NO, NO SHE did not want to see her rooms.
“I’d like to see more of the house,” Rose said as evenly as she could manage. Her stomach lurched with fear, and a fine sheen of cold sweat made her skin clammy. “You’ve only shown me the music room. I’d like to see the rest of house,” she added and swallowed against the bile that churned in her stomach.
He stepped closer and looked at her with those dark, fathomless eyes. For a painful heartbeat, Rose wondered if he’d reject her request and insist on consummating this marriage. Instead he nodded, a faint curve to his lips.
“As you wish,” he said and gestured for her to walk beside him. “Follow me,” he added lightly, “and we’ll continue with the tuppence tour.”
They walked slowly down the hallway in no great rush, which confused Rose. She’d not have thought him to want to show her his house, but he walked beside her in silence until they came to the library.
“And here, Mrs. Hamilton,” he said with a gesture into the room, “we have the library. Shockingly full of books,” he said dryly, seemingly oblivious to her surprise over hearing Mrs. Hamilton. “I inherited most of them, but I believe this section here”—he pointed to the far right side of the room—“might interest you. This is where my mother kept her literary spoils for none to touch save her.”
Rose moved away from him and breathed deeply of the room. Not necessarily because she loved books, though she did enjoy reading, but because of the distance she was able to put between them. On the one hand, she didn’t want to be anywhere near Hamilton; on the other, she also didn’t want him to lead her upstairs.
So she obediently walked to the far right corner of the library. Faint hints of sunlight painted patterns on the hardwood floor, and through the large windows she watched trees sway in the breeze.
Suddenly her skin felt too tight and she itched to run—run as fast as possible away from this townhouse and this man and her new life. Clenching her teeth, Rose stopped before the high shelves filled with books and took several deep breaths in the hopes of calming herself.
“Perhaps,” Hamilton’s voice came from her right. He stood not too close, not too far, his voice low with emotions she didn’t understand. “Perhaps you’ll find something to entertain yourself here. I’m told,” he added in that same quiet tone and with a gesture to the books, his eyes still holding hers, “they’re filled with rakes and scoundrels and pirates.”
“Ah,” she said, the word cracking. Rose swallowed and managed a somewhat lighter tone. “Your early education literature?”
His chuckle was brief but amused, and the look he gave her acknowledged her barb. Rose didn’t know how to take that, how to reconcile the man currently before her with the one who insisted she marry him immediately.
“A boy needs to find his education somewhere,” he said, still low and quiet, and still a half-dozen paces from where she stood.
“Allow me to enlighten you,” Rose said, her eyes flickering from him to the books and back again. “Proper gentlemen do not treat women as those scoundrels do.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended, but Rose would never take them back. Not after the last two days.
“Some are not scoundrels,” Hamilton said with a tilt of his head toward the wall of books. “Or have you managed to read all these works?” He paused, but she had no answer for him. “Some simply take the unbeaten path to accomplish what must be done.”
Rose had the feeling they were having two very different conversations. Or perhaps their opinions on the same subject were so divergent that it simply felt that way.
“Why do you care?” she demanded again.
He’d never answered her question from before, why he cared whether she stayed in her father’s house or not.
“I should be nothing to you. I’m no great beauty nor am I a wealthy woman.” She paused and swallowed, but he made no move toward her. “I’m not an old friend you feel obligated to. Why?” she demanded. “Why do you care?”
“I simply do,” he said with perfect seriousness. “Is it so difficult to accept? Is it so rare an occurrence that someone cares for your well-being?”
Rose narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t move. Didn’t shrug dismissively or wave it off or even tilt his head. He simply stood there and watched her. And for the first time since yesterday afternoon, Rose wondered what he thought. What he truly thought.
She drew in a breath, prepared to respond, though she had no real idea what that response was going to be. But then he held up a hand to forestall her. Hamilton still hadn’t moved but the gesture, weary and preemptive at once, had Rose swallowing whatever words she was going to say.
“The next stop on this tour is the gallery,” Hamilton said, his voice heavier than the simple words warranted. He cleared his throat and once again gestured for her to accompany him. “Prepare to be marveled by the stoic faces in my family.”
