The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (24 page)

So he sat. After all, a momentary discussion with Lady Rosaline was a far better means to divert his nightmares than taking himself off to bed to await them.

Joyce brought them coffee and overly filled plates to break their fasts, but then Mrs. Wyatt called out from upstairs and Finn let out a wail. Joyce quickly brushed her hands over her apron and excused herself.

Lady Rosaline took a sip of her coffee and smiled at him. “That Finn is proving to be quite the little rascal of late, isn’t he? But then, I’m sure Bethanne realized he would be when she suggested it.”

Suggested it? Suggested what? Roman’s eyes shot up to meet Lady Rosaline’s, but he held his tongue.

“You didn’t know that raising Finn as her son was Bethanne’s idea?” She pursed her lips, like she’d swallowed something sour, bitter. “Damn, I shouldn’t have said anything. But Miranda couldn’t very well go back to society with a child underfoot, and Bethanne had already given up her chance at marriage to come and care for me. I love my niece dearly, but she’s always put everyone else before herself. This time, he put her sister’s chance at a future before her own.”

Roman nodded, letting the new information settle, despite the sudden pounding of his pulse. Finn was her sister’s son, not hers… “That does sound like the Bethanne Shelton I’ve come to know,” he murmured.

Lady Rosaline took a bite of baked egg, then leveled him with a stare. “You mustn’t let on what I’ve told you. If she suspects you know too much, she’ll send you off and never think twice about allowing you back into her life.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

More secrets. Good God. But now, at least, he had a sense of what might be causing her to lose sleep at night.

If the townsfolk assumed she was the boy’s mother…who was to say what the rest of her family knew? Roman assumed that Miss Faulkner and Lord and Lady Devonport knew the truth of it, because Bethanne hadn’t been overly traumatized by their visit. But did anyone else know?

After taking breakfast with Lady Rosaline, Roman had taken himself off to his chamber and locked himself inside, then proceeded to toss and turn for several hours. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the thoughts coursing through his mind.

Who else knew about Finn’s true parentage? And why was Bethanne pretending to be the boy’s mother, instead of alerting the rest of the family to whatever happened to her sister? And what
had
happened to her sister, in order for her to secret herself away to give birth to a child, and then leave him in the care of Bethanne, who already had more responsibilities than anyone ought to have in a lifetime?

The longer he thought, the more questions he had—and not once could he discern an answer. Roman doubted he would get any answers from the servants. They were fond of him, but where Bethanne was concerned, they were loyal to a fault. Lady Rosaline’s lucid intervals couldn’t be counted upon, and she already regretted divesting as much as she had. She would not be the one to answer his questions. Roman had never met Miranda Shelton, and for some reason, he doubted he would any time soon. That left only Bethanne herself to ask, but how could he do so when he’d promised Lady Rosaline he would not divulge what she’d revealed?

The conundrum left him frustrated and agitated, but at least he hadn’t had any nightmares. How could he when he hadn’t been able to get a lick of sleep?

Utterly distracted by his thoughts, he went about his morning ritual. Once he was dressed, he unlocked the door and went out into the house, breathing in the familiar, homey scents. He passed the music room, only to draw up short at the sound of Finn’s infectious laughter.

Sticking his head into the room, Roman smiled at the scene before him of Finn clambering up to sit with Lady Rosaline, carrying a set of blocks precariously in his tiny hands. Mrs. Wyatt and Lady Rosaline both laughed, too, when he dropped a block and got back down without leaving any of his toys on the settee, then started the process all over again.

Mrs. Wyatt winked at Roman, and he nodded before moving along.

Just as he got to the front of the house, he ran into Mrs. Temple cleaning the windows. She was stretching as far as she could, but couldn’t quite reach the highest parts. She started to move a chair over so that she could climb upon it.

“Let me help you with that,” Roman said, taking her cloth and bucket from her hands. He moved the chair back out of the way, then set to work. When he was done with all of the parts she couldn’t reach, he handed it all back to her. “Inform me when you need help in another room. I won’t have you breaking your neck from falling off a chair.”

“Inwood always helped me with that before,” Mrs. Temple said sheepishly.

Yes. Inwood. The manservant who had left them all with no one to protect them. Roman nodded, trying to force down the bile that rose in his throat. “Well, until such time as there is a manservant employed here, that will be my responsibility. Understood?”

“Of course, my lord.” She gave him a little smile and was off to some other duty.

He stepped into the kitchens then, before heading into the parlor to start his work for the day. Sure enough, Joyce had a hot cup of coffee waiting for him.

“I should have luncheon ready in about an hour, my lord.” She lifted a lid off a pot and stirred.

The heavenly scent of mutton stew wafted over to him. “I can hardly wait for another meal you’ve cooked.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to. For an hour. Off with you now.” Before he left, she tossed a pastry in his direction.

He took a bite as he headed back to the corridor. Yes, heavenly was precisely right. The coffee and pastry were exactly what he needed to refocus his mind, to revitalize himself after the sleepless night and morning, and settle in for the day.

When he turned the corner into the sunny, blue parlor, however, he stopped short.

Bethanne was draped across her escritoire, fast asleep with a ledger open beneath her head and a quill still in her hand. She was fortunate she hadn’t knocked the ink pot over when she’d nodded off.

She looked so peaceful there, so angelic, with the late morning sun coming in through the window behind her and making something of a halo around her.

