Thomas’s abrupt appearance in Lord Blackmore’s gaming room had been as startling to Rose as it had been to the two men. While she would never admit it to Thomas—she barely acknowledged it to herself—but in the moments before he burst through the door, Rose had accepted her fate. While she had fought hard, she had been hurt and pinned, and Rose had known she was about to die. Rose believed no one had seen them take her and by the time anyone noticed her absence from the pack of people in the ballroom, Bentley would have already violated and killed her, fleeing down the servant’s stairwell to freedom.
It’s what he had told her as he had knelt on her thighs—bruises that were just now fading two weeks later—using his knife to split the neckline and bodice of her dress. When he moved off to complete the destruction of her clothes was the moment she had been able to put a heel into his eye. The cut on her hip had been payback. The first of many, he had told her, once he had taken her virginity. He’d been explicit with his plans for his knife, threats that continued to plague her sleep and appear suddenly in her mind for no reason whatsoever, making her jerk at unexpected moments and glance over her shoulder as if he were behind her, ready to strike.
Her mother and sister tried to be understanding, but Rose’s quick spasms at tea or at meals upset their own nerves. When Cecily had tried to comfort her one evening after dinner, Rose had snapped at her, an action she apologized for over the next three days. So Rose had retreated to her room, taking all meals and teas there, speaking to no one but Sarah, who came up twice a day to help Rose wash and brush her hair. Rose had burned her beloved indigo dress—the bloody remnants of it—in the fireplace, watching the flames lick at each thread, hoping it would consume the memories. She had refused all visitors, including Thomas.
He had looked like hell.Pain had exuded from every pore. He had thrown aside the sling, but there had been no mistaking the deep hollows around his eyes, the drawn and tightened angles and shadows on his gaunt face, his struggle to stay upright. The rage in his eyes told her the fury had kept him going. And he had slumped in the carriage as the Ashtons had carried her home, so exhausted Robert had to brace him in the corner.
He had looked like an avenging angel.That tortured, anger-driven man had brought with him a blast of light, a bare second that restored her hope, a glimmer she might survive. A hope that rekindled her fight—and she had put her foot into Bentley’s throat. A fight, a determination that had gotten her through the remaining humiliation of the evening, and had given her the strength to stand straight.
But her well had finally gone dry. The loss of that determination had all but destroyed her in the days since in a way that haunted Rose in a way she could not describe.
She curled beneath the covers of her bed, drawing Athena close to her body, to which the cat acquiesced with the gentleness of nurse cats across the world. Athena lifted one paw to a tear-streaked cheek as Rose whispered, “Athena, what are we going to do?”
A soft tap on the door echoed lightly through the room. Rose ignored it. Then the door opened a crack, and Edmund called, “Rose, are you decent? I need to speak with you.”
Rose would not refuse her father. She slipped the cat aside, wiped her face on her sheet, and pushed up. “Come in, Papa.”
Edmund entered, then paused as he took in his daughter’s state, piled up in the bed, knees drawn up, covers clutched close, hair disheveled, face red. “Oh, my dear.”
Rose mustered a smile. “I’m sure I look worse for the wear, Papa. Why did you want to speak to me?”
He pulled the small chair from her writing desk and placed it near the bed. He sat with a long sigh. “I know you are struggling. I also know there is not much any of us can do. You have been through a terrible ordeal.”
Rose merely nodded.
“But I wanted to share a bit of news I thought might help. And I must ask you a favor.”
She licked her lips. “What favor?”
He took three folded pieces of paper from his coat pocket but held them between his fingers. “Let’s start with the news first. You know that Thomas and I have signed the marriage contract.”
She nodded. “I can’t see him, Papa. I don’t know how I could possibly—”
Edmund held up a hand. “I know. He knows.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He wants to give you time. But you should know that the first two banns have been read. The third is this Sunday. After that, it’s within his rights to request you marry him. I do not think he’ll push you, but, my child, we have to find a way to get you past this. Cecily will be wed in less than a month, and there are too many—”
“I know!” she snapped. Rose had tried so hard not to think about all that would be required of her over the next weeks. Now they piled in and she gasped hard for air.
Edmund’s eyes widened with alarm. “Rose?”
She could not breathe. She fought to draw in air, but it would not come. She clutched at the covers, frantic, gasping.
Edmund stood, pressing hard on her back as he pushed back her shoulder. “Rose! You must breathe!”
Without warning, Athena leaped from the foot of the bed, landing hard on Rose’s lap, startling them both. It was enough to knock Rose free of her panic, and she pulled in a lungful of air. Then another, hoarse, rasping, until she began to calm. She wrapped her arms around Athena and pulled her against her chest.
Edmund sat again, shaken. “Dear God, Rose, how often does this happen?”
Rose rocked back and forth, holding the cat. “There’s no pattern,” she whispered. “It just happens.”
“You should not be alone.”
“Papa—”
“Would it help to know that Roger Bentley will never hurt you again?”