Rose resisted shaking her head. With one sentence he made her angry and ready to snap at him, and with the next he sufficiently lightened the mood where she felt her lips twitch in the faintest hint of levity.
Once again they walked down the hallway to another well-lighted room. Sunlight streamed in from the uncovered windows, glinting off glass and gold gilt. Oil paintings lined each wall, the unsmiling faces of, presumably, Hamilton’s ancestors all staring down at her.
Judging her, Rose thought as she stepped inside. They watched her enter their domain and knew she did not belong.
Again her skin felt entirely too tight, and she longed to run as fast as she could away from this house. The silence between her and Hamilton hung heavy around them. For several brief moments, things had been lighter—not been lighter, perhaps, but not as dragging, not as awkward.
Rose forced her steps not to falter as she waited for him to speak. He did have a wit, she grudgingly admitted. Though she supposed even madmen were allowed to be moderately amusing.
“Great-Great-Uncle Chester always looks like an angry boar to me,” Hamilton said, his head tilted to the left as he studied a painting of a particularly unsettling man. “He even seems to have the fangs.”
Rose had to admit Chester did look like a wild boar, with his dark, shaggy hair and small, beady eyes, and, yes—even his teeth looked very sharp and boar-like.
And damn if Hamilton didn’t make her want to smile.
“Aunt Prudence,” he added, pointing to the portrait next to Chester the Boar. “She resembles Henry the Eighth.”
He shrugged at that, and Rose felt her lips twitch again. She valiantly schooled her features and nodded instead. One minute she softened toward him, wanted to smile and laugh, and the next he made her crazy with his mad talk of danger and taking her from her home.
“But do not worry,” he said with a disarming grin that did odd things to her stomach. “The line seems to have improved over time.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. Really, she had no other answer for him.
Was Hamilton a handsome man? She’d certainly thought so yesterday. But when he smiled at her like that, so open and unrestrained, Rose was reminded of that first meeting in her father’s study.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
How handsome she’d thought Mr. Hamilton, how attractive. And how she’d wished she’d be able to get to know him better.
Now, Rose stepped around him, intent on wandering further into the gallery. Hamilton turned with her, a half-step ahead of her. Suddenly he stopped, an intense look on his face. Intense, yes, but also strangely distant.
Slowly his hand reached out and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. It must have fallen free from the severe bun she’d twisted her hair into early this morning.
It wasn’t the fact of the gesture that had her breath stopping in her throat but the gesture itself. Gentle and intimate, he tucked the lock of hair behind her ear; his fingers barely brushed her temple before dropping back to his side. But the touch, their first, tingled along her skin in a rush of lightning.
Had he done that before? This morning, perhaps? During their wedding?
No. He hadn’t touched her, not once.
Rose blinked and stared up at him. His eyes, so very dark, trapped her, and the breath caught in her throat. Every single word she knew flew from her head, and all she could do was stare, stunned, up at him.
“It seemed to be in your way,” he said, the words barely audible.
Then he cleared his throat, and Rose stepped back away from his touch, from the oddness of memory.
Tearing his gaze from his, she looked up at the portraits. Walking down the line, she found several landscapes. Confused, she paused before them. They, too, looked familiar—as familiar as the painting in the parlor and as familiar as Hamilton’s touch.
“You seem to have the same affinity for Scotland my father does,” she said before she thought the words through. Ploughing ahead, she asked, “Are one of these ancestors Scottish?”
Shoulders stiff, hands clasped behind his back, he stopped next to her. “As far as I know, not a one is Scottish. I merely, as you say, have an affinity for Scotland.” He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet between them. When he spoke again his voice was lighter, more the man she’d seen this last hour or so.
“There’s a particular whisky I’m fond of,” he added, looking now at her rather than the painting. “There’s something about it that reminds me…of what, I don’t know exactly.” His words halted, and he started again then stopped and looked again at the painting. “There’s something about it that feels familiar. Does it to you?”
Frowning, Rose looked up at him. “Yes.”
The word, the agreement, was immediate. She hadn’t even thought to lie to him. Swallowing she admitted, “My father has many paintings of the Scottish countryside in the house. I think I’ve seen much of that land without ever travelling there.”
He moved closer, or perhaps it was the forceful look he gave her that made Rose think as much. “Is there no other reason it feels familiar?”
