Why would he worry about hurting me if he did not care about me?
He was a rake. A charmer. He knows exactly what to say to people—especially women—to get what he wants.
But he was the one who pursued marriage. Pushed for it. I was ready to go to bloody Yorkshire!
Because you would not be his mistress.
Mistress.
The word clicked into place in Rose’s head. His former mistress was Katherine Carterton. Kitty.
He still wants to be with his mistress.
Rose fought the urge to use Thomas Ashton’s cane on his own head. Instead she slowly extracted herself from his grip, watching for any signs that he was waking up. He stirred once, his hand reaching out, and Rose put a pillow in the crook of his arm. He curled around it, burrowing deeper into the mound of pillows, and let out a long exhale.
Sleep well, you bastard. Tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day.
She should wake him. Demand an explanation. But as she watched Thomas sleep, Rose realized she did not want to. She did not want to hear a spur of the moment excuse, no matter how truthful. She wanted to think, to go over everything that had happened, to figure out what she might have missed. To let her pain run its course and find a center.
Rose looked around. She had to get out of this room, but wasn’t sure where to go. The clock told her it was almost midnight. Most of the house would be asleep. She could not go to his bedchamber, certainly. She grabbed her dressing gown and slipped it on, annoyed that there was no sash to tie. She found the errant strip under a pillow at the edge of the bed and yanked it free. Barefoot, she padded to the door and slipped out, leaving it partially open.
Moonlight through a window at the end of the hall provided enough light that Rose could make her way to the front stairs. She headed down, clinging to the banister. She paused at the bottom, considering which room would be best for refuge and time to think.
The library. She knew Ashton House had a good one, and she found the door unlocked. She stepped inside, taking stock. The large room had an intimate feel, despite its size. Three walls held mahogany bookshelves lined with leather volumes, closing in the room and dampening sound. On the fourth wall, floor-to-ceiling windows flanked a massive fireplace, now cold and dark. In front of the fireplace, an apparently unorganized seating area clustered together two leather sofas, three wingback chairs. A worktable with chairs sat at a haphazard angle near one of the windows.
One of the sofas held a neatly folded woolen blanket, and Rose grabbed it, wrapping herself in it as she curled up on the sofa, drawing her knees almost to her chest. At first, she simply lay there, trying not to think, listening to night sounds of the house. Then, outside the window, a nightingale set up a song, a bright, staccato sound that mirrored the jumbled and jerky thoughts inside Rose’s head, despite her wish not to let them ramble. Other sounds echoed through the home, sounds unlikely to be heard during the bustle of the day. The walls popped and creaked. Upstairs a door opened and closed. In the distance a banging—probably someone in the kitchen.
Her head resting on her bent arm, Rose went through everything that had passed between her and Thomas. That first ball. Their disastrous bargain. Their fights. Their letters.
The letters.
A passage wormed its way to the front of her mind, written when he was at his lowest, his most open.I have not slept much as of late. When I do, I’m plagued by disturbing dreams I’d hoped this trip would alleviate. Perhaps I need more time in your company.
“Dreams,” Rose whispered. “What kind of dreams?” He had been asleep when she’d snuggled in next to him, rousing only when she’d said goodnight. Were the dreams that plagued him of Katherine Carterton?
“What on earth are you doing down here?”
Rose jerked, and tried to push up, but she’d wrapped the blanket too tightly around herself and almost fell off the sofa.
Emalyn stood in the doorway, watching Rose fumble a moment before waving her to stop. “Lie down. No need to get flustered.” She carried a small tray holding a steaming cup and a plate with two biscuits. She crossed the room, her feet shuffling on the carpet, and settled in one of the wingbacks nearest Rose’s sofa.
Rose curled into the blanket again, her back against the leather cushions.
“But you do have to answer the question.”
Rose shook her head, unsure of what to say.
Emalyn set the tray on an accent table near her chair and picked up her cup. “I’m down here because I thought some hot milk—and a biscuit or two—might help my head.”
“It still hurts?”
Emalyn nodded, then sipped.
“Emalyn—”
“I know. Philip has already told me that if I do not let the doctor come here, he’ll pick me up and carry me there. And, unfortunately, that man can carry me anywhere he wants, if he sets his mind to it.” Emalyn nibbled on a biscuit. “So tell me, what did my son do?”
Rose squeezed her eyes shut as they began to sting.
