The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (22 page)

Roman watched Miss Shelton run away from him, yet again. He’d thought that, after their afternoon snowball fight, perhaps her heart would begin to thaw toward him as their bodies thawed before the fire.

She’d seemed more comfortable with him outside in the rose garden, playing in the snow. Like, perhaps, she could forget about her burdens for a moment and be free. Like she would pretend she didn’t possess secrets which forced her to harden her heart to him.

He’d wanted that, and the realization was more than just a little unnerving. He needed to guard himself around her more. The last thing he needed was to lose his heart, let alone his head, to a woman who couldn’t trust him with her secrets.

Lady Rosaline smiled at him, lifting her chin up from behind a bevy of blankets. “I see the way you watch her, my lord.”

“You do?” He took a sip from the cup of chocolate Joyce had pressed on him earlier. It was cool now, but still welcome. “And what do you see?”

“You’re in love with my sister.”

In love? Her
sister
? He’d hoped that the lucid interval would last longer than this. “Is that so?” he asked. Even if she didn’t know who he was or when and where they were, he might learn something of them—of Lady Rosaline and Miss Shelton—if he could just keep her talking. And calm.

“You sly devil, Lord Faulkner. You can’t hide it from me. You can’t take your eyes off of Mattie. You watch her all the time, especially if you think she’s not looking.” She pulled her hands free from her blankets and picked up her cup of chocolate, winking at him over it as she took a sip. “You wouldn’t have started that snowball fight with her if you didn’t. That was as clear a sign as any, in my way of thinking.”

So Mattie was Lady Rosaline’s sister? Did that make her Miss Shelton’s mother? No, probably an aunt. Lord Faulkner…Miss Shelton’s surly cousin was Miss Faulkner.

But Lady Rosaline was confusing him with the man who’d courted and married her sister. Wasn’t that what was happening?

For once, Roman wasn’t entirely certain what to say.

“She’ll accept you, you know. She’ll marry you. You needn’t worry about that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“So you intend to offer for her like I thought?” Lady Rosaline interrupted him. “Oh, I just
knew
it. Mattie will be delighted.” She set her cup down on her saucer and twisted her lips in contemplation. Looking down at her hands again, she gave a decisive nod, then pulled a ring off her finger. “Here,” she said, pressing it into his hands. “It was Mother’s. Father gave it to me when she died, but it just never felt right to me. Mattie always wanted it more. You should use this when you propose.”

The tiny golden ring glinted in the firelight, the flames dancing in the emeralds. Roman stared at it in his hand, unsure what to do with it.

He had to give it back to her. She would miss it eventually. But now likely wasn’t the best time for such a thing. She still thought him to be Lord Faulkner.

Before he could decide what to do with it, Lady Rosaline stood, taking her assortment of blankets with her. “Well, I think I should be off then. Cook promised to make my favorite pastries for a bedtime snack, and I intend to be sure I get it.” When she stood before the door, she turned to him again. “Don’t wait too long. Mattie doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Besides, she’ll notice Mother’s ring is missing and ask me about it.”

After breakfast, Bethanne kissed Finn on the forehead and sent him up to play in the nursery with Mrs. Wyatt, then made her way into the parlor.

She loved her mornings, lately. She loved that, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, just around dawn, Lord Roman took himself off and locked himself in his chamber, and she had some precious hours during which she could work free from his constant presence—his constant staring. She felt his eyes on her everywhere she went, ever since that day in the gardens when he’d come so close to kissing her. Bother, but she wished he had.

It was difficult to tell if the sense of his eyes following her was due more to the fact that they were truly following her, or to the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about what it might be like to kiss him. Just once.

No matter which it was, she had to stop thinking about him. It wasn’t helping her in the slightest.

Taking a seat behind her escritoire, Bethanne pulled out the letters that had arrived in yesterday’s post. She hadn’t had the chance to look at them when they came, what with trying to get everyone warm and dry after spending the afternoon in the wet snow.

The top letter had Uncle Drake’s seal. She split it open. He’d sent a bank draft, as promised, and a brief note letting her know that the entire Shelton family would be convening at Ainsworth Court for Christmas, and she and Aunt Rosaline were expected to be amongst their numbers. She would have to come up with a good excuse to send as her response as to why they would be unable to travel. Perhaps she could invent a chill that she’d caught or something else. After today, it might not be too much of a lie.

Slipping the bank draft into a drawer for safekeeping until she could arrange for a trip into town, Bethanne set Uncle Drake’s letter aside until she was ready to pen her response.

The next letter was from Jo, delivering a hilarious and witty recounting of their return trip. Apparently, the wheel had broken, and when Noah had tried to help the driver to change it, he’d landed on his backside in a puddle of melting snow after pulling, fruitlessly, on the thing. Jo, ever resourceful, had sent him off to sit with his bride, then she’d helped the driver to locate a final pin that hadn’t been removed, and the broken wheel had come off quite easily.

Bethanne chuckled, easily able to envision just such a thing taking place. Lord Devonport was incredibly handsome and engaging, but not much use when it came to any number of things. Jo, on the other hand, could be brash and abrupt, but simply thought things through and took care of them.

Adding Jo’s letter to her uncle’s, she moved on to the final letter from yesterday’s post. The stack included a letter from her sister, Miranda, with a dire warning that Isaac had mentioned to her, as well, his intentions of making a trip to the cottage. Miranda swore she’d done everything in her power to convince him otherwise, but she feared she’d been unsuccessful.

