Unforgivable(82)

Miles frowned. “Is that what you really think? That you trapped him? That I trapped him? That’s rot!”

“It’s not rot,” Rose replied angrily. “Gil had no choice but to agree to marry me—what else was he to do? Impoverish his whole family?”

“He had a choice,” Miles retorted mulishly. “It may not have been much of choice, but it was a choice. The way old Stanhope was playing, he was going to lose everything, one way or another. He was lucky he lost to someone looking for a husband for his daughter. There are plenty of men who’d have kept the properties Stanhope wagered, and they’d have been entirely ruined.”

“He was in love with someone else, Papa!” Rose cried, clattering her cup down on the saucer. “Did you even think to ask if his affections were engaged? Did you imagine I would’ve wanted to marry a man who did not want me?”

“Rose—”

“But you didn’t care about that, did you?” she cried, furious now. “You just wanted to be gone. You just wanted to be rid of me. The opportunity came along to marry me off, and you couldn’t leave England fast enough! I’ve never once come first with you, have I? Have I?” She only stopped shouting when she ran out of air.

The silence that followed seemed unnaturally quiet, the ticking of the clock on the mantel oddly loud.

Miles looked appalled. “Rose…I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. You’re right—I was incredibly selfish—but it wasn’t that I didn’t love you.”

“No?” She laughed bitterly.

“No! I wanted you to be secure. And yes, this was an opportunity. A chance to marry this well wasn’t going to come up for you again. It seemed like—like a safe bet!”

Rose made a disbelieving sound “That’s just it, Papa. You wagered on my future. With as little thought as you’d have given to a game of cards. But I can’t treat this like a game of cards. I can’t shrug my shoulders over the fact that Gil lost the game and had to give up someone he loved. That he did not consent.”

“He did consent. He had a choice—”

“Hobson’s Choice is not choice, Papa! Not when it comes to marriage. When you’re in love with someone, you want them to love you back. You don’t want to force them to wed you.”

“But Rosebud, you weren’t in love with Stanhope. It was—”

“Yes, I was!” she cried. “I fell in love with him at that very first meeting. He was charming and handsome, and he looked like a pirate. He was kind to me without knowing why I was there, and I thought he was wonderful!”

Her father stared at her, and she realised her cheeks were wet.

“He wasn’t awfully wonderful after that,” Miles pointed out, his tone almost curious.

No, he wasn’t. And she’d quickly suppressed that incipient adoration and told herself she hated him, but the truth was, those feelings had never fully gone away. And five years later, on Nev’s moonlit terrace, without even realising it, she’d fallen again. And all the anger and resentment and recriminations that had come later hadn’t stopped her continuing to fall over the weeks and months that followed. Falling, falling. All the way, this time.

“Why don’t you try again, then, if you love him?” Miles asked gently.

“You still don’t understand, Papa, do you?” Rose said, shaking her head. “I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn't set him free when I had the chance.”





Chapter Twenty-Three

When he couldn’t sleep at night, Gil would go into Rose’s bedchamber. She hadn’t taken quite everything away with her when she left. She’d bought new things in London—clothes, cosmetics, trimmings for bonnets she hadn’t got round to doing anything with—and in her haste to be gone, she’d left some of them behind, suggesting in a note that Antonia help herself to whatever she wanted and dispose of the rest.

Gil had thrown the note away. He instructed the servants to leave the room exactly as it was, and as a consequence, it looked as though she’d just stepped out and might return any minute. Several gowns still hung in the wardrobes. One of the smallest drawers in her armoire seemed to have been overlooked entirely—it was brimming with silk stockings in pink and white and black. A few jars of cosmetics and ribbons decorated the top of the armoire.

Sometimes, he handled her things. Sometimes, he just sat for a while. Or lay on the bed. It didn’t make him feel any better, but still he came, most nights.

Tonight, he’d been at his club with James, and he felt as though he’d spent the entire evening fielding questions about Rose. When he’d admitted she’d returned to his estate in Northumbria, there had been a lot of good-natured teasing about not leaving his lovely young wife alone for too long, and certainly not over Christmas when nights were long and beds were cold. He’d made a poor job of laughing along and, in the end, he’d come home early, leaving his brother swilling Port and talking about horses and women with Ferdy.