Unforgivable(83)

Once Crawford had Gil’s coat off, he dismissed the valet, and no sooner had the door shut behind the man than Gil entered Rose’s chamber. He left his candle on the armoire and picked up an ivory comb lying there. Staring at the intricate design, he smoothed his thumbs over the fine carving, remembering Rose wearing it, the unblemished whiteness against her simply dressed dark hair. Putting the comb down, he opened the drawer of stockings and pulled a handful of the fine, silky garments out, letting them drift through his fingers. At length, he wandered away from the armoire and sat on the end of the bed.

He smoothed his hand over the coverlet and thought of the first couple of weeks he’d had with her here. Making love to her in this bed each night before returning to his own. Why had it seemed so vital never to stay the night and sleep beside her? He regretted that now. He regretted many things, of course.

Though not his latest decision: to give Weartham to Rose. He’d told James tonight, and his brother had stared at him as though he’d sprouted a second head, though, to his credit, he’d made no protest.

It had seemed obviously right to Gil as soon as he’d conceived the idea. He’d already been thinking about speaking with James, to ask him to agree that if Gil died, Rose should be allowed to remain at Weartham. And then it occurred to him that if he and James both died, it would be Cousin Horace who would inherit Weartham. Horace would have no compunction about evicting Gil’s widow.

It was a short step to get from there to gifting Weartham to Rose entirely. Knowing she was provided for, for the rest of her life, gave him some small comfort.

Gil sat on the bed, stroking the coverlet till the clock chimed the hour. Midnight. Sighing, he levered himself up off the end of the bed and lifted his candle from the armoire. He returned to his own chamber, closing the connecting door behind him with a soft click.





The next day, Gil received a note that surprised him. It was from Rose’s father, and it asked Gil to meet him at Brooks that afternoon.

As he made his way to the club, Gil wondered what the purpose of the meeting was. Was he finally to be called to account for his dereliction of husbandly duty? Or did Davenport merely wish to have a discussion about some sort of settlement? Did he know about Weartham?

Gil was the first to arrive. He sat down in a private corner with a newspaper and awaited Davenport. At first, he stared at the pages unseeingly, waiting for the other man’s arrival, but after a while, he got drawn into an article.

“Good afternoon, Stanhope.”

He raised his head, startled and annoyed that he hadn’t noticed the older man’s approach.

Davenport looked different, his face darkened by the Mediterranean sun. His eyes glinted silver, and his teeth flashed white in a brief smile. He still looked too youthful to be the father of a grown woman.

Gil stood and held out his hand stiffly. “Davenport.”

“Sorry to be late,” the other man murmured, shaking Gil’s proffered hand briefly and taking the opposite chair.

A waiter brought wine and glasses, and Davenport dismissed him with a wave of his hand, pouring the wine himself before settling back in his chair, glass in hand. He seemed in no hurry to speak, and it was Gil who eventually broke the silence. “Why did you want to speak with me?”

Davenport smiled. “Why do you think? I wish to talk about my daughter.”

“Oh yes?” Christ, but he’d known he would feel like this when he met Rose’s father. Angry and awkward and wrong-footed.

Davenport regarded him over the rim of his wineglass with eyes that were disturbingly like Rose’s.

“When I left England after your marriage,” he said, speaking softly but succinctly, “Rose was still recovering from a very grave illness.” He paused briefly. “I must say I find her much altered.” The man’s tone was conversational, his expression bland.

“Indeed?”

“Yes. She is a full-grown woman now. She has lost the gaucheness of youth.” He smiled tightly. “And much of its optimism.”

Gil did not look away from Davenport, but he felt his face heat. For all their mildness, the other man’s words were a stinging accusation.

After a brief silence, he leaned forward and fixed Gil with a steely gaze. His voice was still quite deceptively gentle. “You abandoned her in Northumbria as soon as the ink was dry on the wedding contract, Stanhope. It was not well done.”

“No,” Gil admitted, unflinching. “It was not. At the time, the best thing seemed to me to be to leave her there. But I do not make excuses for my behaviour. I behaved badly, and I am sorry for it.”

Davenport watched him with his shrewd gambler’s gaze. “Rose told me you were in love with someone else when you married her,” he said.