“Promise.” He ruffled her bright curls. “Now time to get some sleep.”
He got under the covers. She followed him, cuddling up close. He watched over her until her lashes lay still against her small cheeks, her breathing turning deep and even. Then his own eyelids grew heavy, and he followed her into sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Rosie stood in the wood-paneled foyer of Daltry’s townhouse, conferring with Mr. Horton, a junior solicitor in the firm that handled her late husband’s affairs.
“The funeral procession is ready, my lady,” Mr. Horton said in discreet tones. “Shall I give them leave to begin?”
“Please do,” Rosie said wearily. “Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure to assist.” The young solicitor paused. “My firm extends its apologies again for Mr. Mayhew’s absence. Rest assured he is doing his utmost to expedite his return to London.”
Mr. Mayhew, Daltry’s executor, was on the Continent on business.
“You are doing a fine job in his stead, Mr. Horton,” she said gratefully.
With a bow, Mr. Horton left to orchestrate the transfer of the coffin from the drawing room to the conveyance waiting outside. The man was a godsend; she didn’t know what she would have done without him. He’d made all the arrangements for the funeral, including setting up the vigil at Daltry’s townhouse, which Rosie had never set foot in before today.
It was a testament to her wicked nature, she supposed, that she didn’t even feel sad… just numb. When it came to her union with Daltry, she’d never harbored any illusions. Their marriage was like a business that had gone bankrupt on opening day. In her mind, sending him off in style was better than any false manifestations of grief on her part, so she’d instructed Mr. Horton to spare no expense on this final tribute to her husband.
A part of her couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been born beneath some unlucky star. It was just sotypicalof her to fling herself out of the frying pan and into the dashed fire. After all the trouble she’d gone through to land Daltry and elope with him—not to mention the indignities of the wedding night (she ignored the uncertain flutter)—she was now worse off than when she’d started.
She was a countess, yes, but one whose marriage had started and ended with scandal. At the moment, her state of mourning put her in social limbo, but when that period ended, who knew what her fate would be? Would thetonaccept her… or make her a pariah?
Her throat tightened. Why, oh why, had she run off with Daltry?
You know why.
Regret seeped painfully through the numbness. She’d neither seen nor heard from Andrew since his abrupt departure from Gretna, and she… missed him. Somehow, through the chaos of the past month, she’d grown to rely on their unexpected encounters. On the fact that he was watching out for her like some brooding guardian angel. Now that she knew more about their prior connection, she yearned to excavate the artifacts of their history...
Did he feel the same way? Was he staying away because he truly thought he wasn’t good enough for her? Or had he realized that she was damaged goods and washed his hands of her?
A spasm gripped her heart. Regrets piled up like dirty laundry,if onlysjoining the heap. If only she hadn’t acted so recklessly and out of wounded pride. If only she’d tried to discover the truth about Andrew—why he wouldn’t marry her, why he felt asessentialto her as breathing—instead of eloping with another man. If only she hadn’t acted like the flighty, wicked girl that she was.
“Rosie?”
She turned to see Polly coming down the corridor, followed by Aunt Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford. Like Rosie, both wore black. They had provided immeasurable support, staying by her side throughout the day as visitors had come to pay their final respects.
“Is everything all right?” A curvaceous brunette, Aunt Helena was sweetness itself, concern radiating from her hazel eyes.
“Yes… No.” Sighing, Rosie stowed away thoughts of Andrew. “The procession’s getting ready to leave.”
The men—including Mr. Peter Theale, Daltry’s heir, and Mr. Alastair James, the stepson of Daltry’s aunt—would be accompanying the body to the churchyard. To give her lord his proper due, Rosie had asked Mr. Horton to arrange a stately night march that included a dozen black horses with feathered headdresses and professional funeral attendants to swell the ranks.
“That’s just as well.” Polly squeezed her hand. “It’s been a long day for you, dear.”
“I don’t know how I would have survived it without the two of you. But it’s not over yet.” Lowering her voice, Rosie said, “What is the state of affairs in the drawing room?”
The look exchanged between Polly and Aunt Helena spoke louder than words.
Today had been Rosie’s first official encounter with Daltry’s relations. As a whole, they had not greeted her with what one would term enthusiasm. Peter Theale, Daltry’s cousin and heir, had been the sole exception.
Ginger-haired and possessed of an awkward stammer, he had expressed his condolences and assured Rosie, “You n-need not worry about you future comforts, my dear.”
She wasn’t worried—not about money anyway. That had never been her reason for marrying Daltry. She knew her parents would continue to provide for her, and, moreover, she didn’t want to receive handouts from the new earl.
Nonetheless, Mr. Theale’s kindness had been comforting, especially compared to the coolness she’d sensed from her dead husband’s female relatives. At present, four of them awaited her in the drawing room. Daltry’s aunts—Mrs. Antonia James and Lady Charlotte Daltry, the dowager countess—had greeted her with a touch of frost, and his cousins, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey, had taken their older relatives’ lead.
