But she was no longer Rosina Charlton, of no account. She was Lady Raith, a baroness, and she must learn to accommodate herself to the different circumstances attending that life.
The only difficulty was, she thought dismally, as she moved towards the door to her apartments, she did not feel remotely like Lady Raith. That female was some fabricated individual, with whom Rosina had nothing to do. She felt like an intruder. It was inconceivable that this was her home, and that the man who occupied the suite of rooms across the way was indeed her lord.
Arrived in her dressing-room, she discovered that her trunk had been brought up and placed upon the chest. It was already opened, and one of the maids was engaged in removing her garments from it and bestowing them in the various receptacles about the chamber. Startled, she made instant objection.
“Oh! I can do that myself.”
The girl looked astonished, but she bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Mrs Fawley instructed as I should do it for you.”
Heavens, she was become a lady indeed. No one but Gatty had ever waited upon her before. She felt excessively uncomfortable. Particularly to have a servant go through the unprepossessing collection of her clothing. For the first time she wondered with what fabricated tale Lord Raith had fobbed off the domestics. The story Mr Ottery had outlined? Unlikely any of them had believed a word of it. If they had, they certainly would do so no longer once this girl gave out the details of her belongings, as she undoubtedly would.
Unable to endure the humiliation, Rosina went through into the bedchamber, only to find a second maid preparing the bed for her occupation. A lit candelabrum was set upon the table in the window, which had the odd effect of darkening the room. Another curtsy was offered. She would have to become accustomed to that. She, who had been upon cordial terms with Toly Aughton, the apothecary’s boy, and innumerable persons of all conditions these seven years, servants and traders alike.
“I’ll bring the warming-pan, my lady, if you’ll ring when you wish to go to bed,” said the girl, turning down the sheets. She curtsied again, and made for the door. Then halted with a gasp, and turned. “Begging your pardon, my lady, I forgot. His lordship’s compliments, and he’ll do himself the honour of dining with your ladyship in an hour, if that is convenient.”
It was as much as Rosina could do to assent. Before she could recover herself, the other maid came in from the dressing-room, bobbing again.
“Will your ladyship select which gown you choose to wear this evening?” .
It was too much. Rosina sank down upon the bed, and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap, her eyes fixed upon the maid. “Pray, what is your name?”
“Joan, my lady.”
“Joan—” She took a steadying breath. “Pray don’t ask me what I am going to wear. You must see for yourself that I have few gowns. Indeed, this is my best, and I have worn it since yesterday. I am sure his lordship will not expect me to make any change this evening.”
Joan looked nonplussed. She was small, plump, and apple-cheeked. Likeable rather than pretty. Not much older than Rosina herself. She curtsied again.
“As your ladyship pleases.”
Rosina sighed. “That is all, thank you. You may go.”
Joan curtsied again, and left the room. Rosina got up and went into the dressing-room. The trunk was tucked in a comer. It was empty. Rather wildly, Rosina opened drawers and doors, looking where her things had been stowed. She felt as if nothing belonged to her any more. Her life was at the beck of others. Even her clothes were no longer hers to use as she chose. And as for that — that despicable little room next door, she wished she might lock it and shut herself off from invasion.
Pausing, Rosina straightened as a daring thought struck. Was there a key? She darted to the bedchamber door and found none. Neither within nor without. Fairly running back across the dressing-room, she looked in the lock of the door to the antechamber. Nothing.
Fiercely, she grasped the handle and dragged open the door. An intense feeling of relief swamped her. There was a key on the other side. Not pausing to consider her action, she moved into the little room and triumphantly extracted the key from the lock.
A latch clicked behind her. Gasping, Rosina turned. Entering the antechamber from his own dressing-room door was Lord Raith.
He looked at the key in her hand. Then his glance travelled to her face.
Rosina was seized with an absurd sensation of guilt, as if she had been caught out in wrongdoing. Without thinking, she put her hands behind her back, as if she would hide the key. To her consternation, her spouse’s eyes followed the movement, and the bitter look of cynicism became pronounced.
“Don’t trouble yourself to make a secret of your feelings. You are welcome to lock the door and pocket the key, if it will make you sleep safer at night. I am unlikely to break down the door, no matter how strong my desire to molest you.”
Rosina heard the words with resentment, despite an increasing sense of guilt. Need he be sarcastic? Was it surprising she should be apprehensive? Last night he had acknowledged that she had reason. She eyed him. He stood stiff and tight-lipped in the doorway, grey eyes glinting. There was no trace of melting as there had been last night.
She straightened, bringing the key from behind her. Fitting it into the lock again from the side where she had taken it, she looked back at him. “I married you for better or for worse, my lord. I will abide by the terms of the contract.”
He leaned against the door jamb and folded his arms. “Am I expected to thank you? You set inordinate store by that part of the marriage vow, I take it. Let us hope my gentlemanly instincts may prevent me from forcing the worse upon you before we have had time to become better acquainted.”
Irritation flared. “Oh, Raith, must you be so — so naggy?” She moved into the antechamber and crossed to the fireplace, tweaking at her fingers.
Raith watched her, the fire dying out of his eyes. She was right to reproach him. What in thunder ailed him, to be picking on her in this brutal way? Yet her face at sight of his upon his entrance had thrown a shaft into his chest. Revulsion! He had known she must feel it. She had tried to gainsay it yesterday. Tried to make him think she did not regard it. But there was proof, if he had needed it. One had only to look at her.
In spite of all, his conscience nagged at driving her into disquiet again. It was the last thing he had intended. But what he had said, he reflected soberly, was not so far from the truth. He had been married to her for little more than four and twenty hours, and already he was chafing at the necessity for patience. If he did not take care, he would lose her altogether.
There was little point in excusing himself yet again. She would grow weary of his apologies, even if she believed, as he did not, that it excused his offences. He moved into the room. She must have heard him, for she turned.
