The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (25 page)

Bethanne awoke more from hunger than from having enough sleep. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky outside her window, but she’d clearly slept past luncheon—and for the life of her, she couldn’t discern how she’d ended up in her bed. The last thing she remembered, she had been writing a letter to Tabitha. Or so she thought.

She sat up in bed and pushed back the counterpane, only to see a mess of ink spots all over her hands. Well, at least the letter writing hadn’t been merely a dream or a figment of her imagination.

She must have fallen asleep at her desk—but that could only mean that Roman had carried her up to her bed. Surely her servants hadn’t done so. A flush raced up to her face at the thought of him carrying her, of him being in her chamber.

Before she let herself get too flustered, Bethanne removed the counterpane and climbed from her bed, then whisked down the stairs to find Joyce.

As soon as Bethanne walked through the door to the kitchens, Joyce turned to her with a smile and a plate of cold meats, cheese, and bread. “Did you sleep well, Miss Bethanne? Lord Roman told us not to disturb you.” She bustled over to the table and set the plate down, then went back to fix some tea.

It felt odd to know that Roman was giving her servants instructions, and even more so to know that they were readily following them. But somehow, it also felt natural. Bethanne shook the sensation away and sat down to eat.

“I did, thank you,” she murmured. As she ate, she looked to the clock by the door. It was late enough in the day for the post to have arrived, if they were to have any. If something had come from Jo or Tabitha, or from anyone else in the family for that matter, she needed to see it right away. They might not have much warning at all, should Isaac decide to pay a visit. She swallowed and then cleared her throat. “Was there anything in the post today?”

“Just a letter from Miss Faulkner,” Joyce said without evening looking over her shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, though. The seal is in blue wax. Mrs. Temple left it on your escritoire in the parlor. It will wait until you’ve finished eating, if not longer.” She pounded into the dough she was kneading.

Bethanne let out the breath she’d been holding and continued to eat. Long ago, they’d worked out that a red wax seal would mean something important enough for the servants to intervene, if needed. Any other color of wax meant whatever was inside could wait.

When she had finished eating, she left the kitchens for the parlor, only to draw up short when she nearly ran headlong into the Hassop House butler.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Shelton,” the man said, reaching out to settle her.

“Not at all. I’ll just…I’ll…” Her head was still all out of sorts. It didn’t help matters any that Roman stood just behind the man, staring through her with such intensity she feared she might melt beneath his gaze. “I’ll just leave you two to your business.”

“Not necessary, in the least,” the butler said. “I was on my way back to Hassop House. If you’ll excuse me, of course.”

Roman gently took her elbow, holding her steady. “That will be all, Milner.” His voice never rose above a polite, conversational tone, but there was a hint of steel behind the words.

The butler released her and backed away, with a nod and a smile in Bethanne’s direction. “And a good day to you, miss.” He scurried through the corridor and let himself out the front door, and then he was gone.

Roman’s hand, however, did not leave her elbow, despite the fact that she had regained her footing and was quickly losing her senses from his closeness. He looked down into her eyes with concern etching a crease between his brows. “Did you get enough rest?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Bethanne wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for asking after her, thanking him for carrying her up to her bed, or thanking him for just being there. Most likely, she was thanking him for all of those reasons and more.

Something was very different in the way he was looking at her. His gaze had taken on a deeper cast, staring through her as though he could see into her very soul. It was more than just a little unnerving.

“That’s good. I…” Roman dragged his free hand through his silver-streaked hair. “That’s good.”

Bethanne pulled away from him slightly, trying to go into the parlor. She needed to sit, because her heart was racing inexplicably and she felt lightheaded, and his nearness was only intensifying both of those reactions. Yet his hand was still on her elbow. She gave a firm tug, and a meaningful glance, and he released her.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t realize I was still holding onto you.” Roman backed away and gave a wave of his arm, indicating that she should precede him into the room.

Catching his eye for a moment, she gave a brief, thoroughly inadequate nod. Then she bustled past him to take up her seat at her escritoire, brushing gently against him as she went so that her skirts rustled and a flush of heat raced to her cheeks.

Bethanne ignored him as she hurried to her spot by the window. She couldn’t bear to look at him, to see if he’d reacted to their fleeting touch. More and more, she felt like a gauche girl barely out of the schoolroom when she was in his presence. It was enough, at times, to make her doubt she’d truly reached eight-and-twenty. Eighteen seemed more fitting.

When she pulled out her chair and sat, however, she almost immediately jumped back up as she’s sat on something hard and unexpected. She squinted down at it. A tiny little glass vial, with what seemed to be a scrap of parchment rolled up inside it. How odd.

Bethanne picked it up and was about to ask Roman if he knew what it might be, but he snatched it away from behind her.

“What…?” She couldn’t even form a coherent thought in response to his strange behavior. Turning, she shook her head, bewildered.

That same wild expression had come over his eyes again, like she’d seen when he was just being awoken. It was as though he didn’t even see her, didn’t recognize her. As though he was in some other time and place. So much like Aunt Rosaline, in a way. Yet also so very, terrifyingly dissimilar.

Bethanne took half a step back, but bumped into the escritoire behind her. She had nowhere else she could go. And while she had the strong sense that she ought to be afraid of him, she couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, she wanted to comfort him.

Roman held the vial in one hand and patted over his chest frantically with the other. Slowly, the madness left his gaze. He took a step back. “I’m sorry. I—I was not myself there for a moment.”

