Page 92 of A Match Made in London
He swallowed hard and rubbed at the back of his neck. “If I had been any soberer I might have seen the folly in the plan. But I had been enjoying myself a bit too much, had more to drink than was good for me. And when Guinevere found the bottle of brandy in the cabinet I thought it would be the very thing to relax her.”
He looked up then, his eyes begging Rosalind to understand. “I don’t remember anything that followed. I swear it. One minute we were drinking and talking, the next I awoke to the morning sun in my eyes, a blinding headache nearly incapacitating me. Guinevere was gone, the only sign of her the empty glass she drank from on the table beside me.” He flushed then, his eyes falling away from hers. “It was some minutes before I realized that my clothes were askew. I worried something might have happened between us. When next I saw her, in the front hall as everyone was departing back to London, I managed to pull her aside, asked her if I had…” He closed his eyes, drew in a shuddering breath. “She swore to me we hadn’t. I confessed my love to her then, told her I wanted to marry her. But she refused me. She bid me farewell, told me she would see me back in London.”
His gaze returned to Rosalind. “That was the last I saw of her. She returned home the very next day, and within the week I was off to the country at my father’s orders. Had I known…”
He could be lying. He had kept this from her up until now; who was to say he wasn’t spewing falsehoods to save his own skin?
Yet Rosalind knew, as sure as she knew her own name, that he was telling her nothing but the rawest truth. She stared into eyes of absolute desolation and knew without a doubt that this was what happened.
She hugged her middle, as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will, and dropped heavily into her chair. Everything she had ever believed, everything that had driven her over the past years, was a lie.
She had been led to believe that a rake—for that was how Guinevere’s friend had described Lester—had taken advantage of her sister. She thought he’d been a man with no care for Guinevere, who only wished to use her for his own pleasure and then had abandoned her.
Instead here was this gentle, kind man, who was utterly destroyed by the news of what he’d inadvertently done. A man who had loved her sister, who had been refused when he’d offered the protection of his name.
She felt as if she’d been told that up was down, that right was wrong. Nothing made sense any longer. The foundations of deep-seated beliefs had been stripped away.
Why had Guinevere refused this man? She had to have known what had happened. She could have held on to her honor, would have been loved and protected.
But even as she asked herself these things she knew. She remembered Guinevere calling Lester’s name while overcome with the pain of her labor and knew. She had loved that man with everything in her, though he could not return it. She had been dramatic, and bold, and led by her emotions. And when she’d loved, it had been with her whole heart, her whole soul. She would have seen it as a betrayal to her very heart to marry another. Even if it could have saved her life.
“Damn it, Guinevere,” she whispered.
“I am so sorry.” Mr. Carlisle was back to staring at the locket, and Rosalind did not know if he was talking to her or the wisp of the child that still lived behind glass, a child he would never know.
But then he looked at her. “I am so sorry, for everything. If I could take it all back I would. What I did to her, what I have done to you…” He swallowed hard, and for a moment she thought he might begin to cry in earnest. Instead he gathered strength and said, “I shall never forgive myself for what I have done. I shall never, ever forget. But perhaps I can help you a bit. Please let me help you.”
She frowned. “Help me?”
“I am not a rich man. But I can provide for you, give you independence.”
Her frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”
But he was sitting forward, a new determination in his eyes. “I have a cottage. It’s not grand, or large. But it is mine. It was left to me by my mother, came with her marriage portion. I can give it to you. You can live there in peace, without being beholden to anyone, without having to live a life of service for one more day.” When she began to shake her head, confusion and hope and fear building in her, he rose, hurried around the low table, knelt in front of her. Taking up her hand, he pressed it to his heart.
“I loved your sister. So very much. She gave birth to my child, who never had a chance to live, and whom I shall never know. You are all I have left of both of them. Please, Rosalind, let me do this for you. Let me give you the life you deserve and that I took from you in one stupid, ill-conceived moment.”
She stared into his agonized yet still gentle eyes, and a bud of hope began to bloom in her chest. She should accept what he offered. She should not have this life, after all, should have had a life quite different. And even though she had found a place with Grace,though she loved her like a sister, she was still in service and could lose this life any moment on a whim.
She imagined herself then in a home of her own, doing what she wanted when she wanted. Having to answer to no one. It was incredible and frightening all at once.
But something held her back from accepting this great gift. Because inside she felt empty. And she knew that filling the hole in her heart with the life he offered would not ease the ache of it.
“I can’t,” she whispered helplessly.
A look of sad understanding softened his face. “Is it Sir Tristan?”
He must have seen the shock and agony that coursed through her. “I am so sorry. It is none of my business, of course. But please know that my offer still stands should you ever need it.”
He sighed, opened his hand, looked down at the locket that still rested open in his palm. Rosalind, too, gazed down at it, taking in with new eyes the small curl of hair that she had worn so faithfully for nine long years. It was nearly the same hue as Mr. Carlisle’s hair, she realized now.
He moved, faltered, then held it out to her, his jaw set. “Thank you for sharing this with me, for telling me what happened. Though it brings me more pain than I ever imagined, I am glad I know.”
She reached for it, then at the last minute closed his fingers around it.
He gasped softly. “You are giving this to me?”
She smiled gently. “Have a good life, Mr. Carlisle. And try to forgive yourself. You deserve to be happy.”
