Seven Nights to Forever (35 page)

He had to let her go now.

He flexed his hands at his sides, pushing back the almost overpowering need to touch her one last time, to feel the warmth of her skin. Then shifting on the bench, he reached for the brass lever on the carriage door.

“No. Please stay here. I can see myself to the door.”

Head tipped down, she gathered her cloak about her shoulders, flipped up the hood. Her skirt brushed his legs as she got out of the carriage.

“My heart is forever yours.” Soft and light, yet heavy with regret, her parting words floated around him.

Broken heart in his throat, he lurched forward, reached out, needing her so desperately he could barely draw breath, and got nothing but a handful of air.

He waited until she was safely inside before giving the signal to his driver to move on. As soon as the carriage left the alley, he rapped again on the ceiling, this time to instruct his driver to take him to Hyde Park. He left the carriage behind at the gates, went to his favorite bench under the large oak tree, sat in the darkness alone where no one would hear him and no one would see him, and finally let out the anguish consuming his heart.

“THANK
you,” she said to James’s footman. “A servant will see it inside.”

The footman set her trunk at her feet. His footsteps clicked on the flagstone path as he returned to the carriage.

Her arm shook as she lifted it to knock on the back door. She could feel the weight of James’s gaze. Just knowing he was but a few paces behind her, that she would never lay eyes on him again . . .

“Please, open the door,” she whispered, barely audible, barely able to get the words out.

It felt like an eternity as she waited for the door to open. When it finally did, she brushed past the maid with a hasty instruction to have the trunk delivered to her rooms.

She had the key in hand before she reached the narrow door at the top of the stairs. Not pausing to glance about the corridor to ensure it was empty, she rushed to her sitting room. It took a few tries to get the key into the lock. There was no sigh of relief when it finally slid home, only an all-encompassing need to get inside.

With a crack, she flung the door closed. She reached up to remove her cloak, but her fingers were shaking too hard to manage the clasp.

Then her arms dropped to her sides.

He was gone.

She had left him.

Her breath hitched sharply, caught in her chest. Her entire body trembled as she stood there in the dark room, the only light seeping from under the door.

A distinctive double knock echoed through the room. She opened her mouth to call for him to enter, but the words wouldn’t come.

She heard the click of the knob turning, the very faint creak of the hinges.

“Rose? I have your trunk. Why are you standing in the dark?”

There was a
thump
behind her as Timothy set the trunk down, then light filled the room as he lit a candle.

“Rose?”

A gentle hand settled on her shoulder, turning her.

“Oh, Rose,” he said, full of compassion, of sympathy, with a shadow of the pain that filled her entire being.

He wrapped his arms around her, held her close, and she couldn’t hold it back a moment longer. The tears flowed down her cheeks, wetting his shirt, sobs racking her body.

She would never see James again.

ROSE
pulled a sheet of paper from her desk drawer. The note that had been awaiting her a week ago when she returned to Paxton Manor lay open on the desk.

 

One line followed by a short, terse signature. That was it.

He had correctly assumed who had settled his debts. She did not intend to keep it from him, but the day she left London she was in no condition to have a conversation with him. It still wasn’t a conversation she particularly wanted to have. His note screamed his displeasure, but soon she would broach the subject with him, along with another more pressing matter.

Letting out a resigned sigh, she picked up her pen.

After addressing the note and sealing it, she set down her pen. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind he’d come home as soon as he read the letter. She had never asked him to come home before. The sheer uniqueness of her request would make it impossible for him to blithely brush aside.

Resting her elbows on the desk, she dropped her head into her hands.

How was she to tell him? She hadn’t a clue, but she would only have a few days to find a way to do it.

She could not return to Rubicon’s. She had thought she could do it, simply continue on, as long as James didn’t walk through her door. She had done it countless times over the years. Had perfected the art of ignoring herself in favor of her clients. Rubicon’s was her only source of income, after all. A requirement and not a choice she had the luxury of brushing aside.

But on the long ride to Bedfordshire, alone in the carriage with nothing but her aching heart, she realized she could not make the journey to London again. Being with another man would be a betrayal of the utmost proportions of the love she held in her heart for James. Her body, her soul, forever his.

By refusing his offer and refusing his aid, however, she had left herself with no means to support Dash or maintain the house or repair the coffers her father had drained. She had a bit left from the sum James had paid for her to accompany him to Honey House, but it would not last long. It wasn’t even enough to cover Dash’s quarterly allowance, let alone fund his extravagant lifestyle.

After a week at home, a week spent worrying and fretting and aching for James, a week during which she’d been so out of sorts her housekeeper had inquired after her health over a half dozen times, she had come to accept that what she had fought so hard to hide was now her only option.

