With Charles’s absence noted, Rosie’s attention turned to the business of getting clean. The kitchen, with its rough-hewn counters and the lingering scents of their simple supper, offered sanctuary. She spied the bathtub tucked away under the workbench—a humble basin, hardly fit for luxury, but promising the comfort of warmth against her skin.
Water sloshed as she poured bucket after bucket, steam rising and mingling with the cool air of the kitchen. She undressed with an efficiency born of necessity, leaving her garments folded neatly on the chair beside the stove. Slipping into the hot embrace of the bath, Rosie closed her eyes and exhaled, the heat seeping into her weary bones.
It was during this moment of blissful solitude that the door creaked open. Charles stood there, framed by the doorway, his features sharpening as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. His breath caught at the sight before him—Rosie, with her fair skin, hair piled atop her head in a loose knot.
“Rosabelle,” he began, the name tumbling out in a hushed reverence he hadn’t intended.
“Charles!” Rosie’s eyes snapped open, her hands instinctively reaching for the water’s surface to preserve her modesty. “I—I thought you were asleep.”
“Apologies, I—” He stumbled back, color rising to his cheeks. The image of her, so serene, so unexpectedly enchanting, seared itself into his mind. It wasn’t what he had envisioned when he requested a bride. Yet here she was, defying his plans with her unadorned beauty, stirring something within him that felt perilously close to longing.
“Goodnight, Rosie.” His words were clipped, a feeble attempt to regain composure as he retreated hastily to his room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.
The silence settled once more, leaving Rosie blinking against the stark contrast of the warm water and the sudden chill of isolation. She let out a shaky laugh, finding humor in the absurdity of it all—their mutual surprise, the unspoken tension, the dance of propriety they both seemed eager to maintain.
“Goodnight, Charles,” she whispered to the empty space, a smile playing on her lips. With a gentle sigh, Rosie submerged herself once more, allowing the water to wash away the embarrassment.
Under the heavy quilt, Charles shifted restlessly, his body tense as he tried to find a comfortable position. The mattress creaked under his weight. Each time he closed his eyes, the vision of Rosie bathed in the warm glow of the kitchen lantern flashed across his mind.
“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath, turning onto his side with a huff. He was supposed to have married a plain woman, one who wouldn’t stir these relentless yearnings. He had chosen practicality over passion, responsibility over romance. Yet, here she was, Rosie, inadvertently unraveling all his well-laid plans with her quiet grace.
He wanted to touch her, to know the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, but such thoughts were treachery against his late wife’s memory. He clenched his jaw, frustration mounting. Why couldn’t Rosie have been plain? It would have made everything simpler, and easier to bear.
But she wasn’t, and as the night dragged on, Charles found no reprieve from his desires. But if he only knew one thing about life, he knew that he couldn’t allow another woman to know he desired her. He wouldn’t go through that again.
“Confound it all,” he whispered into the darkness.