The urge to move to her, to draw his hand through her mahogany tresses and brush the few escaped tendrils back from her forehead was strong—nearly overwhelming. It built up an unfamiliar need within him, rising in his chest and threatening to settle in his throat somewhere in the vicinity of his Adam’s apple and cutting off his ability to breathe.

Shaking from the effort of restraining his inappropriate desires, Roman moved over to her. She couldn’t stay there like that. If she did, she’d be miserable later, with a sore neck and a headache, and Lord only knew what else would be hurting.

Roman set his coffee and what was left of his pastry on the occasional table by the entry to the parlor, then crossed the room to stand beside her.

She took a deep breath and when she exhaled, it blew the tendrils of her hair up and away for a moment as a look of contentment settled on her visage. She was so tiny. So delicate. So perfect. Her arm shot out from beneath her head and nearly struck the ink pot.

Nearly, because Roman got to it first. He snatched it away and moved it well out of her reach. Then he took the quill from her other hand and set it down beside the pot.

Bethanne sighed and pulled both arms beneath her head, and it was all Roman could do not to kiss her rapidly fluttering eyelid.

“Bethanne,” he called softly. He had to at least try to wake her. She didn’t so much as stir. Leaning over, he stretched out a hand and gently brushed it over her arm, calling her name a bit louder. She sighed in her sleep, but didn’t move.

He couldn’t leave her like this. And he couldn’t stand here looking over her all day, holding himself back constantly from taking liberties that were not his to take. With a stifled groan, he bit back an oath. Like it or not, he was going to have to pick her up and carry her to her chamber. Holding her but not being able to really touch her might very well kill him, but what sort of gentleman would he be if he allowed her to remain thus?

Bending at the knees, Roman lowered himself until he could slip one arm beneath her knees and the other around her waist. As he brought her up, her head fell against his shoulder. The faint scent of rosewater tickled his nostrils. She murmured something incomprehensible, but her eyes didn’t even open for a second. And then she snuggled closer to him, squirming to settle more fully in his arms.

It was as though she was determined to try his patience, to test his ability to control himself.

He wanted to stand there, holding her, forever. But the longer he held her, the more he wanted to do far more than just hold her. While Roman was far from achieving sainthood, he was most certainly
not
a defiler of innocents—and devil take it, he’d bet his life on the fact that she was most decidedly an innocent, particularly now that he knew her sister had given birth to Finn. He had to get her into her bed and leave her there before any part of her innocence changed.

Roman left the parlor before he could change his mind. A half-hearted hope struck him, that Mrs. Temple or Joyce might see them as he carried Bethanne up the stairs, and would go with him to help settle her for a nap. Then, surely, he could find the strength to deposit her where she could rest and leave. But his whole heart was not in it.

The other half of him wanted to climb into her bed with her, to forget about honor and decency and the difference between right and wrong. He wanted to kiss her awake and not stop until she was his in every way.

That half was gaining momentum with each step, particularly since he had made it all the way up the stairs without anyone coming upon him.

With each moment that passed, the pounding of his pulse grew more pronounced, the intake of his breaths grew more ragged, the pace of his strides grew more frantic.

Finally, he reached the door to her chamber. He carefully shifted her in his arms so as not to wake her and pushed the door open. The sun streamed in through the window, lighting the delicate rose and cream coverings on the bed like it was an altar to the gods.

Bethanne sighed and moved her arm around his back, drawing closer to him until her lips pressed gently against a pulsing vein in his neck and her warm, little breaths heated him like an inferno.

Hastily moving to the bed, Roman couldn’t stifle a groan. He pulled down the counterpane and carefully placed Bethanne on the bed. Her hand clutched the back of his coat gently. He pried her fingers free, and then her arm fell down to lie beside her. Just before he could remove her half-boots, she turned and tucked her knees up, drawing into a cocoon-like position facing him. He pulled the bedding over her, and her hands instinctively pulled it up higher, positioning it directly beneath her chin.

He ought to leave.

He should turn around and walk out, and close the door behind him, and forget that he’d ever held her tiny frame in his arms. Forget that he’d smelled the gentle rosewater scent that clung to her. Forget that his blood had heated and his pulse had pounded with need from the simple touch of her lips to his throat.

There were an infinite number of things he ought to do, and none of them included leaning over the bed and placing a kiss over her closed, fluttering eyelid.

Yet that’s precisely what he did.

Her eyes darted about in her sleep, moving rapidly beneath the gentle pressure of his lips. When he straightened, his tongue came out of its own volition, sliding across his lower lip where he’d briefly touched her to taste.

Her head shifted, just a miniscule movement, but it was enough to draw his eye down to her, to draw his head down for another kiss of her other eyelid. A tiny, little sound came from her parted lips, almost like a kitten’s mewl. Roman kissed her forehead, then the bridge of her nose. When his tongue slipped out and drew along the seam of her lips, and almost moved inside, he came to his senses.

Wrenching himself away but ever cautious not to disturb her sleep, Roman backed out of her chamber and closed the door behind him.

Heart pounding and gasping for breath, he leaned back against the wall of the corridor, pinching his eyes closed and trying to ignore his painful erection.

Lord Roman Sullivan, former Major in His Majesty’s Dragoons, Widow-Maker, Betrayer, and Murderer was also a Fool of the First Order. He’d thought he could control himself. He’d thought he could do Bethanne more good than harm by coming to live with her.

She’d placed her trust in him—but he couldn’t even trust himself.