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“May I fetch you something to help you sleep?” Polly asked anxiously.

“No.” Rosalind summoned a smile. There was no reason for Polly to suffer for what Sebastian had done—or not done. “I need nothing more.”

“And tomorrow? Would you like your breakfast brought to your room in the morning?”

“That would be lovely.” As far as Rosalind was concerned, the longer she avoided Sebastian, the better.

Looking pleased, Polly bobbed a curtsy. “Good night, Your Grace.”

Rosalind waited for the maid to close the door behind her before rising to her feet. With purpose in her steps, she crossed the room and turned the key in the lock. She then eyed the door that connected her rooms to Sebastian’s. There was no key in that lock. Even if she were to set a chair up against the door, the gentleman could enter should he truly wish to. But a chair’s presence there might send a message nonetheless.

Taking the nearest chair by one arm, she dragged it across the floor and pushed it against the connecting door. The chair was solid, but the door was even more substantial. So too was the doorframe. Acting on little more than hope and a hunch, Rosalind climbed onto the chair. Standing on tiptoes, she reached her arm up and ran her fingers along the top of the wide doorframe. Dust. She slid her hand a little farther down. More dust. And then something long, smooth, and metallic.

Wrapping her fingers around it, she lowered her arm and examined her find. Just as she’d hoped, it was a key. She scrambled off the chair and slid the key into the keyhole. It fit, and it turned. As the bolt slid into place, Rosalind released a tense breath. It was just as well that Sebastian learn right away that he was no longer the only one in the house who could bar people from entry.

It took under a minute to return the chair to its rightful place and even less time to open her small trunk. She pulled out the painting of Langton Manor that Jonas had given her, but she did not look at it. Tomorrow, or perhaps in a week or two, she would gaze on it with fondness. Tonight, her feelings were too raw. Digging through the pile of books she’d brought with her, she uncovered her diary. She pulled it out of the stack and straightened. Ink and a quill sat on the small desk in the corner, and yet, she hesitated. The details of one’s wedding day were surely something worth recording, but she did not have the stamina for a lengthy entry tonight.

She moved to the desk, flipped open her diary to the back page, and read the list of the Duke of Kelbrook’s good and bad qualities that she’d begun days ago. Dipping the quill in ink, she added to her Bad Things list: 4. He abandoned me. She stared at the page, thinking back on all that had transpired that day. There had been some tender moments along with challenging ones. And if she truly wished to keep her list balanced, she must include the good no matter her current feelings. She dipped her quill in the ink again and added a fourth line to the Good Things list: 4. He comforted me.

To an outside observer, the one entry would appear to cancel out the other. It made no sense that one man could play such opposing roles. And yet, her aching heart was proof that he had. She closed her diary and blew out the candle on the desk. Rising, she moved around the room, blowing out the candles on the mantelpiece and the dressing table. When the room was dark except for the glow of coals in the fireplace, she took off her dressing gown and crawled into bed.

The downy softness of the feather mattress embraced her. She curled up in a ball and closed her eyes. A coal slid in the fireplace, and from somewhere outside, a dog barked. Footsteps, firm and hurried, sounded in the passage. They stopped outside her door. She tensed. She heard the soft rap. Then nothing. A few seconds later, the footsteps moved away, and she heard the click of a nearby door open and close. She waited, her eyes drawn to the shadowy form of the connecting door. Another soft rap sounded.

“Rosalind.” Sebastian’s whisper reached her through the connecting door.

She remained perfectly still. The doorknob shifted a fraction but held firm. She clutched her sheets in the darkness. Silence filled her bedchamber, and then she heard the faint thuds of movement from the neighboring room. She turned her back to the door and closed her eyes again. Tomorrow would be soon enough to face him.

* * *

Sebastian dropped into the chair beside his bed and buried his head in his hands. Surely no gentleman had ever failed his new bride so completely. He should have known better than to open Meikle’s papers before dinner. Whenever he devoted his attention to a project, time ceased to exist. He’d lit a candle when he’d first begun studying the calculations and had not looked up again until his stomach had growled in protest. Only then had he realized that beyond the small circle of light around the table and the glow of the lowering fire in the fireplace, the room was in shadow.

