Rosina was torn between relief and embarrassment, but she seized the excuse. An idea came — too late, but still of use. “His lordship has reminded me that we have a number of engagements. I think it would be better to order the other four gowns that I liked. Can you recall them?”
“But yes, milady. The samples are not yet packed away.” The modiste moved in the direction of the back, clapping her hands at one of her assistants. “The gowns will be delivered within a day or so, milady.”
Rosina thanked her, feeling humiliated by the understanding smile until Nadine made it clear it was not directed at the ignominy of her capitulation.
“If milady will permit—” She offered the added assistance of arranging the purchase of suitable accessories — bonnets, shoes and gloves — to go with the gowns, and would ask the traders to send their bills to his lordship. “If milady will trust to my judgement?”
Milady was only too glad to do so. She had not thought of the inevitable need for accoutrements to go with the new styles. Thank goodness it had not struck Raith’s mind! Nadine ascertained the sizes required, and the matter was settled.
Rosina left the shop in a much happier frame of mind. Her heart jumped a little when she saw Raith waiting by the open chaise door. But, forestalling criticism, she spoke the instant she reached him, in a low voice meant for his ears alone, for Parton was in the act of letting down the steps of the chaise for her.
“I have no further bandboxes, but you need not scold. Nadine is to have the gowns made up and delivered, together with anything else I may need.”
Raith nodded, and handed her up into the chaise. But once the door was shut upon them, to her surprise, he turned to her. “I apologise for my treatment of you, Rosina, but truly, it was the outside of enough.”
She looked away, fidgeting with her fingers. Had she not borne enough? What sort of apology was it, that contained its own excuse? From the comer of her eye, she saw his hand reach out. It closed over her own, and the warmth of it sent a charge of violent emotion hurtling into her chest. Her breath stopped.
“Rosy.”
The word was softly alluring. A compression seized her heart. She felt him shift beside her, and then his free hand cupped her face, drawing it round to face him. The grey eyes were tender.
“I can’t bear this between us. Can we not find a way through it?”
Rosina fought against the riot in her bosom. Her voice did not wish to obey her, coming out in a husky whisper. “It was not — of my making.”
“I know.” His fingers played with hers, sending waves of warmth into her bosom. “You did say you preferred me to rail at you than to retire into my shell.”
She felt her lips curve a little in an uncertain smile. “I did, my lord.” His gaze became warm, but impelled, Rosina’s tongue took the words from her mind. “But that was before. There were things said, Raith. I do not know how they are to be got over.”
“Nor I.” A heavy sigh left his lips, and he released her fingers.
The loss struck Rosina hard. A bleak look had crept into his eyes, and she saw it with pain. Her heart wavered. He must not think she did not care. With barely realised intent, she reached out, wanting to touch him.
She hardly realised it was his damaged cheek. But Raith’s hand shot up and seized her wrist before her fingers could reach his face. Her hand was jerked off, away from him, and Rosina saw, beneath the pain of his grip, that his hand was shaking.
But the agony demanded instant release. “You are hurting me!”
Raith’s pulse was thundering in his head. He had not meant to stop her. He could not help himself. He heard what she said, but for a moment he did not realise how he was hurting her. Then he saw her hand, the fingers splayed. He glanced at her face. Her lips were parted in a pose of agony, her eyes glued to her imprisoned hand.
Recollecting himself, he loosened his clutch, and let her go. Rosina snatched her hand back, and grasped it just below the point where he had been gripping it, the fingers still spread as they began to curl. She had pulled her glove down and was staring at her wrist, breathing hard, and Raith saw the angry red weal his fingers had made.
He groaned, dropping his forehead into his hand. Hell and damnation! After a moment or two, he straightened, and looked round at her. She was nursing her wrist, her lips pinched together. It must be hurting her still. Remorse bit into him.
“There does not seem to be anything I can say, except to beg your pardon.”
“It makes no matter,” Rosina said in a subdued tone. “It was foolish of me.”
“For God’s sake, don’t try to take the blame!”
She was silent. Raith sank back into his comer of the chaise, and closed his eyes. It seemed that no matter how he tried, he was doomed to failure. What in thunder was he to do?
Rosina was dressing with a good deal of care. She did not wish to provoke another such outburst as had greeted her last night when she had dared to appear for dinner in an old gown. Raith had flown into one of his rages, demanding to know whether she was determined on behaving in this rebellious fashion forever, and adding a rider to the effect that she might hate him as much as she pleased but she was his wife, and she had better dress the part, whether she wished to or not.
“And don’t dare to tell me the gowns are not yet delivered, for you brought one with you!”
“Yes, but I did not think it mattered quite yet,” Rosina had defended herself.
“Why the deuce do you suppose I troubled to take you?”
