The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(26)
Would Primrose abandon all propriety… to see me?
Joy, raw and ungoverned, jolted him into action. Before he knew it, he was striding out of his suite and down the steps to the drawing room. He entered… and stopped short.
The woman standing by the window wasn’t Primrose.
“Odette.” Reining in his disappointment, he frowned at his employee. “What are you doing here? I gave you specific instructions to stay with Miss Kent at all times…”
He trailed off as premonition hit him like an icy fist.
“A calamity has befallen, sir,” the French maid blurted. “Miss Kent—she has eloped!”
Chapter Ten
Staring out the window into the dark, pelting rain, Rosie thought, Did I make a mistake?
It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her decision during the last three days. She’d had her share of misgivings since embarking on the wild elopement with Daltry… and now it was too late.
The firelight glinted off the gold band on her ring finger. Its selection, like everything about her marriage—from the travel arrangements to the ceremony over the anvil to the obtaining of present lodgings—had been conducted in a rush. The adage about marrying in haste entered her head; she shoved it out.
What’s done is done. The bargain is sealed… or very nearly.
As her gaze went to the door adjoining her and her new husband’s rooms, her apprehension surged higher. She missed her family with an acute ache, her price to pay for eloping. She’d never felt more alone than right now, in this room at a strange inn, waiting for her bridegroom to arrive. The way other debutantes talked about it, consummation was a necessary evil. Like tight-lacing a corset, one had to endure the pain in order to get the desired results.
She knew, of course, that what went on the marital bower after the first time wouldn’t be all bad. In her family, she was surrounded by couples who clearly didn’t mind retiring together. And there were her own recent experiences of passion… her reckless interludes with Andrew butted into her thoughts. The way he’d kissed her, that shocking, ravishing pleasure she’d known in his arms… try as she might, she couldn’t forget those memories.
So she used them to bolster her present resolve.
Despite all the travails she’d endured—being a bastard, being dallied with and labelled a trollop, even being immortalized in that poem—nothing had hurt the way Andrew’s rejection had. His refusal to be with her had cut into a place so tender and deep that she knew she’d forever bear the scar. It made no sense why he could wound her so… but he had.
Trust me, Primrose, he’d said.
Her heart clenched. Andrew was like all the beaux in her past, only he’d treated her far worse. He’d raised her hopes, made her trust him, and for the first time, she’d wanted … oh, how she’d wanted…
The one thing you’ll never have.
Because she was a shameless wicked girl. And she deserved to be tossed aside.
In short, Andrew had proved what she’d known all along: love wasn’t for her.
Her vision blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall. Having reached the lowest rung of her existence, she had nothing left to lose. To hell with Andrew and his ilk. Though Daltry might not be the man of her dreams, his position meant that she could spit on men like Andrew from her new perch at the top of the social ladder.
I’m a countess now, she thought fiercely.
Why didn’t she find any consolation in the fact?
After the rough journey—she and Daltry had driven straight through, pausing only to change horses at coaching stops—they’d arrived in Gretna in the afternoon. After the blacksmith had married them, they’d ended up at the present inn. She’d promptly fallen into an exhausted sleep and awakened to find Daltry gone. Knowing her reprieve would be temporary, she’d stiffened her spine and forged ahead.
She’d had a bath brought in. Without the assistance of a maid, she’d performed all twelve steps of her ablutions with the meticulousness of a warrior preparing for battle. Then she’d donned a night rail edged in lace and brushed her hair the requisite one hundred strokes before winding it into a single plait. The looking glass had reflected her crisply perfect ensemble, her porcelain-smooth countenance, her lifeless eyes.
That had been two hours ago, and her groom still had not shown. Boisterous rumbling came from the tavern below. Was Daltry amongst the merry crowd? The innkeep had claimed that it was a local tradition for the bridegroom to purchase rounds for local revelers. The more drinks he bought, the more luck he’d supposedly bring to his new marriage—and the more he’d line the proprietor’s pockets, Rosie thought dryly. What fustian. Unfortunately, she couldn’t go downstairs unaccompanied to check if Daltry had fallen prey to such silly superstitions.
With nothing better to do, she went over to the table by the fire. A cold collation had been laid out, yet her stomach was too knotted to eat. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine… which tasted surprisingly good. So good, in fact, that she refilled her glass. A third glass settled her nerves, and she curled up on a chair, tucking her feet beneath her.
Lightheaded, she raised her glass to the crackling fire. “Cheers to me: the new Lady Daltry.”
The words echoed hollowly in the room. Time slowed as she sipped the wine and brooded into the flames. The door opened sometime later, startling her from her stupor.