Lord of Secrets (13 page)

“Oh, yes.” Quickly, she said her goodbyes, acknowledging each of the mothers by name. David stood by the door, waiting.

They emerged back into the daylight. Compared to the ill-lit recesses and chill air of the cottage interior, it was like passing from the winter doldrums directly into spring. He took a deep breath, relieved to be done with the call, glad to be back out in the sunshine—and strangely comforted to have Rosalie to himself again.

He was preparing to hand her into the landau when she raised her eyes to his in appeal. “I hope you don’t mind too terribly, David. It was kind of you to make sure my call was going well, but I could tell you don’t often come to the village. You needn’t feel you have to involve yourself just because I wish to. Not if it’s awkward for you, I mean.”

It
had
been awkward, especially at the beginning. What did he have in common with the young wives of the estate village? Exactly nothing. But the atmosphere had grown a bit less strained as the call wore on, and after all, no one had forced him to come. He didn’t want to make Rosalie feel she’d done something wrong, especially after the way he’d treated her the night before.

If anything, he was touched that she seemed so worried about his sensibilities.

He smiled down at her. “I don’t mind. To be honest, it was rather eye-opening.”

Chapter Eleven

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease.

—
William Shakespeare

Rosalie changed for dinner with a feeling of guarded optimism. Arriving home from the estate village, David had seemed in a better mood than he had the evening before—a bit more talkative, a shade less wary. She hoped he was already regretting his decision of the night before. Though she’d resolved not to push him, it would be lovely if he’d changed his mind about sharing her bed. She went down to dinner humming.

Humming, but curiously fatigued. As she took her seat on the carved mahogany chair across from David, she sank down gratefully, as bone-weary as if she’d spent the entire day on her feet. Perhaps she should have taken a less ambitious ride that morning. Her weeks on the
Neptune’s
Fancy
had left her unused to outdoor exercise, and now her back ached. Even picking up her soup spoon seemed to require more energy than it should.

Strangely, though, David didn’t look at all tired, though he’d not only ridden to the estate village and back but also risen earlier than she had. Sitting across from her, broad-shouldered and elegant in his dinner clothes, he looked fit and strong.

He glanced up, and she had to yank her gaze away to avoid being caught staring.

His eyes darted from her face to the bowl in front of her, narrowing slightly. “Is something wrong? You haven’t touched your soup.”

She looked down in dull surprise. He was right, though she usually loved white soup. For some reason, she had no appetite at all. In fact, the glistening almond pool with its garnish of watercress looked altogether unappealing. “I’m not very hungry.”

“I hope you’re not coming down with the mumps.”

“Oh, no, I can’t be. I had them when I was ten years old, during my first winter at Miss Stark’s Seminary for Girls of Good Family.”

His mouth curved in a smile. “Ah, yes, the purgatory where you were forced to copy out passages from Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”

“Exactly so—though I suppose that punishment must seem trifling to you, when boys are usually made to suffer so much worse than girls in that respect. My cousin Charlie claims he was flogged so often at school, he quite wore out the birch rod.”

To her surprise, David’s smile faded. “I sometimes think I should have been the better for a few more birchings.”

Oh, dear. What had she said wrong now? It seemed every conversation with David was fraught with hazards, most of which she didn’t even understand. She lowered her eyes to the table. “I only meant I didn’t wish to complain, mentioning Miss Stark’s.”

He studied her as the footman cleared away the soup, and his moodiness of a moment before vanished as if it had never been, replaced by a look of sympathy. “But you were unhappy there.”

She nodded. “Yes—though to be fair, I went there unhappy. That was the year my mother died, and my father had no notion how to raise a ten-year-old girl on his own. I was little use to him at that age.”

