What had they meant by it? She listened to the give and take of words, breathless with apprehension. An undercurrent of suspicion lay beneath Raith’s every utterance, despite the cynical air he had adopted. Forteviot had been all too quick to foster it.
“And here is another instance, my dear Anton,” he said, turning his mocking eyes upon Rosina again. “What chance was it, I wonder, that gave into your hands this particular delight? Piers would have wondered at your good fortune.”
Rosina glanced quickly at Raith, and saw the muscle twitch in his jaw, making the scar ripple. But his voice was smooth, as he turned the question back on his opponent.
“Piers would have envied me, I make no doubt. As surely you must, sir, to see me master of this pretty enchantment. Must he not, my sweet life?” Her heart curled to hear that false endearment on his lips. He had raked her with the cold grey of his eyes, and then turned with a scornful laugh back to that hateful man. “Modesty forbids my wife to speak.”
His deliberate cruelty had crushed her. She had vowed to withhold herself from giving him the satisfaction of knowing anything of her story. But that resolve was fast dying. Forteviot had long outstayed his welcome, yet to her horror, Raith himself encouraged him to remain.
“We have talked so long, and it is growing dark. You must remain to dine with us, Forteviot.”
Dine with them? So that he might hint and conjecture interminably? No, Lord help her!
“My dear Raith, why not dine with me instead at Kington?” had said Forteviot. “I am staying at the Cross Keys. We will only bore Lady Raith with our memories. We might try a hand or two of piquet afterwards, if you should care for it?”
She had felt Raith’s glance, and held her breath, unknowing whether she feared more to be left alone with her husband, or to be relieved of his presence, not knowing what Forteviot might say to him.
“No, why should we venture into the cold? We can as well play here, sir.”
In that moment, Rosina wanted desperately to intervene. To scream that if Forteviot were to remain in the house, she must leave it. But that would have been fatal. Dinner was a nightmare, never knowing from moment to moment what Forteviot might not say that could undo her the more.
“Since Forteviot and I are going to play cards, my love,” Raith said as she had risen, “you may as well go to bed. I am sure his lordship will excuse you.”
Excuse her to the freedom of his tongue, no doubt. She had been on tenterhooks ever since. Did Raith truly suppose she could sleep, having no notion what might be said down there in the saloon? Or knowing her husband had so tight a control on his temper that it could not fail to erupt, doubtless upon his wife’s luckless head.
Rosina began to wish she had swallowed her pride, and found the courage to confess all to Raith. However hideous, it could not have been as bad as this, for whatever fondness he had begun to cherish for her would undoubtedly be swept aside.
In a state of mounting tension, she waited to hear the sound of the front door. Her perambulations brought her within sight of the painting of Raith’s mother. On impulse, she seized up the candlestick she had deposited on the table and lifted the light up to illuminate the figure on the horse, as if seeking for that vanished gentleness he must have acquired from this source, for he had it not from the Raiths.
The front door slammed, and she jumped with shock, her heart thudding. She set down the candlestick and ran to the window, peering close against the light behind. A coach was approaching from the stables, and a shadow moved towards it.
Rosina’s pulse began to thunder in her head. He was gone, and Raith was done. He would be coming up in a moment. Now that the time was upon her, she wanted to hold it back. She collected her candle and went with lagging steps through to the antechamber door.
Why was she doing this? Anton had told her to go to bed. She was still dressed in the Turkish robe, the most modest of her new gowns, its scalloped folds of the neckline covering the area about her bosom. Would he berate her for having remained up? Why for that, when he had a more cogent reason?
She heard footsteps in the corridor. Her heart fluttered. For a craven moment, she was tempted to withdraw. But her fear of having been betrayed was too strong. She must know!
Drawing a breath for courage, she opened the antechamber door. The room was empty, and in darkness but for the feeble light from her own candle. She moved to Raith’s dressing-room door, and hesitated, feeling sick. But it would not do. She lifted her hand to knock, and the door opened.
Rosina stepped back quickly as Raith moved into the doorway. He was stripped to his shirtsleeves and his hair was untied, a dishabille that enhanced his masculinity.
Rosina’s throat dried. But the candelabrum he held showed his taut features. Her heart sank. “Has he gone at last?”
The response was cold. “He has gone.”
Raith moved to the fireplace, and set the candelabrum on the mantel. He was conscious more than anything of fatigue. The effort to contain himself, to beat Forteviot at his own game, had exhausted him. Like that numbness after battle, before reaction set in. Yet he had heard her moving in here as he had begun to undress, and entered on impulse. The questions must be asked, though he dreaded her response. He turned and looked across at her shadowed face by the window.
“Were you afraid he would tell me everything?”
Rosina’s defences went up, overriding the intensity of his attraction. He was unnervingly right. But she was angered to think he assumed her guilt proven. She refrained from answering.
Raith’s voice hardened. “You had as well tell me as not, ma’am. It makes no difference now. What is this man to you?”
She bit her lip. How could he be anything when Anton was by? Impossible to say that. Yet she must speak, or she would draw his temper. “Nothing.” It was scarce adequate. She swallowed and added flatly, “I do not like him.”
“That does not answer me.”
Rosina was disinclined to answer him. He had made his own judgements, the more hurtful in light of the sensations his own appearance was invoking. If it made no difference, why should she say anything at all? He would not believe her.
