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22
Rosalind handed Watkins her cloak with a tired smile. The visit with her mother had been exhausting, but necessary. Cousin Amanda had insisted, after leaving Rosalind, that a call be paid on Lady Richardson the following day. And one does not disappoint a duchess. Mother hadn’t known what her daughter had suffered in those months after the death of Lord Richardson. Her grief at her husband’s passing had been so profound, there was room for little else. She wept at having failed Rosalind and begged her daughter’s forgiveness.
Jacobson, seeing the excess of handkerchiefs and tears, had immediately shut the drawing room door.
Once the weeping had subsided, Mother implored Rosalind not shy away from the happiness to be found with Torrington. True to form, Mother had insisted she’d known from the start the earl would be a splendid match for Rosalind because, over tea one day, Lady Hertfort had mentioned her brother loved cookery far more than he did hunting, the theater, or anything else.
Torrington, Rosalind found out, had visited Mother, inquiring into the events surrounding Lord Richardson’s death. Her mother, bravely, had chosen to omit nothing, telling Rosalind’s new husband everything that had transpired.
“He loves you madly, Rosalind.”
Mother had then kissed her cheek and told her to go home to Torrington.
The panic and fear still lived inside Rosalind, having taken up space near her heart when she was a child, and was determined not to go quietly. It might always linger. But at least she now saw it for what it was: the terror of a young child.
And she could no longer be apart from Torrington. She loved him.
“Where is Lord Torrington?” she asked Watkins. “And Bijou? I expected her to greet me.”
“The study, my lady.”
Rosalind nodded and made her way to her husband’s study. She and Torrington hadn’t spoken more than a polite greeting to each other since the day she’d stormed out of their bedroom. He hadn’t pressed her, perhaps sensing after he’d called on her mother that Rosalind needed time to sort things out. Torrington was a patient man. Seducing her with a collection of recipes had proven the truth of that. Any other gentleman would have given up on her.
The door to the study was ajar, and Torrington’s voice came through the opening. He was speaking in a low, soothing tone to Bijou.
“My lord,” Rosalind said from the door, clasping her hands before her.
Torrington was kneeling next to Bijou’s pallet on the floor. His hair was mussed, curls spilling along his cheeks, the silver in his beard glinting in the light coming through the window. The chair beside him held his discarded coat and cravat. There was only a mild flash of surprise at her appearance, almost as if Torrington knew she would seek him out today.
“Hello, Rosalind. Madame Bijou is under the weather. I’m playing nursemaid.”
Torrington kept his tone polite, as if they were merely acquaintances who had run into each other while walking in the park. Rosalind had done this. Forced her husband into distance. Running from the bedroom in tears after this gorgeous, splendid man had told Rosalind he loved her.
Her chest constricted, far more sharply than the tightest of corsets.
Rosalind came forward, coming to her knees to scratch Bijou behind her ears.
“Her back leg has been bothering her, so she needs to rest,” Torrington said. “I often forget how old she’s become.” There was a hint of pain in his words as one elegant finger traced the white fur around Bijou’s muzzle. “But I think some chicken will make her right as rain, am I correct, Bijou?”
Rosalind blinked away the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Was this why she had refused to have a dog or cat when she was a child? Because her heart wouldn’t allow her to become attached? Because all she could see was the grief?
What a fool I have been.
She took a deep breath, drawing in every ounce of courage she possessed. “I love you, Abraham Landsdowne.” The words crept out of her mouth slowly. Quietly. “Iloveyou.” The air halted in her chest. “So much.”
Torrington’s gaze stayed on Bijou. He was silent so long, Rosalind thought perhaps he hadn’t heard her. “I know,” he finally said. His fingers reached out to gently tug at her skirts.
Rosalind looked up at the ceiling of the study, wiping at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry that I made a mess of things. That I hurt you. I never wish to cause you such pain again. You have—given me everything I ever wanted.Youare everything I’ve ever wanted. Only I didn’t know and I—I humbly ask you to forgive me.Please.” Her voice grew scratchy. “Please forgive me. Because you are so bloodysplendidfor a feeble lecher.”
“Ah, Rosalind, you were doing so well.” The amber eyes were calm. Full of love for her. Endlessly patient.
“I am afraid, Bram.” She lowered her eyes. “I can’t help it. If anything were to happen to you.” She pounded the spot over her heart with a sob. “It would destroy me. I won’t be able to bear it.”
“Yes, you will. Admittedly, it won’t be nearly as much fun without me around.” He reached out and pulled her between his thighs. Strong arms encircled her. “For instance, I’m certain there will be too much nutmeg in the chocolate toffee cake.”
“There wasn’t.” She leaned back into him, hearing the beat of his heart beneath her cheek.
“I disagree.” His arms tightened around her. “I will die one day, Rosalind—”