What a bleak time that had been. She’d gone to Miss Stark’s midterm, arriving on a cheerless winter day to a school where the students had already sorted themselves into friendships, leaving her the odd girl out. She’d had to learn the rules and customs of the seminary through trial and error, and mostly through error. Meanwhile her father had been doing his utmost to outrun his loss, attempting to escape his memories of Rosalie’s mother by allowing his wanderlust free rein. Rosalie had waited outside the door of Miss Stark’s modest office every afternoon, hoping to receive a letter from him, but such letters had been few and far between. She’d never felt so alone, not before or since.

Thank heavens Papa had judged her old enough two years later to join him on his travels. She’d set out on her first voyage determined to make herself indispensable to him. Just one trip, and surely he would remember the happiness they’d known together at Beckford Park. They’d return home and she would never be lonely again.

One trip had turned to two, however, and then to three and four, until travel had become a way of life for them. But at least Papa hadn’t sent her back to Miss Stark’s. They’d had nine happy years together. Now she just had to find a way to make herself indispensable to David.

She picked desultorily at her fillet of sole.
Indispensable
. That was the problem. She had no idea what David needed in a wife. He was too young and healthy to need a nursemaid, too wealthy to require a careful manager, too unsociable to desire a brilliant hostess. The only real lack she could address would be to please him in bed and provide him with an heir, and so far he wasn’t interested in her for that. No wonder she’d lost her appetite.

David cleared his throat. “You’ve done something different with your hair.”

Rosalie looked up in surprise. Bridger had returned from her sister’s cottage in time to assist her with a new coiffure—loose curls in the front, an artful topknot in the back. “Yes.”

“It’s most becoming.” He looked suddenly uncertain, as if he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how to begin.

She smiled at him, doing her best to keep the conversation going. “You know, when we were speaking of my years at Miss Stark’s just now, it made me realize there’s a great deal about you I don’t know. You rarely talk about your past.”

Now he looked more than uncertain—he looked almost wary. “What would you like to know?”

Oh, dear, she must be wandering into another of those conversational pitfalls. Did he imagine she was going to ask about the suicide? “Well, what was school like for you? I don’t believe you’ve ever said.”

“Ah.” The wariness vanished. “I had tutors until university, and then...” He flashed her a sheepish smile. A footed Meissen bowl stood on the table between them, its opulent display of fruit serving as the centerpiece. After a moment of hesitation he chose an orange from the arrangement and held it up for her to see. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yes, of course.” It must be some sort of trick question. “It’s an orange.”

“It’s an orange
now
. But if not for the lazy enunciation of our ancestors, we might be calling it a norange.”

A norange? “You’re quizzing me.”

“No, I’m perfectly serious. The Persian word was
narang
. Moors brought the fruit to Spain, where the native speakers still say
naranja
. But in making its way north through France, somehow a
naranja
became
une
auranja
, and eventually the Old French
orenge
. The
n
was swallowed up in speech by the article. We’ve done the same with a host of English words—
a
napron
became
an
apron
, for example, though sometimes the
n
moves in the other direction and words like
an
eke
-
name
end up as
a
nickname
.”

“Truly?” She laughed. “You’re making me wish I’d misbehaved enough to reach the
N
in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary.”

He smiled and sat back, looking more comfortable now. “That was how university went for me—I stayed up until all hours, reading at Oxford. I wanted to learn everything, couldn’t take it all in fast enough. I never wanted to leave.”

“Never? But Lyningthorp is so lovely, I should think you were eager to come home, at least for the long vacations.”

“No, I—” He hesitated. “Oxford was inviting enough.” He sat forward again, setting the orange carefully back in place. “Those were the happiest months and years of my life, devoting myself to my studies. I still read every book on philology I can lay my hands on. Before university, it used to frustrate me that my tutors wanted me to learn arithmetic and logic when language was vastly more interesting. There were so many fascinating words to learn, even if I had no one to say them to.”

“No one?”

He colored slightly and shrugged. “More often than not.”

Poor David. What a lonely life he’d led. It made her months at Miss Stark’s seem hardly worth regarding. Their eyes met, and she smiled in sympathy.

Impulsively, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Rosalie, I’m sorry about last night.”

