Page 6 of A Rogue's Downfall
The earl got to his feet. “There can be no harm, anyway, in doing everything one is supposed to do,”he said. “What time does my wife usually get up?”
“She gets up earlier than any of the rest of us,” thecook said tartly, “to give Master James his feed. Butthen she goes back to bed. Jessie will be taking upher chocolate soon. It is shameful a man has to be told such things of his own wedded wife.”
“If you will stop scolding and pour the chocolate for me,” the earl said, “I shall play ladies’ maid myselfthis morning.”
Sal sighed, the gardener chuckled, Morse looked dignified, and Cook poured. The earl took the traywith his wife’s cup of steaming chocolate on it andclimbed the servants’ stairs to her room. It had feltalmost like old times being down in the kitchen. Itseemed to him that he had spent most of his childhooddown there. His parents were always too busy to bebothered with him, and his nurse was a careless creature who had liked to sit gossiping in the housekeeper’s room or else nodding off to sleep in the nursery.He had loved his nurse.
But it did not feel like old times now. Today was Valentine’s Day, and he was on his way to begin thewooing of the woman he had seduced and ruined exactly one year ago and married six weeks after that.He was on his way to try to erase a year of bad memories. It seemed a daunting task he had set himself.
It was her ring that woke her. Or rather the absence of her ring. She had not realized how much she hadfingered the ring and turned it on her finger until itwas no longer there. She had noticed that fact thenight before while she had lain awake trying to sleep.Trying to make sense out of what he had said anddone. Trying to ignore the fact that he was sleepingin the master bedchamber, separated from her roomonly by the dressing room between. Trying desperatelynot to admit to herself that she wanted him. Her woman’s needs were beginning to reassert themselves nowthat her body had recovered from pregnancy and theexperience of giving birth. She had been aware forsome weeks that she was twenty years old, that springwas coming, that she was going to have to learn tolive her life without a man in it.
How did one learn such a thing? The craving had been there, muted, not fully understood, denied, evenbefore the night of the masquerade. But now that shehad had a man, despite the ugliness of the circumstances, she knew what it was her body needed. Sheknew what it was she would never experience again.It had been hard to fall asleep knowing that he wasthere in the next room. Knowing that he was her husband and James’s father. Knowing that he had takenher ring and called it an encumbrance. Knowing thathe had said she was to be his valentine the next day.
And now, she thought, twisting the ring that was not there, the absent ring that had woken her, it wasValentine’s Day. She had no ring, no marriage, noreason to get up to be mocked by the day. She wishedshe could get up to find him gone again, taking herring with him, the one symbol of their marriage—apartfrom James. She wished she could be alone with herbaby again as she had been for almost three months.She had made her baby her world. She had mademotherhood her reason for living.
Jessie had been already and left her chocolate on the table beside the bed, she noticed, opening hereyes. That was unusual. Although Jessie never didanything as ill-bred as shaking her or shouting intoher ear, she did make her presence felt, bustling aboutthe room, opening the curtains rather noisily, rearranging the already carefully arranged pots andbrushes on the dressing table, clearing her throat. Jessie knew that she valued her mornings, that she hatedto oversleep, even after those nights when James washungrier than usual or decided to take his meal at amore leisurely pace than usual.
She turned onto her back, stretched out her legs, lifted her arms up at full stretch, and yawned loudly.
And realized that there was someone standing at the window watching her. Obviously not Jessie.
“Oh,” she said.
“Good morning,” he said.
She was not wearing a nightcap, she thought, mortified. Her hair must be all wild tangles. It usually was when she got out of bed in the mornings. How longhad he been standing there? What was he doing here?She felt a sudden treacherous stab of desire deep inher womb. But he was not in his nightshirt or hisdressing gown. He was dressed in riding boots andbreeches and a dark coat. He looked—gorgeous. Oneof her hands strayed to her hair, but it was hopeless.
“I brought your chocolate,” he said. “It should be just the right temperature for drinking.”
“Oh,” she said again, looking at the cup. She was expected to sit up and drink it? She was wearing anightgown. It was perfectly decent and no more revealing than any of her flimsier dresses. But still, itwas a nightgown. It struck her as rather ludicrous thatshe was embarrassed for her husband of a year tosee her in her nightgown. Especially when just a yearbefore—exactly a year before—he had done that toher that had got her with child.
“Don’t sit up yet,” he said, walking toward her. “You are embarrassed to have me in your room. Youare quite right. I ought not to be here. I just wantedto make sure that I was the first man you saw thismorning, you see.”
She stared up at him, unconsciously drawing the bedclothes closer to her chin.
“It is Valentine’s Day,” he explained. “There is a superstition about the first man a woman sees on thatday. Sal told me.”
“Sal?” Her brain felt sluggish, as if his words should make sense to her. “Sally? The kitchen maid?”
“She was in the stables early,” he said, “to make sure that Roger was the first man she saw. Roger, Itake it, is the good-looking young groom who is newto my stables?”
She nodded, feeling stupid. What was he talking about?
“The first unmarried man a maiden sees on Valentine’s Day will be her husband,” he said.
“But we are already m—”
“No.” He set a finger firmly across her lips. A warm and masculine finger that smelled faintly of—bacon?“Not today. For today we are single. And thus mypresence in your bedchamber is scandalous. Todayyou are my valentine. I claim you by virtue of the factthat I am the first man you have seen today, my sonexcepted.”
She understood at last. Though only in part. She did not know what it meant to be his valentine. Thesame as it had meant last year? She did not want thesame as last year. At the time it had seemed unutterably romantic to be danced with and held close by ablack-masked, black-cloaked gentleman whose identity she knew. She had thought it romantic to bewhisked off by him for a private tryst. She had thoughtit romantic to be made love to. But she had seen itall through the deceptively rosy haze of alcohol. It hadnot really been romantic at all. None of it. It had beensordid. It could have been called seduction if she hadnot been so very willing from the first moment.
She wanted romance. Pure, wonderful, chivalrous romance. But it was too late for romance with him.And too late for romance with anyone else. Her lifewas to be forever without romance. And yet he waspretending that they were unmarried. He was claimingher as his valentine on the strength of an old myththat she had used to believe in implicitly. And perhaps—oh, just perhaps—he did not mean this year tobe a mere repeat of last year. Perhaps he meant something else. Some game a little more romantic. Herheart yearned, and she remembered how she hadloved him, how he had been woven into all her dreamsbefore she had come to hate him.
“Your valentine?” she said.
“My valentine, Amy,” he said. “Will you join me for breakfast in—half an hour?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” For offering her breakfast in her own home? It felt strange to hear hername on his lips.