She nodded, at a loss as to any response which could be appropriate. “Do you know what this is, then?” she finally got out, after they’d spent several long minutes just staring at each other. Bethanne lowered herself cautiously into her chair, never removing her gaze from him.

Roman reached inside his coat and tucked it securely away, patting his hand over the front of it as he had done moments before. He averted his eyes for a moment, staring at the fire blazing in the hearth before turning back to her, his expression as impenetrable as a stone. “It’s from the war,” he barked. He linked his hands behind his back, standing straight and tall, as though he were facing a superior or perhaps surrendering to his enemies, confessing a series of war crimes. “From Waterloo. It’s the reason a great many men are dead, including all of those who served under me.”

Bethanne’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him in some small way. But what comfort could she possibly give? Surely this was one of his secrets, which she’d given him her word that she’d not ask him to reveal. Yet he’d done so, at least somewhat. And what he’d told her only left her wanting to know more.

Was he angry with her for asking?

“If you’ll excuse me.” Roman didn’t give her an opportunity to respond. He spun on his heels and marched from the room, leaving Bethanne shivering in his wake without the slightest clue what to do to rectify the situation.

Over the next four days, Roman and Bethanne maintained a mutual distance. Oh, they still sat in the same room as one another, working on their various projects and conversing ever-so-politely when others were around. He nodded to her and smiled, though the smiles never quite reached his eyes; she was certain hers were the same.

It was as though they were each walking on broken glass, trying desperately not to cut themselves in the mess they’d created between them—yet neither truly knew what the mess of broken glass consisted of, and so how could they determine how to fix it?

Bethanne knew the vast array of secrets she’d been hiding, from him and everyone else. And she knew at least part of one of his. But neither had as of yet trusted the other to truly reveal all.

Each day felt like there were larger, sharper, more jagged shards of glass beneath their feet—and thinner shoes.

With each day that passed, he also looked more tired. Much as she felt. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and they were often red-lined and bleary, like a man who’d known too much drink.

That wasn’t the case with Roman, however. He’d not taken spirits once since he’d come to live in the Cottage at Round Hill. He simply wasn’t sleeping.

And he wasn’t sleeping because he sat up all night, every night, with Aunt Rosaline.

Bethanne was determined to find a way to convince him to rest more, despite the fact that she had not been resting properly either. Someone amongst them had to sleep, after all. And the concerns of Aunt Rosaline’s care were hers, not his.

It would have to wait until after he’d arisen for the day, however. Just now, not long after dawn, he’d finally gone to his chamber to lie down. She’d rather gouge out her own eyes than wake the man before he was well and truly ready to rise. Particularly since she’d now—twice—come upon him when he woke in a fit.

The memory was more than enough to convince her she needn’t try that again.

No, today, she needed to find some peace within herself. She needed room to breathe. Since the rest of the house was still asleep, other than Joyce and Mrs. Temple, both already hard at work, Bethanne decided to go into the music room. If she shut the door and didn’t use too much force, she shouldn’t wake anyone with her playing…and it would help to clear her mind so she could decide how best to go about repairing the apparent rift between herself and Roman.

Once she was closed off in her sanctuary, she took a seat at the bench and pulled out the sheet music for Mozart’s twenty-third concerto for pianoforte. It would be good, cleansing music.

Careful not to lose herself too much in the swells, she played until the emotions she’d kept locked away inside herself started to pour through, flowing out through her fingers. She could almost feel the release as she moved up the scale.

When she finished, Bethanne let her fingers rest on the keys for a moment, waiting for the stillness that always came after she played the pianoforte.

Instead, a massive crash sounded against the wall—the wall connected to Roman’s chamber.

Perhaps he had just mistakenly knocked something over. Bethanne fought to keep her pulse from sprinting through her veins, but feared it was a losing battle.

Another crash. Louder, this time.

Her stomach clenched, grasping for a piece of sanity in her chaotic world.

And then a scream.

Before she could register what was happening, she fled the music room and was pounding her fists on Roman’s door.

“Roman? Are you all right?”

He screamed again, and a rip filtered through the doorway.

She tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

“Roman!” She beat against the door, harder, more frantically. He had to open the door. He had to let her in. “It’s Bethanne. Let me in. Let me help you.”

How she could help him, she had no idea. But she needed to get inside. She needed to soothe him, to calm him. To be for him what he’d been for Aunt Rosaline.

A splintering crack.

She pounded on the door again.

It flung open and she fell inside, directly into large, strong hands that fisted, one about the bodice of her gown, and the other over her upper arm. He pulled her in, both of them screaming. He used such force she left her feet. In an instant, her back was pressed against the wall.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t scream.

He glared through her, unseeing, as though she were someone else.

A hot tear spilled down her cheek, moving all the way down to her lips. Salty. Fearful.

The vacant, hollow expression left his eyes, replaced by something hard and desperate and somehow far more like the Lord Roman Sullivan she had come to know.

Then he growled, like a wild animal. Bethanne shivered as his mouth came down over hers in a needy kiss, pressing into her for more than she knew she had to give. His lips moved over hers, almost bruising in their urgency. She moved hers in response, frantic in her need to let him take anything and everything he required.

Just as soon as it began, he pulled away. His hands dropped from her arm and bodice, the ripped fabric falling to almost completely cover her.

Panting. They were both panting, gasping for breath. His gaze trailed over her, from her swollen lips, to her ripped gown, to where he’d held her arm like a vise.