The decision had not been an easy one. The underlying reason why she had continued to hide the truth from Dash was still an almost paralyzing worry. Beyond it, though, she was accustomed to managing everything herself, shouldering all of the burden. Asking for help was a foreign notion. But the time had come to ask for Dash’s assistance and for her to stop sheltering him. He was eighteen years of age. A man. A spoiled young man, but she had to accept some of the blame for that. He was what she’d helped him to become. And as James had tried to explain, she was doing Dash a disservice by continuing to cater to his every whim. She had treated him like a thirteen-year-old boy for the past five years, and it was time he helped bear a bit of responsibility and have a say in his future. Together they would determine how to go on from here.

She had reconciled in her heart that James would not be in her future. She would always love him, her heart would ever ache for him, but nothing could come from wallowing in her sorrows. She must try to move on and make a life for herself in a manner where she could maintain a shred of self-respect.

With that thought fresh in her mind, she pulled out another sheet of paper and penned the necessary note to Rubicon. Then pushing back from the desk, she stood. Letters in hand, she left the drawing room and found her housekeeper, Sarah Thompson, on her knees cleaning the great expanse of white and black checkered marble covering the floor of the entrance hall.

If one walked through the front door, they would never guess the Marlowes no longer possessed a fortune. The main rooms of the sprawling country house were as grand as they had been a decade ago. Showplaces to impress, showcases to announce wealth. But if one looked beyond the doors kept closed tight, they’d find furniture draped in sheets. There was no reason to expend the effort to clean and dust rooms no longer in use. Between Sarah and herself, they had a hard enough time keeping the dust from collecting in the few rooms kept up in the event of an unexpected visit from Dash. It took an army of servants to maintain a house the size of Paxton Manor. An army she could not afford.

“Sarah, we need to air out Dash’s bedchamber. He’ll be visiting in a few days.” The ceilings so high, the space so vast, her voice echoed.

Sarah dropped the sponge in the bucket and pushed back onto her knees. Forty years of age and widowed over a decade ago, she was her only companion in the house. Rose had never explicitly told Sarah why she left for one week out of every month, but after four years, the woman had to assume the true reason.

“How lovely,” Sarah said, smiling. “It will be wonderful to have him in the house again. I’ll be sure to stop at the butcher tomorrow to secure something suitable for suppers. Do you know how long he plans to visit?”

“At least a few days, perhaps more,” she replied, uncertain how long Dash would remain at the house. She wasn’t at all sure how he would react to her news. He might very well leave the day he arrived, never to return again.

But she had to hold faith in Dash. He may be rash and impetuous, but he cared for her. Loved her. He wouldn’t turn his back on her once she explained how they had gotten by since their father’s death. At least she hoped he wouldn’t.

Her free hand fluttered up to brush lightly against the stone hidden beneath the demure bodice of her plain brown cambric day dress. Losing James had almost broken her. Losing her brother could very well see the deed done.

WITH
his arms crossed over his chest, James leaned against a column marking the perimeter of the dance floor. The drum of hundreds of voices competed with the music from the quintet in the corner, the sound filling his ears to the point where he couldn’t make out one voice over another. The bright light from the chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling coupled with the press of so many bodies made the ballroom almost oppressively hot, the thick heat causing a trickle of sweat to form under his collar.

He shifted his weight and resisted the urge to tug at his cravat. The Forsythes’ ball. The absolute last place he wanted to be. Around him ladies and gentlemen chatted merrily, yet he felt distinctly separate from them. As if he existed in his own numb void. And the fact that no one approached him seemed to confirm it.

He had been treated to Amelia’s ire during the first few functions; the slash of her narrowed eyes, her hissed admonitions to stop glowering like an ill-mannered beast followed by a remark about how she wondered why she even expected better manners from the likes of him. He hadn’t even heaved a sigh in response. Had merely stared back at her, wanting nothing more than for her to flitter off to join a group of her vaunted acquaintances. For her to just leave him alone.

His lack of any sort of response must have finally sunk into her shallow head, for he had been spared her ire last night and she had not approached him since they had parted ways at the bottom of the Forsythes’ grand staircase.

Simply laying eyes on her should hurt—the woman was the most blatant reminder of why Rose had refused him—but oddly it didn’t. He felt nothing. So hollow and empty inside only apathetic resignation could take root.

At least his evenings weren’t a waste of his time. From what he could tell, Rebecca was a smashing success. A smile continually on her sweet face, gentlemen vying for her attention. By the end of the Season, she would have her choice of proposals, and hopefully one would be from a gentleman who suited her.

The music died down, leaving only the chatter of voices. He focused back on the gleaming parquet dance floor.

Clad in a white muslin gown, Rebecca curtsied to Lord Brackley as the man made his bow. Another gentleman came up to her to claim the next dance. Mr. Gregory Adams. A young buck and a known fortune hunter. James made a mental note to approach the man later, ensure Adams was aware he would never give his consent for him to even court Rebecca.