Rosina could feel the resistance he was holding in check. The wound under her fingertips felt alien, but not as loathsome as it looked. She felt no repugnance, no pity, even, but a kind of morbid satisfaction, as her curiosity, so long aroused, was at last permitted to be indulged. It was a fascinating contour, and so peculiarly Raith. As if the store by which he set his own worth were contained in this unevenly ribbed line.
She would have liked to dwell longer upon it, but she knew his discomfort was too acute. Regretfully, she removed her fingers, and saw, with an inexplicable pain at her heart, the immediate relaxation of his rigidity. Her eyes went to his.
“Well?” he said, and the tight-lipped demand shot her through with distress.
What was she to say? She could hardly reveal to him the obscurely pleasurable sensations of her exploration. She recalled, with a sense of shame, the story he had told, of a female who had obtained some sort of sensual satisfaction from the blemish. His disgust had been patent.
What would he think of his wife, if she were to confess to such a feeling? Not that she had been moved in that way. It had served rather to give her a sense of intimacy, that he had allowed her a share in his deepest agony.
He was waiting. She must find something to say that would not cause him to retire behind his protective barrier. And fast, for already his eyes were darkening.
“It is not nearly as bad as you think,” she said quickly. She saw that this statement found little favour, and thought fast. “And — and now that I have once felt it, there can be no shock in my encountering it again, by accident.”
Raith did not know what he had wanted to hear, but these words did not encompass it. His ardour was already damped a trifle, despite the intense allurement of her nearness. It sank still more. He had hoped for better than this. What, had he subjected himself to the excruciating disturbance of her touch, to be rewarded with an assurance that she might no longer expect to be shocked? What was she then — a degree less repelled? He was obliged to her for the mitigation.
“Then I may take it that you would have no objection to allow me into your bed?” he said, unable to help a sarcastic inflexion creeping into his tone.
A wash of colour swept into her face and her tone matched his for acrimony. “Since when have my objections been the subject of your enquiry? You have always assumed them, and conducted yourself accordingly.”
“Because I see nothing other than duty, Rosina. It appears that I can make you respond to me, but—”
“What more do you want?”
“More than you are prepared to give, it seems.”
A sigh escaped her. Frustration? “Raith, I have never been other than willing. I am at your service, if you wish for it.”
“At my service!” he echoed, hurt beyond endurance. “Rosina, doyouwish for it?”
She could not answer him. No, she did not. Not if he meant to make her a sacrifice to his bitter self-hatred. She bit her lip, mute defiance in her gaze.
“I am answered, I suppose. Would I knew whom it is I have to thank for it. I swear I would throttle him with my bare hands.” He moved aside, and opened the door. “Go in to dinner. I will join you presently.”
She left him without a word, and Raith crossed to the fireplace and rested his hands upon the mantel, staring down into the smouldering logs.
How much more of a fool was he determined to make of himself? He was shocked to realise that, in his need of her, he would have foregone that jealous possession of her maidenhead to which his emotions made him heir. Devil take it, had he not sworn he would not make himself master of her before he knew the truth? She had been taken, if it was so, without her consent by this villainous unknown. But he must have taken her roughly, for she responded all too readily to gentleness. She had shown herself more than willing. Had not she said as much? But, to his chagrin, she would not invite him in. Had she expressed a wish for his caresses, he would have thrown all caution to the winds.
Yet the blame was his for the close call. Had he not taken her to task last night for refusing to wear the new gown? If he was bowled over by her appearance, it was scarce Rosina’s fault. He dared swear he might expect to see her return to her old garments tomorrow. She was unlikely to invite his cursed insanities a second time.
He sighed wearily, as he turned for the dining-room. Their relationship was deteriorating. He was no nearer to gaining either her trust or her confidence.
Rosina was so choked with upset she could not eat. She was glad of the excuse afforded by the delay of Raith’s appearance, telling Kirkham curtly, as he came to serve her, that she would await his lordship. His hateful, impossible lordship!
How could he be so unkind? Let him wallow in his bitterness, if he chose. Was she supposed to care? If he wanted her, he might have her at any time. It was his right. She had nothing to say to it. He knew as much. If he hesitated, she was perfectly aware it was not through any reluctance on her part, but from the dictates of his own masculine pride.
He had confessed, in the heat of the moment, his desire for her. But she had already known it — if not in her head, in the frenzied fire of her blood in response to him. A lump constricted her throat. Such tenderness as he had shown tonight when first he kissed her. It was that she wished for, if he only knew. If he used her thus, he might overcome all the hideous remnant of her guardian’s rude betrayal.
Kirkham had poured her wine, and she reached out a quavering hand. A few sips of the red liquid sent a comforting warmth inside her. The slight relaxation released her tight thoughts, and the truth of her distress seeped into her mind.
She felt isolated by Raith’s rejection. He was her husband. She would have taken him only for protection, but he wished for more than that. Yet in her darkest hour, she could not look to him for succour. Both his condemnation, and his insistence she should enter into public acknowledgement of her position — the occasion of her wearing this horrid gown and its wretched sequel — were alike to blame.
A thought struck her. What if Raith should not be content with showing her to this small public circle? He had already proven that the arrangement she had believed them to have made had not marched with his own understanding. Did she dare trust him? Might his decision in this not be as changeable as his moods?
Her fears rose to the surface as Raith entered the room and took his seat. She tried to quiet them for, as things stood between them, the last thing she needed was to let him see her apprehension. If only she could think she might have overestimated the dangers. She might hope that Herbert Cambois was too drunk to read the journal. And that other? Why should he take time from his gambling to seek her out now? If it were only true that her acquaintance would be confined to the coterie of this small area, she might be less concerned. Impulse leapt to her tongue.
“My lord?”
He glanced at her. “Ma’am?”
