Page 15 of A Rogue's Rules for Seduction
“How can I,” she fired back, “when you’ve said nothing about it? I’ve no idea whether you’re pleased by what you did, or you regret it—and you certainly haven’t apologized.”
She was yelling now. He looked toward the hallway in case any of the guests lingered there.
“They can’t know I was the one to leave,” he said grimly. “It’ll hurt your reputation.”
“What does it matter?” she went on hotly. “There’s been too much obfuscation, too many lies strung out to cover the shameful truth, and I’m sick of it. If the world learns what truly happened between us, and my reputation is in tatters, then I welcome it. Anything, other thanthis.” She gestured to the space between them, filled with tension and pain.
He swallowed hard, but the words that wanted to tear from him refused to come out.
She shook her head, and disgust filled her voice. “For all your protestations, youaren’tsorry.”
“That I hurt you,” he finally ground out, reverting to his old accent. “Yes. Knowin’ I caused you a moment’s pain, let alone nearly a year of it—I’d sooner gut myself with a cargo hook. Not a second goes by that I don’t wish to God I hadn’t caused you anguish. And I’m sorry,” he continued in a rasp, “so damned sorry I did that. I’ll go to the coldness of the grave repentin’ that I’ve done that to you. You have to know that.”
“I don’thaveto knowanything.” Her eyesgleamed. “I don’t have to listen to a word you say to me.”
“Princess—”
“Mortification. That’s what I felt when you left me. You humiliated me in front of my family. You embarrassed me in front of the whole city.”
He burned, acid filling his veins. “The last thing I wanted.”
“If you think you touchedthis.” She placed a hand over her chest and laughed, but the sound was uneven and choked. “You couldnever.”
Her eyes were bright, gleaming. Something glossed on her cheeks.
Tears.They couldn’t be. Not once in the whole time that he’d known her did she ever weep. She was the strongest person he knew, and yet here she was, insisting that he hadn’t hurt her, while tears ran down her face.
Pain slashed through him, jagged and red.
He reached for her. She lurched away from his touch. Wiping at her face, she dashed from the room.
And then he was alone, save for the apology he’d offered but she’d refused.
A few moments later, the servants reappeared, edging into the chamber to clean up after the meal. He waved away offers to get him anything, instead snaring a decanter of some spirit from the sideboard. He took it with him as he climbed the stairs to his room.
As he ascended, he undid his neckcloth and drank straight from the crystal container. The whisky barely burned as it slid down his throat, but it would take a hell of a lot more than what the pretty decanter held to make him feel anything. As he walked, he grabbed a candlestick, since the way ahead would be a dark one.
The location of his attic room was far from where the other guests slept, which was just what he wanted. Yet it meant he could only reach his bedchamber by going up a very narrow set of back stairs that creaked threateningly beneath his weight.
The sound reminded him of the rickety staircase he used to climb. Late at night, he’d go up to his family’s cramped rooms after a long day’s work, his muscles aching from hefting cargo as big as himself. He’d known he was growing up because the wood beneath his feet had complained more and more, the same way it did under Da’s weight, and he’d been proud to know that he was becoming a man. A man of heft and substance. A man who made a difference in the world—or at the least, who could help provide for his family.
The quiet of stairs that were well-built and thickly carpeted was unnerving. It was as though he’d been erased, his significance blotted out.
Fortunately, the stairs he climbed groaned like ghosts under his feet. He smiled grimly before he took another drink from the decanter.
Twelve years had passed since Da had made his fortune, and yet those years felt more like a dream than anything that had come before. Any day now, he expected to wake up and find himself lying on his too-short bed, looking at the water stain on the ceiling, and hearing Ma cough as she prepared their morning porridge.
Every now and then, Willa had wanted to know more about his background, who he’d been and where he’d come from. He’d given her few details, only saying that it was very different from anything she’d known. Earls’ daughters didn’t need to know such things. And how could he admit to her that there were parts of his old life—one part in particular—that filled him with shame?
She, so strong and so forceful, would have no doubt scoffed and scorned such weakness. So, he’d said little.
But tonight... Tonight, she’d wept. She’d rejected his apology and he’d made her cry.
Dom finally reached the attic landing. He bent down beneath the low, sloping ceiling, the top of his head grazing the beams. Rain hammered against the roof as if a band of demon horses galloped over the slate. There were two other rooms off the short corridor—both of them crammed full of the house’s cast-off detritus. His bedchamber was at the end, and shadows danced as he strode toward it.
“Fuck,” he muttered when he pushed open the door.
As Mrs. Murray had warned, the room was a small one, its furniture rusted and barely holding together. Still, it was better than anything he’d known in Ratcliff.
