Page 52 of Crying Wolfe
Tertiary, she threw every part of herself into the conquering of this dilemma, setting up a routine that eased her internal suffering. The thing about taking was, it resolved her misery for long periods of time. These rituals, the turning on of lights, counting the stairs, counting the brushstrokes in her hair and the seconds in which she cleaned her teeth. They allowed her to live without taking, but consumed so much of her time. So much of herself. And the internal pressure release was certainly more short-lived.
It didn’t matter. It was how she’d cull her awful behavior.
Could she show this to him when he returned, this strategy she’d enacted? Did it make her seem more or less mad?
Perhaps he’d put her in an institution. It was what many husbands did when displeased by their wives.
And she’d actually deserve to be there.
Because her obsessive suffering was surely lunacy.
The idea filled her with so much terror, she doubled down on her diligence.
Emmett had been returned from one of those places a pale, sallow shadow of his former self. He refused to speak of what befell him there, but the bleak torment in his eyes when the subject was broached told her enough about what sort of hell it was.
Surely Eli had more compassion for his wife than to lock her away.
Perhaps not for a thief.
Because Rosaline couldn’t face their bed alone, she spent her nights curled up on the sofa in the observatory, watching the winter sky.
Missing him.
It was a strange thing to love such a self-possessed and yet uncouth man. She couldn’t predict from one moment to the next what societal rules he would revere, and which one’s he’d ignore. He spoke his mind, and it was often both cutting and insightful. A cynic was her husband, but an amusing one. It was difficult to express the exact sense of satisfaction lent by the knowledge that such a toughened man held her in such tender regard.
She thought of how suddenly he’d fall asleep after their lovemaking, swift as a cat next to a fireplace after a bowl of cream. Rosaline would watch him slide from consciousness to slumber, going visibly lax, in awe of such an ability. His jaw, most often hard enough to chisel steel from stone would unclench, softening the tight line of his lips to a more sensuous curve. She found the dissonance wildly erotic.
How could she have only known him for three weeks and already feel as if a part of her was missing when they were separated?
Would she ever again get the chance to share his bed? His time?
His life?
She’d learned early that trust took years, sometimes a lifetime, to build and only one moment to break.
But she’d do it. She’d put in the years if that’s what he required.
She waited in the front parlor the entire afternoon that they’d been scheduled to return from Devon, reading the same page of a book for hours without remembering a word.
Practicing the emphatic speech she’d prepared, she would sometimes get up to pace the floor, delivering the words for the kittens to critique. Then to the mirror until she was satisfied.
Then she’d try the book again, until the ticking of the wall clock threatened to drive her over the edge with its taunting.
When the last vestiges of daylight faded without a word or sign of his return, Rosaline snatched up her frockcoat and called over to Cresthaven.
Emmett and Emmaline were the only two alive who knew of her compulsive proclivity, and they’d had to dig within themselves for forgiveness when she’d taken some of their items in the past. They always treated her with sympathy, even though she didn’t miss their worried glances at each other.
They forgave, but neither of them understood.
How could anyone?
Entering through the garden door, she found the house rather quiet, and followed the only sounds she could make out to the main parlor. There, Commander Carlton Morley, a knight of the realm and perhaps one of the most dignified and powerful men in the city, sat cross-legged on the rug arranging blocks with his year-old twins, Charlotte and Caroline.
Happening upon the tableau had bloomed an ache deep in her womb.
In her experience, Morley’s only concession to indolence was rolling his sleeves to the elbows in the summer. But tonight, he’d abandoned his shoes and his vest, thrilling his twin daughters with silly smiles and rich laughter, those ice shards he had for eyes having melted into pools of brilliant love.
“Rosaline,” he greeted warmly as she left the shadow of the doorway. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
