Page 29 of Marry in Secret
Rose suddenly asked, “But where were you all this time, Thomas? What kept you from coming home?”
“I was unavoidably detained.” It was the truth, after all. He had no intention of saying any more.
“Were you a prisoner of the French?” she asked.
“The war is long over,” Ashendon said curtly. “Most prisoners of war were released years ago.”
Everyone waited for Thomas to explain. He picked up a cucumber sandwich, ate it, then sipped his tea.
“Couldn’t you have written, at least?” Rose said eventually.
Ashendon watched him with narrowed eyes.
“Not all places have a postal service,” Thomas said.
She frowned, obviously unsatisfied with his responses, but said no more.
“Beresford, Beresford,” Lady Salter pondered aloud. “Would that be the Gloucestershire Beresfords or the Norfolk Beresfords?” Why the hell did she want to know? Hadn’t she realized he’d given up her precious niece?
“Neither.” In the direst of circumstances, both his uncle and cousin had betrayed him, so Thomas sure as hell wasn’t going to claim them now.
She sniffed. “Pity. Some connection to the Gloucestershire Beresfords, and in particular to the Earl of Brierdon, might have helped with this mess—if Rose decides to go ahead with the marriage, of course.”
Lady Georgiana made a contemptuous sound. “I don’t see how. Unless the earl wanted to advise Mr. Beresford on the tying of his neckcloth, and the use of champagne in boot blacking.”
Thomas put down his cup with a clatter and stood abruptly. He’d had enough of this, this sitting around drinking tea and parrying pointless questions. “I’ll take my leave now. Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Ashendon.” The irony of the polite meaningless phrase. He’d ruined everyone’s day, and they all knew it.
And with no help from anyone else, he’d even ruined his own plans.
Rose jumped up. “I’ll see you out.”
Ashendon made as if to stop her, but his wife laid a hand on his knee and murmured something, and he subsided. She nodded at Rose, who led Thomas from the room.
***
Without a word, Rose walked toward the front door. Was she insulted by his rejection of her offer? Relieved?
Thomas couldn’t tell. The warm, vibrant, outspoken girl he’d married had changed, become this frozen young ice queen. She was just as beautiful as ever—more beautiful—but he’d never fallen in love with her face. It was Rose herself, full of life, fearless and bold, who’d entranced him back then.
Three paces from the front door, he caught her hand and turned her around to face him. “I meant what I said in there, Rose. I’m no longer a man to build a future with. You always craved freedom, so take it while you have the chance.” Because any minute now he was going to regret what he’d done.
She turned his hand palm upward and stared at it, her face troubled. “Your hands, your poor hands, Thomas.”
His hands, his damned, ruined hands. His calluses must have been rough against her soft skin. He tried to pull free, but she hung on and grabbed his other hand as well. “What happened to them?”
“Nothing.”
“But they’re so rough. And the scars—”
“I’ll get some gloves.” Damn, that valet was right. He should have worked that pumice stone harder.
“Don’t be silly, that’s not what I’m talking about. I want to know how they got that way.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said in a hard, no-argument voice.
A spasm of emotion flickered behind her eyes and was gone. She dropped his hand and turned abruptly away, but instead of opening the front door to send him out into the street, she opened a door to the right and gestured for him to follow her inside.
It was a small anteroom, furnished with a pair of stiff-looking tapestry-covered armchairs, a matching sofa and a couple of small tables. A small window opened onto a narrow side street. She walked to it and stood with her back to him, gazing out, though at what, he couldn’t imagine: All he could see was the side wall of the next house. He closed the door behind him.