He’d been so convinced that the clock on the mantel was wrong that he’d checked it against his pocket watch. When both instruments had displayed the same appallingly late hour, he had doused the candle and exited his workshop without looking back. Barely remembering to lock the door, he’d gone directly to the dining room only to find it dark and empty. It had been absurd to expect anything different since he’d been over two hours late for dinner, but the sight of the vacant room had caused the pit in his stomach to widen.

Marcus had met him in the entrance hall and confirmed what Sebastian had already guessed. After waiting for half an hour, Rosalind had eaten a small portion of the evening meal on her own before retiring to her rooms.

Sebastian had taken the stairs two at a time, slowing his pace only when he’d approached her chambers. No light shone beneath the door, but he’d knocked anyway. He’d not intended to use the door that connected their private rooms without consulting her first, but when he’d received no response, desperation had sent him there. And he’d found it locked.

He groaned and raised his head to stare into the low-burning fire. Never, in all their years of marriage, had he seen his parents lock that door. In truth, he had assumed the key was lost. And yet, in less than twenty-four hours, he had driven his wife to barricade herself in her room.

For a short time today, he had harbored a slim hope that a deeper relationship might develop between them. In the carriage, the trust she’d placed in him had shown in her tear-filled eyes when she’d collapsed into his arms. He had not expected the surge of protectiveness he’d experienced when he’d held her close. At least, he thought that was what it had meant when his heart had told him Rosalind did not belong anywhere else or with anyone else.

He leaped to his feet and paced across the room. After breaking that fledgling trust so completely, what could he possibly do to regain it? An apology—if she would ever allow him audience—would be a place to start. But an apology alone would be insufficient. Offering her a piece of his mother’s jewelry now would seem more like he was attempting to buy her good favor. That gift would have to wait until he had shown her that his apology was heartfelt. He stopped his pacing to stare at the locked connecting door. The sturdy barrier may prevent him from speaking to her face-to-face, but the gap beneath the door was wide enough to allow a letter through. And that, at least, was a place to start.

Chapter 13

Rosalind awoke to the first light of dawn filtering in through the heavy curtains. She blinked, taking in the unfamiliar bedchamber as memories from the day before flooded her mind. She lay still, listening to the chorus of birds outside her window. Did their hearts ever ache as hers did now? If so, they sang regardless of the discomfort. Could she summon enough courage to do the same? She rolled over and faced the connecting door. A white square lay on the floor before it. Sitting up in bed, she squinted to see it more clearly. She was quite sure it had not been there the night before. It would have become caught on the chair legs.

Curiosity won over her reluctance to leave her warm bed. She slid out from under the covers and reached for her dressing gown. Sliding her arms into the sleeves, she tied the belt around her waist and hurried across the room. The fire was long gone, and the floor was cold against her bare feet. She reached the door and picked up the paper. It was a sealed envelope. She flipped it over and read the name written across the front: Rosalind. Her breath caught. It was from Sebastian.

She shivered. The room’s chill was penetrating her dressing gown. Clutching the letter in one hand, she scampered back to the bed and slipped in between the sheets again. Curiosity bubbled inside her. But with it came a healthy dose of fear. As much as she wished to know why Sebastian had left her alone for so long last evening, she was afraid of what it would reveal of her future life at Finley Park. If he had written to tell her that she must become used to being alone, her aching heart might actually break.

Sitting up against the pillows, she opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper, then began to read.

Dear Rosalind,

I hardly know where to begin. To ask for your forgiveness seems presumptuous, yet I must. That you ate in the dining room alone on your first evening at Finley Park is deplorable. That I am fully to blame is reprehensible. I am truly sorry.

To help you understand how such a slight could occur, I must confess to a personal flaw. Although I pride myself upon being prompt and reliable in parliamentary, business, and social settings, those valued qualities are completely lost to me when I immerse myself in work of a creative or innovative nature.