“I know, I know,” he sighed, raking a hand through his knotted hair. He was sparingly dressed in a linen shirt, halfway unbuttoned, and a pair of wrinkled blue trousers sans bracers. He’d not shaved since the morning of the Marigold Ball, and while he’d not confirmed anything with absolute certainty, he strongly suspected that the vague odor hanging in the air was emanating from him. “Please try to keep your hands off of me.”
“…horrible.”
“I may need a bath and a change of clothes,” he allowed.
“I mean,trulyhorrible. Like death.”
“All right,” he frowned. “I’ve gotten the idea.”
“You’ve appeared unkempt before. Bloating in your chin and whatnot–”
“Bloating in my chin?”
“–but this is different. You need a doctor. Or maybe a priest.”
He snorted at that. “What the devil do I need a priest for?”
“To perform the exorcism,” she said solemnly. If not for the betraying twitch of her lips, he might have thought she was being serious. Then she removed her hat and gloves, placing them on top of a wooden armoire, and her expression sobered. “What’s going on? I’ve not heard from you in a week. I thought…”
“You thought?” he prompted, his own countenance guarded. He couldn’t–wouldn’t–blame her for thinking the worst of him. That he’d been out gambling, or carousing in one of the dens of pleasures that littered Fleet Ditch, or drinking himself into a stupor at the Gray Pony. Reasonable conclusions to draw, given his history.
“I thought you might have changed your mind. About me. About–about us,” she whispered, and the tremble in her voice stripped him raw.
“No. By God, no.” Sterling didn’t care that he stank. In two strides, he was across the foyer and had her in his arms. Arms that continued to shake even as he wrapped them around her slender frame and drew her firmly against his chest, laying her head over his thundering heart. “I’ve…I’ve been ill.”
As good a way to put it as any, he supposed.
“You reallydolook ill.” As she lifted her head, something flickered in her gaze.
“What?” he asked, abruptly self-conscious of his disheveled appearance. Dear God. Whenwasthe last time he’d bathed? Or put on a new shirt, for that matter. “What is it?”
“You also look…I’m not sure how to put this…” Her small hand splayed tentatively across his sternum, and he sucked in a breath at the heat radiating from her smooth, silky palm. If that hand slid a tad lower… “Awake. You look awake.”
“I’ve stopped drinking.” He winced as soon as the words were past his mouth. He did not mean for it to be an announcement. Being sober was hardly grounds to send out the town criers. But Rosemary didn’t scoff or belittle what was–for him–a monumental achievement literally borne of sweat and more than a few tears.
No, not his Rosemary. His Rosemary hadn’t a derisive, mocking bone in her body. Yet another reason why he didn’t deserve her. But damned if he wasn’t going to try his best to earn her. To be a husband she could be proud of. Or at the very least, a husband that didn’t fill her with shame.
“That must have been very difficult,” she said quietly. A line embedded itself between her winged brows. “I should have liked to support you.”
He shook his head at that. “Best you didn’t. In case you couldn’t tell by the state of me, it wasn’t exactly pretty.”
“A relationship between two people isn’t always meant to be pretty.” Her index finger glided along the stitched seam of his shirt until it encountered a glob of what he dearly hoped, for her sake, was food. Unperturbed, she scratched at the stain with her nail. “If you want the good, then it stands to reason you should also be there for the bad. It’s like an apple.”
“An apple,” he repeated, not following.
“If an apple is bruised while growing on the tree and you cut the bruised piece out, soon the entire apple will rot. But if you tend to it where it is, and give it extra care and attention without trying to remove it, then eventually the bruised part shall callus over and the apple will be stronger for it.”
“An arboristandan animal communicator,” he said, amused–and secretly charmed–by her allegory. Lifting a loose curl, he brushed it behind her ear, thumb lingering along the rounded edge of the delicate shell before he allowed his arm to fall. “What topic aren’t you well versed in, Romaine?”
“I’ve had time to read a great many books,” she said, peering shyly at him from beneath her lashes. “And anyone can communicate with animals if they just put in a little bit of effort.”
Sterling’s rueful gaze fell to the squirrel-sized lump in the pocket of her spring green pelisse. “I’m happy to leave all the talking to you.”
Rosemary’s skirts swished delightfully as she walked further into the foyer, affording him a teasing glimpse at her trim ankles enclosed in silk stockings. She stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase centered in the middle of the room and cast him an inquisitive glance over her shoulder. “Why do you live in Mayfair when you have a larger residence in Grosvenor Square? I went there first, and a footman directed me here.”
“It’s quieter here,” he answered automatically. “No one bothers me, which makes it preferable to the ducal manor.” It wasn’t a lie, but neither was it the full truth. A truth he’d never shared with anyone, not even Sarah. But then, Rosemary wasn’t just anyone, was she? She was the only one to notice that he was missing this past week. The only one that cared enough to come looking for him. The only one that he wanted to trust with his innermost secrets. “Hanover House in London and Hanover Park in Sussex have never felt like mine. They’re meant to belong to the Duke of Hanover.”
Her head canted in bemusement. “But…but youarethe Duke of Hanover.”
