“SEE TO THEM. They’re new.” That was all James said to her father.
Then he turned to her, his expression completely unreadable. “We’re leaving.”
Rose hadn’t argued. She hadn’t really known what to say but merely stood and followed him. James hadn’t touched her as he stormed through her father’s townhouse and out the door. He hadn’t even looked at her.
The entire ride back to their townhouse had been done in tense silence. James’s anger beat through the carriage like a living thing, all sharp edges and fisted hands. Rose sat straight as the carriage moved through London’s streets, and she watched him. Though he didn’t once meet her gaze, she was under no illusion he was unaware of her stare.
Her guilty stare. It ate at her, the nausea from earlier unabated and now threatening to rip through her heart. Part of her knew she was in the right—justified in seeing her father and helping his business. But she’d straight-faced lied to her husband.
It was the lie that curled like poison through her.
The carriage pulled to a stop and before the footman opened the door, James did. He pushed it open and exited, his body vibrating with energy. He still did not look at her, and his blank stare broke her heart.
Feeling sick, Rose exited, spared a glance for the driver, whom she’d made complicit with her lies, and followed James into the house.
He didn’t go to his study or the library, or—thankfully—either of their bedrooms. No, he kept to an impersonal room. The front parlor. With her head high, though she felt ill, Rose followed him.
“James,” she began the moment the pocket doors closed behind her, “you must understand.”
He turned to stare at her, that cold, hard blankness that ripped through her. She swallowed and took a breath, hoping to keep the guilty nausea down.
“I didn’t tell you I went to see Father because I knew how you’d react. Forgive me for lying, but I didn’t want to upset you,” she told him very openly and honestly.
It did not escape her notice how she was honest with him after the fact.
“And discovering my wife lied to me for…how long?” he demanded, anger seething through each word. “How could that not be upsetting?”
“It’s only been a fortnight,” she acknowledged. Hearing her own words did not help, and she knew it. “Father hired a nervous young man as his new clerk,” she said and knew she justified her actions. “I know Father, and he likes his things in a particular manner. I simply instructed this new man.”
“And you found that held more import than your husband’s wishes?” he demanded, but his cold anger cracked, and now the heated rage seeped through.
“No, of course not,” she acknowledged. “I simply did not see the harm in it. I thought my instructions to the man would take only days, not such a long time.”
James crossed the room in two long strides, his eyes blazing as he stopped directly before her. He didn’t touch her but simply watched her as a predator would its prey.
“You found it an acceptable risk to place yourself in harm’s way to instruct a servant?” His voice lowered, a quiet thrum beating beneath each word. “If you had simply informed me, I’d have sent my own clerk to instruct this man. There was no need for you to have taken up the task yourself.”
Rose narrowed her eyes at him. Her back straightened and her own fingers fisted in the fine material of her gown.
“I do not think in that manner, James,” she spat at him. “When I see a thing must be done, I believe I must accomplish it myself. No other knows my father’s needs as I do.”
Rose stopped and took a deep breath. Softening, she reached out but didn’t touch him. She knew his dislike of Robert. Rose also knew his fears, unfounded though she thought them to be.
“Nothing untoward happened, nor will it,” she said softly. “My father might be a difficult man, one without certain social graces, but he is still my father. Someone whom I must believe would never harm me.”
“You forget,” he shot back, “he sold you.”
Rose jerked back, both at his words and his tone. Her gaze flew to his in shock, and she nearly gasped at the unfamiliar look, the pure anger, the hatred, the unraveling control, on the face of the man she loved.
“Is that the mark of a loving father?” His words echoed in the hollow silence.
“His arm was twisted by a very persuasive gentleman,” she reminded him in an even tone. Rose wasn’t angry, not truly—she saw both sides of this argument. Had hoped James would as well.
James may have twisted Robert’s arm, but Robert did have a very valid point—her marriage prospects would never have been as great as they were with James Hamilton.
“Who has since taken great care of me,” she reminded him.
He released a frustrated breath, and all his anger left him with that release. His hands curled over her shoulders, thumbs brushing the base of her neck. He pulled her closer, just a step, but it warmed the cold guilt in Rose.
“How can you not see that man is a danger?” he asked, the words quiet, desperate.
“I haven’t had a lifetime of dreams or visions that frighten me,” she reminded him, the words a bare whisper between them.
“But you’ve seen that soldier,” he reminded her, his eyes intense now, piercing. “You’ve felt a moment of all I’ve felt these last years.” His hands tightened on her shoulders, just a squeeze. “I’m trying to protect you, Rose. You said you’ve fallen in love with me.” His voice dropped further, a little harsher, a little more of a promise—a vow. “Why is it so difficult to understand I want to protect the woman I love?”
Rose swallowed, her hands coming to rest around his wrists. She felt no anger from him, not anymore, but simply desperation. It coated every word, every movement. Every look he gave her.
“Your reasoning is unreasonable. There is no danger now,” she insisted. “If a ghost from the past experienced danger, then that danger is long dead.”
He looked at her for long, long moments. Suddenly he straightened and stepped back. His hands dropped from her shoulders, and cold seeped in where his warmth once lay.
“Do not leave this house without my knowledge.”
Without another word, his eyes refusing to meet hers as they stared over her head, he turned and left.
Stunned, Rose watched him.
She had plenty more arguments—after all, she knew her father better than anyone. Knew Robert to be rough, of course, but he was no threat, not to her. James simply didn’t understand him, didn’t understand what it was to make something of one’s self as Robert had.
Gasping for breath, she tried to inhale deeply. But the vice banding her lungs refused to release and her heart ached, a weight in her chest. All the trust they’d built over these past weeks now lay shattered at her feet. Yes, she was guilty of lying to James, and she’d apologized for that even as she still felt that guilt churn in her belly.
