Page 130 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

The corridor outside his study was dark except for the lamp burning near the stairs. He went to his room, tapping gently on the connecting door before pushing it open.

Tamsin was sitting near the fire in her dressing gown, a book open in her lap, her traveling trunk already closed and strapped near the wardrobe. Her hair had been taken down for the night and fell over one shoulder in a loose braid.

There was no alarm in her face at the sight of him—only a smile of welcome. “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if you meant to work until dawn.”

Roman closed the door behind him. “For a moment, I was tempted,” he admitted, remaining beside the door.

Her eyes moved over him. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” he said quietly. “That is why I stopped.”

Understanding came slowly into her expression.

He crossed the room and stood before the fire, holding his hands toward it. Only then did he realize how cold they were. “There is another letter I ought to write. Salmond ought to have clear instructions before we go, or he will simply do whatever seems most dramatic. But I realized, it could wait. Some things can’t.”

Tamsin closed her book. She always did that when he spoke to her; gave him her full attention.

Roman looked into the fire. “I have been thinking about something you said to me.”

A little smile pulled her lips upward, an expression he loved because it meant she was engaged, and pleasantly so. “Many a man might find such a thing dangerous, you know. Thinking about things your wife says.”

He sighed as one thoroughly put upon. “It has proved inconvenient.”

“I am sorry.”

He could hear the repressed laughter. “No, you are not.”

“Well. Perhaps not entirely sorry. We shall have to see what it was I said this time.”

He smiled faintly before the expression faded. “You told me you would not be alone in this marriage.”

Tamsin’s smile vanished. “Yes. And I meant it.”

Roman had rehearsed nothing. Perhaps that was why the words were so difficult. He was accustomed to speaking when he knew what he meant to say—in Parliament, in meetings, across dining tables. He arranged arguments before he made them. He anticipated objections. But there was no argument to make now.

“I thought I understood you at the time.” He turned his back to the fire, watching her instead, tracing the features of her lovely face as he spoke. “I understood I had hurt you. I even knew you were right. But I don’t think I knew what I was doing or how to stop. Not immediately.” He rubbed his thumb over the side of his hand. “I have spent most of my life believing the honorable thing is to carry whatever is mine, and to do it without complaint.”

“Yes, we have that in common,” Tamsin said softly. “And you are very good at taking up responsibility.”

Roman glanced at her. There was the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. He huffed a breath. “I am not certain that I wish to be good at it anymore.” Her smile disappeared and he stared into the fire. “Micklegate mattered to me. I thought I could make it matter to others.”

“I know.”

The words poured from him. “I did not want it to matter as much as it did after we lost.”

“I know that, too.”

“I thought if I could act unhurt, eventually the pain would stop.” Tamsin’s expression softened. Roman shook his head. “It was an idiotic theory.”

Her voice was warm. “Perhaps a little impractical, yes.”

Roman snuffed a laugh. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

He drew a breath. “Walmgate matters—and yet, we might lose. Again. And there will be other things after it. Other fights and failures. People I cannot persuade. Things I cannot save. In York and in London. There will be people I cannot save.” His throat tightened unexpectedly. Roman swallowed. “I cannot promise you I will never shut a door again.”

Tamsin’s brow creased. “I would not believe you if you did. I might be offended, in fact.”