Cocking her head to the side, Rose seriously considered his words. She wanted to dismiss them, but that had not been her first reaction. No, her first reaction had been yes.
“No,” she lied.
Stepping away, she deliberately turned her back to him and finished their walk down the gallery. She moved quickly to a glass case full of miniature paintings.
“It’s always felt familiar to me,” Hamilton said, his voice firm. “I’ve been to that castle a number of times.”
Curious now, with her stomach fluttering and a new feeling that was not anger and dread, she turned to him. Rose licked her lips and listened. He had her full attention.
“There’s a crack in the wall,” he said, his finger hovering a scant inch from the painting. He pointed to a section of the outer wall just far enough from the main entrance. “It’s so deep, it must’ve been there since the castle was built.”
From here Rose thought it looked strong and impenetrable. But with his words, she easily envisioned the castle. Easily saw the crack in the wall he described. He was not that descriptive a storyteller and though she walked back to the painting, she dismissed his words.
There was no crack in the wall, not in the painting. But she continued to stand there, so close to Hamilton she felt the heat from his body seep into hers. Rose attributed it to curiosity, but knew that was a lie.
“A deep crack would’ve been a good place to leave a message for a lover,” she said. Then, hearing her words, she added haltingly, “Or a spy.”
The words surprised even her. She’d no idea where they came from. Her eyes flew to his, and she saw the unsurprised knowledge in them.
“Yes,” he said softly, “it would be. It’d be a very convenient way for two lovers to pass letters.”
His eyes held hers, not blinking, not letting her look away. Rose swallowed, wondering what he was thinking and how this conversation had taken such an odd turn. Clearing her throat, she purposely stepped back.
“What is through that door?” she asked and pointed vaguely in the direction of a door she’d seen just moments ago.
He blinked and nodded, and the moment vanished. He bowed slightly and walked through the door. Rose, confused over what happened, what she’d seen and felt, and about everything that was Hamilton, followed.
“Ballroom,” he said shortly, but not harshly, “and dining room.” He turned to face her. “And that ends the tuppence tour of the main floor.”
“You have a beautiful house,” she admitted.
“I’m glad you approve,” he said, sounding surprisingly pleased. “The staff will come to you tomorrow. I asked they maintain their distance today.”
Rose met his gaze, and watched him struggle, but he said no more.
“I’m not certain I can manage a staff like you might have,” she admitted.
“Don’t give it another thought,” he said and shrugged. “The place runs itself. If you have any problems, just tell Digby. He’s one of the footmen around here.”
Hamilton paused again then nodded. Rose’s stomach plummeted.
“Allow me to show you upstairs.”
His words confused her—she’d expected him to say her rooms. Or his. But he merely motioned for her to walk beside him again and, not seeing any real choice, she did so. As they exited the ballroom, Rose was surprised to notice the sun had begun to set.
They’d talked for most of the day.
With each step her stomach knotted itself in tighter and tighter knots. She alternated between wishing she’d had more than a few sips of tea and wondering if even that tea, hours ago now, had been too much.
She didn’t notice the paintings along the staircase or the tapestries or the view from the open curtains.
Rose concentrated on controlling her breathing and hoping he didn’t see her nervousness. Or mayhap it was better he had. Would he be gentler then?
At the top of the stairs, they made a right and continued down the hallway, past two doors, until they stopped before an ornately carved one with a gilt handle. Rose wiped her clammy hands down her skirts and willed her heart to slow.
Surely he heard its frantic pounding?
“These are your rooms,” he said and grandly opened the door. “Lady Octavia redecorated this room some years ago. She insisted I could not bring a wife into this house with such masculine appointments.”
Hamilton stopped, not crossing the threshold, and looked down at her. “However, if there is anything you do not care for, we can have it replaced. Or perhaps you may wish to redo the rooms entirely.” He stopped again, watching her with that penetrating gaze Rose swore looked straight through her. “Whatever you care for,” he said in a near whisper.
His hand hovered near her cheek for a heartbeat, but he withdrew without touching her.
“I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he added and stepped back. His lips raised in a slight smile, a hint of the man who almost made her laugh earlier coming through. “The rest of the tuppence tour can wait.”