A fresh ripple of hope ran through her. So he
did
regret their wedding night. And only moments before, she’d been on the verge of giving up. She searched for something flirtatious to say, something that would simultaneously laugh off their wedding night and make it clear she was eager to start over. But she was so tired, the best she could manage was a meager smile and the lackluster reassurance, “Yesterday was a long day.”

She might say the same of today. A strange lassitude weighed her down. It lasted throughout the meal, and even through the after-dinner hour in the drawing room with David. She wanted to be all smiles and eager conversation, to encourage the overture he’d made. Instead, she sat in a fog over her needlework, staring down stupidly at the fichu she was supposed to be embroidering.

Finally, she gave up and set her sewing aside. “I know it’s early, but would you mind if I went up to bed now?”

David tensed and closed the leather-bound book he’d been reading. “No, not at all. I believe I’ll go up now, too.”

What did that mean? Did he plan to join her in her room? Hoping to make it clear he’d be welcome, she lied, “I’m not especially sleepy.”

But she was more than sleepy. She was exhausted, drained. Making her way up to her room, David following, she could barely lift her feet to climb the stairs. She hadn’t realized it was such a long way to the top. She set a hand on the banister to help pull herself along.

A wave of dizziness swept over her, and the stairs tilted under her feet.

She wasn’t sure what kept her from falling—her hand on the banister, or David’s arm flashing out quickly to steady her. “Careful.” He drew level with her on the stairs. “You nearly missed the step.”

With a weak laugh, she resisted the urge to let her head droop. “Thank you. I don’t usually lose my balance when the ship rolls.”

“The ship?” David peered down into her face.

“Yes.” She felt woozy. “Or no. Did I say ship? I meant—” But she couldn’t think what she’d meant to say instead.

David set a hand on her forehead. His jaw went slack. “My God. You’re burning up!”

His palm was cool against her skin. How good it felt to have David touching her, even if she was too weary to appreciate the feeling as it deserved. “But I can’t be ill.” Her voice sounded thin and distant even to her own ears. “I’ve already had the mumps.”

“It’s not the mumps, then, but you’re burning up just the same.”

Was that why she felt so strange? Though David stood beside her, he seemed to be speaking to her from a great distance. When the stairs tilted under her again, this time she couldn’t summon the energy to right herself.

She would have fallen if David hadn’t caught her. He swept her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed next to nothing.

She made a soft sound of protest. She was never ill, and she would hardly be so foolish as to turn feverish on only the second night of their marriage. She wanted David to come to her bed that night. She was determined to make herself indispensable to him. So why should he be carrying her up the stairs?

She couldn’t be ill. She
couldn’t
.

And the most confusing part was, David looked almost relieved.

* * *

David deposited Rosalie gently on her bed. She’d looped her arms around his neck, but they fell away weakly as soon as her head touched the pillow. She was shivering.

“I’ll send for the apothecary.” He went to the bell pull and rang for her lady’s maid.

“No, don’t. I can’t be ill, I know I can’t.”

“As much as it pains me to contradict a lady, you are.”

“But we’re supposed to dine with the Meltons tomorrow.”

“I’ll send our excuses.”

Rosalie closed her eyes, apparently too fatigued to argue with him. David regarded her with a worried frown. She must have taken a chill, visiting the estate village. It had been wretchedly cold in that miserable cottage. Too cold.

It wasn’t cold in this room, though, and her teeth were chattering. Pacing the figured carpet, he cast an impatient glance at the door. Damn it, where was that abigail of hers?

Never mind the abigail. He wasn’t going to stand around ineffectually while Rosalie shivered with ague. “We need to get you undressed.”

She made only a weak objection when he propped her up in bed to unlace the back of her gown. He untied the strings, the task simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. He’d undressed his mistresses on many occasions, had viewed the experience as everything from a pleasant preliminary to a time-consuming delay. This was the first time, however, that undressing a woman had qualified as an emergency. When his knuckles brushed Rosalie’s back, her skin was hot to the touch.