Chapter 22
There was a moment of utter bliss when Rosalind first opened her eyes the next morning. How was it, she wondered as she lay wrapped in the tangled cocoon of sheets, that the sun looked to shine a bit more brightly this morning, the birds to chirp a touch more joyfully? She smiled, and stretched…
And immediately froze. For she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
A scent reached her then, Tristan’s own spice. It was in the very pillow her head lay on, ensnaring her senses. Filling her with memory. How she had begged him to come to her bed, had opened for him, given him everything she was. How she had taken him into her body… into her heart.
In an instant she was wide awake. But there was no magic of the night before to ease her mind. No, the coming of the day had brought the return of reality. She had gone and done what she had vowed to never do, had allowed her heart to be touched, then had allowed it to reign supreme over the better sense of her mind.
But surely he had not merely used her, she thought. A pernicious voice sounded in her ear, asking if that were so, why was he gone from her bed without even a note goodbye? And, more importantly, without any idea what their future might bring?
She fought down the encroaching panic those thoughts brought. Curling onto her side, she wrapped her arms around the pillow, pressed her face into it. There, with her eyes shut tight, darkness and Tristan’s cologne her only companions, she was able to remember the feel of his arms about her, his tender words in her ear. He had made her feel so safe, so cherished. He must care about her. He would not have lain with her if he didn’t. Not after what they had become to one another. He was different from other men like him, would not take advantage of her.
But as she sighed and sat up, intending to put aside her anxiety and start the day, she caught sight of something gleaming amidst the white sheets.
A gold chain.
She gasped, her fingers going to her throat even as she knew therewould be nothing there. Before her the chain lay broken, the clasp twisted beyond repair. She stared at it uncomprehendingly for amoment, only realizing as she reached for it that the locket was missing.
Once again panic took hold of her. She lurched to her knees, tearing the covers back, searching frantically. At last she found it beneath the pillow. The burnished gold winked feebly up at her in the bright morning light, the brilliant turquoise dull and lifeless.
She grasped onto it, her fingers folding around the small locket so tightly the stones bit into her palm. “Guinevere,” she whispered brokenly. How had she forgotten Guinevere? It was then the foolishness of what she had done hit her. Her sister had loved where she should not have, had made the mistake of surrendering her innocence for that love. And she had regretted it for what remained of her short life. All this time Rosalind had thought herself above such things. She would never be so naïve, would never make such a mistake.
Yet how different were they really? For Rosalind had done the very same thing. She had fallen in love with Tristan, had surrendered her body and her heart to him. All without the promise of tomorrows. He had never once said he loved her, had never spoken of marriage. The future had never been mentioned. And now he was gone, without a word or a note.
And she was the greatest fool that ever walked the planet. For she wanted nothing more than to find him, to surrender to his embrace again.
A sob escaped. Furious at herself now, she threw off the covers and hurried from the bed. A pitcher of chill water stood ready on the washstand. She dipped in a cloth and scrubbed herself with it, making her skin pink with protest, removing every trace of him from her body. She ignored the blood she wiped from her inner thighs, ignored the sore hidden muscles that groaned with every movement. She had made a horrible mistake. Over the course of the last few days she had allowed herself to be lulled by him, had even begun to find enjoyment in a kind of friendship with him. Then last night, with Vauxhall working its magic on her, she had been completely enchanted into giving up that which she should have protected at all costs.
She went to the wardrobe in the corner and pulled out a chemise, yanking it over her head. She wouldn’t let him see what he had done to her. He would have no cause to pity her. It was a brutal lesson she had learned, but learn it she had. For she would never make such a mistake again.
• • •
Tristan whistled as he bounded up the steps to the townhouse later that day, letting himself into the front hall with a flourish that would have been impressive had anyone been about to see it. He had slipped from Rosalind’s bed before dawn, leaving the warmth of her arms reluctantly. But he could not chance anyone seeing him, would not have her talked about below stairs. Besides, he’d had an important errand to run, one that could not wait a moment longer.
He had not planned for it to take as long as it had. Rosalind had to have been up for hours now, and Grace with her.
But any annoyance she might feel at his absence would surely disappear in an instant when she learned the reason for it. As a matter of fact, he thought as he patted his jacket pocket and grinned, he expected she would be so delighted that they might wind up back in her bed again before the day was through. He chuckled as he mounted the stairs to the upper floors two at a time. He would have to see to it that Grace had something to do for the remainder of the day, far away from the house.
But his cousin’s room was empty when he reached the family quarters. Undaunted, he hurried down the hall to Rosalind’s chamber. However it, too, was empty. The bed was made, the room neat as a pin. In his mind’s eye he could see it as it had been when he had left, the bedding in complete disarray, waning moonlight bathing Rosalind as she lay amidst it all. Her eyes had been closed in a deep sleep, her face smooth from care. He recalled the fight he’d had with himself to leave her then. For he’d wanted nothing more than to return to her arms, to sink back into her welcoming warmth, to never let her go.
But his self-control would be worth it in the end.
Until then he could take the time to make his next meeting with Rosalind all the more perfect. He went to his room and to his wardrobe, digging into the very bottom until he located the simple carved wooden box hidden there. He had not looked inside the small chest for too many long years. Now was the time he made use of the contents.
An hour later, while Tristan busied himself in his study in his impatient wait for their return, he finally heard them. Grace laughed, the joyful sound carrying through the house. There was an answering murmur, Rosalind’s softer voice. He straightened at that, every ounce of his attention homing in on it. He had always responded to her, had always been drawn to her. Yet now it was as if every barrier he had erected had been torn asunder, the draw to her was that much greater.
He jumped to his feet, striding from his study, and reached the front hall as the two women were about to ascend the stairs.
Grace smiled when he came into view. “There you are. I had wondered where you had got off to so early.”
He hardly saw her, hardly heard her. For he could not drag his eyes from Rosalind. How had he never seen the way sunlight brought out faint red and gold highlights in her tresses, the way her eyelashes kissed her brows when her eyes opened wide, how her mouth formed a perfect bow when she pursed her lips? He noticed all that now and more.
But Grace had spoken. He fought to portray some semblance of sanity. “I had errands to run.”
Grace snorted indelicately. “Errands at such an hour? You?”
He grinned, his eyes never once leaving Rosalind. “There is much you don’t know about me.”
