He watched her unlatch the gate and flee the courtyard as if hell itself had opened up to summon her.
Before he could even try to stand, he heard their voices and froze.
“Francis,” Rose said, her tone bright and forced, “it is a fine day today. What can I help you with?”
“I wanted you to know that John and Thomas will be coming tomorrow to begin harvesting your fields, Lady Roselyn.”
Whatever else the man said was lost in a haze of confusion and growing anger.
Lady Roselyn Harrington?
Lady Roselyn Harrington and Rose Grant were the same woman!
How could he have been so stupid not to see it? She had been hesitant, distant, almost afraid of him. He’d put it down to a reaction to his Spanish looks.
Instead, she’d been playing him for a fool. She had known his identity from the beginning, and she’d never said a word. What was her game? He had thought for the first time that he’d met a woman of compassion, when all along she’d had her own selfish reasons for helping him.
Maybe it was guilt for what she’d done to him, Spencer thought, wishing he could pace his frustration away. More than likely she’d enjoyed humiliating him further and was just waiting for the right moment to laugh in his face.
After all, she’d done that to him before, when every friend he’d had was there to watch her turn him into a laughingstock.
He had thought service to his country would help him and the rest of London society forget, but even that was denied him. By now the queen must think that Spencer was a traitor.
And he had just been imagining marriage to a woman like Rose. If she knew, she’d laugh in triumph.
There was no “Rose,” the feminine, sweet woman. There was only Roselyn, the lying bitch who’d succeeded in humiliating him a second time—the last time.
As Roselyn emerged alone from the side of the cottage, Spencer was unprepared for the shock of raw emotion that surged through him. It was as if all the anger and uncertainty and fear of the last few months suddenly had a focus.
Now that he knew her identity, he could see why he hadn’t recognized her. She was thinner than he remembered; she wore no face paint or jewel-studded garments, no corsets or farthingales—and her hair was always hidden.
She looked almost fragile, vulnerable in her widow’s black, but it was all an illusion, and he’d fallen for it. Had her lover died, or had he just deserted her when he’d found out what a fickle woman she really was?
She opened the gate and walked slowly toward him. “You don’t have to go inside. He’s gone now.”
“Who was that?” he asked, surprised at how normal his voice sounded.
“Francis Heywood.”
“The bailiff of Wakesfield Manor.”
“Yes,” she answered uncertainly.
Spencer could tell that she wondered how he knew that. He continued to stare at her until she finally walked down a row of the kitchen garden and knelt in the dirt to weed.
He should confront her now, but as he watched her on her hands and knees, it gave him a dark feeling of satisfaction. Was this her punishment, a lifetime of the meanest labor? Or was she biding her time, waiting for her father to rescue her?
He watched her for at least an hour as she toiled in the hot sun, her black gown clinging to her back. He thought he should feel victorious, but as she put aside the vegetables she meant to use for his meal, he suddenly wanted it all over with.
He rose up, bracing his hand against the apple tree, angered anew by how weak and trembling even his good leg was. “I’d like to go back inside,” he said, unable to use the name she’d called herself.
Roselyn sat back on her heels, wiping the perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. “I have one last row—”
“I need to go innow,” he interrupted, watching as she flinched and her expression grew uncertain. If she had been born a boy, her acting could put her on the London stage.
She walked toward him, carrying the basket of vegetables. It sickened him that he would have to depend on her. He lifted his arm and she stepped against his body. He wanted to nurse his anger, but instead, as she reached around his back, he felt the pressure of her breast against his ribs, smelled again the natural perfume of her garden and her kitchen.
The walk from the courtyard around the cottage seemed long as he looked down at her bent head and thought of all the things he wanted to say. He was angry at her, and angry at his body for reacting to her as a woman.
