ache?”
“No, and always.”
“How about visions? Hallucinations?” She could fetch help if he became unruly.
He thunked his elbows on the piano keys and scoffed. “For me, that is not a symptom,” he answered darkly, “but a catalyst.”
She thought she understood that he was disturbed by what had happened to him in the war. “You blame yourself.”
“No,” he groaned. “I blame you. ”
She felt it like a slap. Before she could storm out, he grabbed her wrist and drew her tightly against his chest. It didn’t matter that there was no smell of liquor to set her off; she reacted with panic at being restrained. She barely knew she thrashed and clawed, certain her arms were covered in blood. Her scars burned and stung as though raw. Where had her father’s cruel voice come from? She could hear him in her head, mocking and chanting, “ Filthy whore!”
Lips smooth like marble on her temple, her brow, pressing her cheeks but carefully away from her mouth. “I’m sorry.” Strong but gentle, callused fingers stroked the back of her neck. Her mind cleared as she gasped for air. “Rosalie, I am so sorry.”
How long until she could be free of those awful memories?
Probably not until Lord Chauncey was cold and dead.
Wilhelm spoke with his face pressed in her hair. “Who did this to you?” His voice gentled, but she heard his sharp consonants and wasn’t fooled for a moment that he felt any more tranquil than she. “Tell me, Rosalie, and I will kill him.”
A chill made her bones feel hollow, intuition alerting her that he meant it. He wanted to do it. Was she such a villain to find it a heady, powerful revelation? For a moment she was tempted to tell him all and let him fight her battles.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to step away and let his arms drop from her back. It was all so horridly inappropriate, but even shame was no match for the residual heat of his hands and lips on her skin. He let her go, watching her with an intense expression that made her feel completely bare.
Poorly done, her falling apart when Wilhelm had a crisis of his own. He seemed so vulnerable, his wry gallantry replaced by a raw look in his eyes that frightened her a little.
“I will clear out your room, but first tell me where your secret stash is.”
He looked bewildered then resigned. “Between the headboard and the mattress.” She nodded and turned as he added, “Behind the red leather Bible on the writing desk. The flask in the bottom drawer of the bureau. In the folds of the north-facing draperies on the left side… Under the clock on the mantle.”
“Is that all?”
He exhaled in a gust. “Rolled in a towel in my shaving kit.”
She silently recited the six locations to check for his hidden cache of liquor, all new since she’d last cleaned his apartments. The least she could do was help him quit. “I am going to dump it all out,” she warned. “Then I will replace the decanters in the public rooms with something mild, like a sherry. No more cognac.”
He nodded tersely with his jaw clenched.
She stared at him and realized her omission. She walked back to stand before him and held out her hand with her eyebrow cocked. She gave him her best lady-of-the-house glower. It worked, because he groaned then surrendered a palm-sized metal flask from his trousers pocket.
“Wilhelm?”
“Hmm?”
“You are a better man than most.”
Chapter Ten
When Romance Rears Its Ugly Head
Sophia would have given anything to have a brother like Philip Cavendish. She watched him too often, not because he was charming and handsome, but because he sincerely cherished his sisters. Just now he was teaching the girls to play cricket, and they all frolicked about, laughing.
“He is a father to them, as well as brother,” came Lord Devon’s thoughtful voice from behind her. “Positions I flatter myself by filling when he is off swashbuckling. The fool.” He rested a hand on her shoulder.
“You fear he will get
“No, and always.”
“How about visions? Hallucinations?” She could fetch help if he became unruly.
He thunked his elbows on the piano keys and scoffed. “For me, that is not a symptom,” he answered darkly, “but a catalyst.”
She thought she understood that he was disturbed by what had happened to him in the war. “You blame yourself.”
“No,” he groaned. “I blame you. ”
She felt it like a slap. Before she could storm out, he grabbed her wrist and drew her tightly against his chest. It didn’t matter that there was no smell of liquor to set her off; she reacted with panic at being restrained. She barely knew she thrashed and clawed, certain her arms were covered in blood. Her scars burned and stung as though raw. Where had her father’s cruel voice come from? She could hear him in her head, mocking and chanting, “ Filthy whore!”
Lips smooth like marble on her temple, her brow, pressing her cheeks but carefully away from her mouth. “I’m sorry.” Strong but gentle, callused fingers stroked the back of her neck. Her mind cleared as she gasped for air. “Rosalie, I am so sorry.”
How long until she could be free of those awful memories?
Probably not until Lord Chauncey was cold and dead.
Wilhelm spoke with his face pressed in her hair. “Who did this to you?” His voice gentled, but she heard his sharp consonants and wasn’t fooled for a moment that he felt any more tranquil than she. “Tell me, Rosalie, and I will kill him.”
A chill made her bones feel hollow, intuition alerting her that he meant it. He wanted to do it. Was she such a villain to find it a heady, powerful revelation? For a moment she was tempted to tell him all and let him fight her battles.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to step away and let his arms drop from her back. It was all so horridly inappropriate, but even shame was no match for the residual heat of his hands and lips on her skin. He let her go, watching her with an intense expression that made her feel completely bare.
Poorly done, her falling apart when Wilhelm had a crisis of his own. He seemed so vulnerable, his wry gallantry replaced by a raw look in his eyes that frightened her a little.
“I will clear out your room, but first tell me where your secret stash is.”
He looked bewildered then resigned. “Between the headboard and the mattress.” She nodded and turned as he added, “Behind the red leather Bible on the writing desk. The flask in the bottom drawer of the bureau. In the folds of the north-facing draperies on the left side… Under the clock on the mantle.”
“Is that all?”
He exhaled in a gust. “Rolled in a towel in my shaving kit.”
She silently recited the six locations to check for his hidden cache of liquor, all new since she’d last cleaned his apartments. The least she could do was help him quit. “I am going to dump it all out,” she warned. “Then I will replace the decanters in the public rooms with something mild, like a sherry. No more cognac.”
He nodded tersely with his jaw clenched.
She stared at him and realized her omission. She walked back to stand before him and held out her hand with her eyebrow cocked. She gave him her best lady-of-the-house glower. It worked, because he groaned then surrendered a palm-sized metal flask from his trousers pocket.
“Wilhelm?”
“Hmm?”
“You are a better man than most.”
Chapter Ten
When Romance Rears Its Ugly Head
Sophia would have given anything to have a brother like Philip Cavendish. She watched him too often, not because he was charming and handsome, but because he sincerely cherished his sisters. Just now he was teaching the girls to play cricket, and they all frolicked about, laughing.
“He is a father to them, as well as brother,” came Lord Devon’s thoughtful voice from behind her. “Positions I flatter myself by filling when he is off swashbuckling. The fool.” He rested a hand on her shoulder.
“You fear he will get
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