Page 133 of The Earl She Once Saved

Her bedchamber door closed behind her. The noise of the ball faded to a distant pulse, music traveling upward through floors and walls. Sergeant was asleep before the hearth. He lifted his head as she entered. His tail struck the rug once.

“I am quite well,” Verity told him.

The dog rose.

“Do not look at me in that manner.”

Sergeant crossed to her and pressed his head against her hand. Verity pulled away. She would not weep. Certainly not over Rafe, not over a man who had lied to her, shamed her for discovering the truth and then gone directly to the woman everyone expected him to marry with the gift he had stolen in the night.

She bent forward, with one hand gripping the dressing table while the other covered her face. She wept without dignity, each breath painful and uneven. She had not cried when the first creditor threatened to seize the tenants’ cattle. She had not cried when the east roof failed or when men in the village turned their backs rather than greet Roland’s abandoned wife.

But Rafe had drawn her face. He remembered her. And for one weak, impossible hour, Verity permitted herself to believe that might mean she could be loved without being used.

Sergeant pushed against her knees. Verity sank one hand into the rough fur at his neck. The warmth of him steadied her.

“I knew better,” she whispered. “I did.”

Then, the door opened without a knock. Verity straightened as Roland entered and closed it behind him. Sergeant turned. A growl moved low in his chest. Roland’s gaze passed over the dog and settled upon Verity’s face.

“You have been crying.”

“No.”

His mouth curved. “You were always a poor liar.”

Verity rose from the stool. She wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand and hated that he had seen the tears.

“Leave.”

“I came to fetch you.”

“I am not returning to the ballroom.”

“You are.” He said it gently.

That tone frightened her more than anger would have done.

Music rose faintly beneath them. The dancers had begun another set. Roland adjusted one cuff as though their conversation were a minor domestic matter.

“You will compose yourself, come downstairs and stand beside me.”

“No.”

“The county has come to see the Earl and Countess of Edgeworth restored. It would be unfortunate if the countess remained above stairs weeping.”

“Then tell them your wife has disappointed you. Most of them will find the story familiar.”

His smile thinned. “You have already given them quite enough to discuss tonight.”

Verity understood. Half the county had watched the earl’s wife forget herself in his brother’s arms. She remembered Rafe’s hand at her waist, the heat of it through silk, and the way the room had disappeared when his eyes met hers.

Roland had seen. It was never Verity he wanted. He never wanted her laughter, her thoughts or the stubbornness that kept her upright when he abandoned her.

He wanted the figure he cut with her beside him. He wanted the county to see a faithful wife and forgive the husband. He wanted the thriving estate, the restored name and every servant bowing when he passed. And he had seen Rafe holding the one thing beneath this roof worth envying.

“You are not concerned with gossip,” she pointed out.

“I am concerned with my name.”