Page 17 of His Betrothed
Chapter 5
Spencer watched Rose Grant lose all the color in her face at the man’s shout.
What was going on? One moment he was relaxed, imagining the peace of being married to a woman like her—pretty, capable, easily satisfied. In the space of a heartbeat, his suspicions of Rose flared back to life. Why hadn’t Spencer brought the knife with him, even if it was only an eating knife?
“You musthide!” she said, her voice higher than normal.
“Where shall I go? Who is this man?”
“I—oh, just wait here,” she said, both hands raised as if by sheer will alone she could keep him where he didn’t want to be. “He mustn’t see you!”
He watched her unlatch the gate and flee the courtyard as if hell itself had opened up to summon her.
Before he could even try to stand, he heard their voices andfroze.
“Francis,” Rose said, her tone bright and forced, “it is a fine day today. What can I help you with?”
“I wanted you to know that John and Thomas will be coming tomorrow to begin harvesting your fields, Lady Roselyn.”
Whatever else the man said was lost in the red haze of a long-buried rage that rose to engulf Spencer’s mind.
Lady Roselyn Harrington?
Lady Roselyn Harrington and RoseGrant were the same woman.
How could he have been so stupid not to see it? She had been hesitant, distant, almost afraid of him. He’d put it down to a reaction to his Spanish looks.
Instead, she’d been playing him for a fool. She had known his identity from the beginning, and she’d never said a word. What was her game? He had thought for the first time that he’d met a woman of compassion, whenall along she’d had her own selfish reasons for helping him.
Maybe it was guilt for what she’d done to him, Spencer thought, wishing he could pace his frustration away. More than likely she’d enjoyed humiliating him further and was justwaiting for the right moment to laugh in his face.
After all, she’d done that to him before, when every friend he’d had was there to watch her turn him intoa laughingstock.
He had thought service to his country would help him and the rest of London society forget, but even that was denied him. By now the queen must think that Spencer was a traitor.
And he had just been imagining marriage to a woman like Rose. If she knew, she’d laugh in triumph.
There was no “Rose,” the feminine, sweet woman. There was only Roselyn, the lying bitch who’d succeededin humiliating him a second time—the last time.
As Roselyn emerged alone from the side of the cottage, Spencer was unprepared for the shock of hatred that surged through him. It was as if all the anger and uncertainty and fear of the last few months suddenly had a focus.
Now that he knew her identity, he could see why he hadn’t recognized her. She was thinner than he remembered; she wore noface paint or jewel-studded garments, no corsets or farthingales—and her hair was always hidden.
She looked almost fragile, vulnerable in her widow’s black, but it was all an illusion, and he’d fallen for it. Had her lover died, or had hejust deserted her when he’d found out what a fickle woman she really was?
She opened the gate and walked slowly toward him. “You don’t have to go inside. He’sgone now.”
It was a struggle not to snarl his anger at her. “Who was that?” he asked, surprised at how normal his voice sounded.
“Francis Heywood.”
“The bailiff of Wakesfield Manor.”
“Yes,” she answered uncertainly.
Spencer could tell that she wondered how he knew that. He continued to stare at her until she finally walked down a row of the kitchen garden and knelt in the dirt, to weed.
He should confront her now, but as he watched her on her hands and knees, it gave him a dark feeling of satisfaction. Was this her punishment, a lifetime of the meanest labor? Or was she biding her time, waiting for her father to rescue her?