But she was not entirely in the wrong.
Alone in the parlor, Rose watched the door James had recently exited. Should she go after him? Offer more apologies and explanations? She didn’t know. She didn’t know what to do.
So she rang for tea. Rose tried to sit, but nervous energy beat through her. She was nervous, yes, she admitted; she didn’t want to lose what they’d built these last weeks. Also she felt anger on his dismissal of her own feelings on the matter. And unease.
Not fear, never of James.
As she paced circles round the settee, she admitted she was uneasy over his reaction. It wasn’t sane. Still, deep in her bones, Rose knew he’d never hurt her. He had his own demons and his own nightmares that haunted him.
The maid arrived with tea, but suddenly Rose wanted nothing to do with it. She feared anything she swallowed would only revisit her.
Standing once more, not entirely certain when she’d sat, Rose left the parlor. She walked as quickly as possible while still retaining some decorum to James’s office. Offering a perfunctory knock, she didn’t bother to wait for his answer before opening the door.
He sat behind his desk, papers spread out before him. Rose didn’t think he actually saw the papers or paid any attention to his work.
“I’d like to pay a call on Lady Octavia,” she said evenly.
She didn’t come for a fight and refused to continue their circular argument. Neither would she purposefully cause an argument over his request. If James wanted to know where she went, after breaking his trust so thoroughly, Rose would tell him.
“Digby will accompany you,” he said.
After a moment, he stood and crossed the room. James didn’t touch her, didn’t do more than watch her. The intensity of it, the still-pulsing anger in his movements, his gaze, froze her in place.
James raised his hand, but his fingers stopped a hair’s breadth from her cheek. A part of Rose died when his hand dropped to his side. The fear that shadowed his eyes terrified her.
“Keep Digby with you,” he said again, his voice strained.
She nodded. Her throat closed, and she couldn’t force words past the lump in her throat. His voice held nothing but concern, edged with fear, and he clearly wanted nothing but her safety. Mutely she nodded.
Rose stepped back and nodded again, still unable to find words. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that he needn’t worry, and, yes, that she thought he lost his mind. But all she managed was that small nod.
The carriage ride was simultaneously the longest and briefest she ever endured. Rose barely remembered entering the carriage or the ride to the Granville townhouse. At the same time, her thoughts whirled round and round over what transpired between her and James. A never-ending circle of arguments.
She had no idea if Octavia was home or if now was an acceptable time to visit a woman she’d hoped to become closer friends with. But the butler showed both she and an uncomfortably looking Digby into the parlor and only moments later escorted her to Octavia’s dressing room, where she stood for a final fitting for Isabella’s ball.
Already redressed, Octavia sat in one of the chairs. Rose walked in, suddenly nervous and unsure what to say. How much to say.
“Rose, what’s wrong?” Octavia asked and stood, quickly crossing the room. “It’s written across your face.”
The kindness in her voice, the understanding even, calmed Rose. She let the other woman guide her to the window seat and take her hands. Octavia’s hand felt warm around her cold fingers, and suddenly Rose knew she needed to speak.
“An argument with James,” she confessed.
“What did he do?” Octavia asked immediately.
The quickness of the question eased a knot within her, and for the first time since lying to James over breakfast, Rose breathed easily. She shook her head and wondered where to begin.
“I did something,” she admitted. “I spent time with my father at his townhouse, instructing a new clerk. For most women, that would be no concern to a husband.”
“But you did not tell him where you were going,” Octavia said quietly. “Did you?” The last was more a statement than question.
Rose shook her head. “I did not wish to upset him. But today he came to Father’s to discuss plans for the bazaar, and he found me there.”
Octavia stiffened in alarm. For a moment Rose thought it was over the lie, but in the next heartbeat she knew it was over James’s reaction.
“He was not pleased,” Rose admitted. “And we argued. We are likely still arguing,” she continued, “but I needed to see you. I simply do not know how to assuage his concerns.”
Rose paused, but Octavia simply watched her, not judging, just listening. That simple understanding eased another knot in her, and Rose felt some of the nausea abate.
“He’s unreasonable. He completely believes my father is a danger to me,” she continued, her voice softer with each word, each confession. “I don’t know how to convince him otherwise. I don’t want James to feel this fear.”
Octavia squeezed her hand. “James has never been an obsessed man or a controlling one,” she said. “But as long as I’ve known him, this has been his only fear.”
She paused, and Rose wondered what she thought as she gazed steadily at her. Slowly she continued, “That the woman he loved died, and he could do naught to prevent it. He once told me he was reluctant to truly fall in love, that he’d rather fall in love with a different woman every week than be reminded the woman he chose, the one he truly wanted, might meet a horrible fate.”
Rose sighed. “James believes my father, my father, would deliver a horrible fate toward me? I know it stems from his dreams. But—” She laughed, a harsh sound that hurt her throat. “Perhaps I should call them nightmares.”
She stopped again and tried to breathe, to ease the tension threatening to break her. When she spoke, it was haltingly. “How can we live our lives based on something so intangible?”
Octavia shook her head. “It’s difficult to advise you in this dilemma. But I will say perhaps James merely needs time. Your father is a grown man and can attend his own business while you tend to your marriage.”
Rose looked out the window and felt Octavia’s gaze on hers, but she couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes just yet. Lady Octavia was correct—perhaps if she gave it time, if she put James’s mind at ease and worked to rebuild the trust between them, things might be different in the future.
Yes. She could work with that. She’d do everything in her power to work with that—to rebuild her relationship with the man she loved.