Bother and blast. Someone had to stop him.

With a sigh, Bethanne pulled out some fresh parchment, her ink pot, and quill, and then set to work responding to her letters.

She didn’t know how long she’d been at it when Lord Roman ambled in, a cup of coffee in one hand and newssheets in the other. She
did
know that her fingers were smeared with ink and she’d even spilled a drop of it on her gown, and she’d only finished with penning one of her three responses.

He took a sip of his coffee and then gave her a sly smile. “You might want to go wash your face before anyone else comes upon you. You’ve smudged some ink across your cheek.”

Without thinking, she reached up and rubbed her cheek.

Lord Roman frowned and shook his head. “You’ve just made it worse.”

Of course she had. Everything she did lately just seemed to make everything else worse. With a frustrated sigh, she stood. “If you’ll excuse me,” she mumbled as she rushed from the parlor.

When she’d cleaned her hands and face and returned, Aunt Rosaline’s emerald ring glinted in the early morning sunlight. It was on the table just inside the door. Where on earth had that come from? It hadn’t been there before, had it? She stared at it for a moment, and then looked over to Lord Roman.

He looked up from his newssheets. “Your aunt gave that to me last night. She thought I was Lord Faulkner, and suggested I give it to Mattie—er, well, you—when I propose.”

A strange, fluttering sensation moved through her chest and settled in her stomach. Bethanne swallowed. “Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“Since she seems rather inclined to give me things I imagine she’ll miss later, I thought I’d designate a place to put them. If you’d prefer me to put them somewhere else, I’d be more than—”

“This table is fine.” Bethanne flushed for some confounding reason. “Thank you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that you’re leaving them for her.” That wasn’t quite right. More needed to be said. “As do I.”

Why was it so difficult to acknowledge the kindnesses he had granted her? Lord Roman frustrated her to no end, because she couldn’t understand her reactions to the man. She’d never, not once in her life, felt so befuddled and disconcerted in any man’s presence. Intimidated, certainly. Frustrated, on far too many occasions. But she wanted him to leave at the same time as she was desperate for him to stay, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Not any of it.

Bethanne picked Aunt Rosaline’s ring up from the table, put it on her finger so she wouldn’t forget it, and returned to her escritoire. She needed to finish these letters before luncheon, because her afternoon would be quite busy indeed.

She bent her head to her task, and Lord Roman quietly resumed whatever work he was doing this morning, and a good deal of time passed in near silence. Near silence, but not complete silence, because her heart hadn’t stopped thundering in her chest since the fluttery sensation had settled in her belly and refused to cease. Surely it was loud enough he could hear it from across the room, despite his efforts to concentrate on his own work.

A bit of her hair fell down over her eyes. She hastily brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear, then dipped her quill into the pot for more ink. She’d already finished and sealed the letter to Uncle Drake, and now was responding to Jo. Goodness, what should she tell her cousin? She couldn’t risk telling Jo that Lord Roman was now living in the cottage. What if the letter fell into the wrong hands?

No, it was better to leave that out, until such time that they could speak in person. Or until she could decide how to say it in such a manner that no one else would understand her meaning. She rubbed her nose in thought, trying to put into words all of the frustrations she’d been feeling. But she couldn’t.

Instead, she wrote a perfectly boring letter, saying nothing at all, yet filling two sheets of parchment. Jo would see straight through it, of course. She always did. But perhaps the lack of stating anything of import might alert her cousin to the fact that nothing was as it ought to be. Jo had seen how things were, after all. She would understand.

Folding that letter and sealing it with wax, Bethanne let out a sigh. How could she respond to Miranda? If Isaac came to the cottage, not only would the secrets Bethanne had kept about Aunt Rosaline’s health be revealed, but Miranda’s secrets about Finn would be as well. And, devil take it, Bethanne could
not
let that happen.

Her sister had been hurt once, and Bethanne had been unable to stop it. She’d be damned if it would happen again.

She dashed a stray tear aside and started writing.

Dearest Miranda,

I hope you are well when this reaches you. Give my undying devotion to your Lord Pickford. He’ll always have my heart for loving you as he does, as you deserve.

Rest assured, we are already well aware that Isaac has threatened a visit. Jo and Bethanne promise to do their best to dissuade such a journey, but even with all three of you working together, I don’t know that it can be prevented. If you discover he is on his way, send word as soon as you can so I will have as much notice as possible.

I don’t know what I’ll do to prevent discovery, but I
will
find something. I will send Joyce off with Finn on a holiday, if I must. But, dear sister, I will
not
fail you. I don’t care what it takes.

Your sister, forever,

Bethanne

After dashing away a tear, she set the quill down on the table, folded her final letter of the day, and sealed it with wax.

When she looked up, it was to find Lord Roman most decidedly watching her. This was no figment of her imagination.

“What? Do I have ink on my face again?” she demanded far more haughtily than he deserved. She bit down on her tongue for that one.

“Actually, yes,” he said, without even a hint of mirth. “On your forehead, on your ear, your nose, and now on your eyebrow. Not to mention your gown.”

She flushed at his words and at her behavior. She was acting out against him, much as Finn would act out against anyone he could when he was unhappy about something. Pushing her chair back, she rose to rush from the room and repair her appearance.

“I was more concerned by your tears, though.”

Bethanne stopped short at his words, and was forced to fight to rediscover her breath. She shook her head, as though she could shake away his concern or the way he left her tingling with an uncanny want she had no right to have. Staring at the silk brocade sofa, she tried to settle her thoughts.