Page 24 of Miss Dramatic
Why did the sight of happy, unmarried women upset her so? Why could she manage to keep these thoughts to herself until she once again saw the author of her greatest recent humiliation?
“You are still vexed by your late spouse, because marital betrayal matters,” Gavin said, “and you honor me with this honesty because your confidences have always been safe with me. They will remain so.”
He was being a gentleman, which made no sense, because a gentleman did not expect payment for sexual favors, particularly not payment he didn’t need. Rose hadn’t been able to let that go either, but she intended to give it a good try.
“In Derbyshire,” she said, “something went wrong between us. I don’t want to revisit ancient history, but I want you to know I regret how we parted.” She refused to apologize to him when she was the wronged party, but she could offer an olive branch.
They took a turn away from the towpath, and some of the tumult Rose had been feeling subsided. She’d wanted to extend that olive branch, to conclude the old business and put it behind them.
“I have regrets about that interlude as well,” Gavin said, holding back the limb of a birch sapling and allowing her to precede him. “Regrets about how we parted, not about the time I spent with you. I agree we need not dwell on prior mistakes, and despite whatever missteps were committed then, I am glad to see you now.”
Was that an apology? A reciprocal olive branch? He’d admitted to missteps. Whatever else Gavin might have intended, those words were an expression of goodwill, and that was a relief.
An enormous relief.
“You came upon me reading Wordsworth,” Rose said, “or so you thought. Dane gave me that book the last Christmas before he died.”
“And you were considering pitching it into the Twid?”
She nodded. The temptation had struck her as monstrous at the time. Half hysterical, half juvenile. Such impulses had been common during first mourning—she’d nearly pitched her whole jewelry box down the jakes—much less so recently. She had other copies of those poems, but none signed in Dane’s hand,with all good wishes from your devoted husband.
“I have a suggestion,” Gavin said.
He’d been full of suggestions as a lover. Excellent, interesting, naughty, wonderful… “Unburden yourself, Mr. DeWitt.”
“Let’s trot to the stile on the far side of this field, hop over, and then let them stretch their legs on the lane into the village. It’s about three-quarters of a mile, and Sid could use the exercise. Roland tested his speed this morning, and this will be in the nature of a pleasant little reprise for him.”
A pleasant… little… reprise.No, you don’t, Rose Constance. Don’t even think it.
“Trot, hop, canter,” Rose said, gathering up her reins. “You’re on.” Sid all but leaped forward at the touch of her heel, and when he landed the stile, she sent him onto the lane at a brisk gallop, then a dead run.
She could hear Gavin laughing half a length behind her, and thus she thundered in the lead, all the way to the Crosspatch green.
ChapterSix
Gavin assisted Rose to alight from her horse with more decorum than if they’d been in the churchyard. He and she were making a fresh start, and that meant best behavior for the sake of all concerned.
No lingering slide of his hands at her waist. No standing too close for just one instant too long. No bending near as if some imaginary nearby fife and drum corps made conversation in close proximity a polite alternative to shouting.
If the past hour had told him anything, it was that he truly had missed Rose. Missed her tart tongue, her fierce honesty, and her courage in the face of uncomfortable emotions.
“You’ll join us for supper tonight?” Rose asked as Gavin loosened Sid’s girths.
“I will. My younger sisters, mother, and grandmother will come as well. I decline this evening’s invitation at peril to my continued habitation in the earthly sphere.” And he would find a quiet, private moment to alert her to the impending arrival of Drysdale’s Players. The outing to Crosspatch had been too sweet, too pleasant to mar with such an announcement.
Rose took to stroking Roland’s neck. “Will you introduce me to your mother?”
“Of course, and to my sisters, but be warned that Diana chatters and Caroline blushes. Grandmama is a delight, though she’s slowing down of late.” Had slowed considerably during the two years Gavin had been on the stage.
“I’ll look forward to that.” Rose gave Roland a final pat and stepped back. “Thank you for a lovely outing, Mr. DeWitt. Until this evening.”
Roland turned limpid eyes on her.
“Your book,” Gavin said, retrieving Mr. Wordsworth from the mounting block. “Pitch him into the Twid if you must, but Caroline might fish him out. She’s a particular fan of the nature poets.”
Rose plucked the book from Gavin’s hand. “No dunking for Mr. Wordsworth today. I have galloped off my wayward impulses. Good day, Mr. DeWitt, and again, thanks.”
She didn’t curtsey, which was some consolation, and she did stride off with that particular sense of purpose she brought to any undertaking—every undertaking, in fact.
