,” she said softly. “But we can’t go shocking your poor husband’s maiden aunts.” Her gaze moved to the simple primrose gown and matching bonnet that lay on the bed. “Let me help you get dressed.”

She helped Rose into the gown, fastening the long line of tiny buttons on the back with tender care. Then she turned Rose round and looked at her for a long time without saying anything. For some reason, that soft brown regard made Rose feel like crying, and she had to swallow against a lump in her throat.

“You look very pretty, cara,” Lottie said gravely, ignoring Rose’s snort of disbelief. “But a little pale.” She pulled out a small, blue, glass jar from the pocket of her robe and opened the lid; inside was a thickish, oily red paste. Rouge. Rose had never worn rouge before. She let Lottie apply a tiny amount to each of her cheeks.