Time's Fool by Patricia Veryan Page A

one hand crept up to rest on his cravat. “When I had no word from you, I thought perhaps … you had found—another love.”
    â€œWhat rubbish! You are the only lady I ever have, or ever will love. I thought you knew that!”
    Burying her face against his chest she said a muffled, “Then you always meant to—to come back to me?”
    â€œBe assured of it! These six years I have counted the moments ’til I can call you Mrs. Gideon Rossiter.” It was going to be all right, after all! Blissfully enveloped in a glow of happiness, he pressed his cheek against her fragrant hair. “My Naomi,” he murmured. “Did you but know how I have longed to hold you like this! How very much I worship—”
    And he stopped, because she was laughing.
    Lifting her head she revealed a merry countenance. “Oh,” she gasped. “How very well you do it, Captain! My apologies. I should not laugh, I know. But did you think word of your liaison with your little Dutch—er, lady would not reach our ears?”
    Stunned, he corrected, “Belgian. I fancy I deserved that. But—”
    â€œLud, dear sir, you must not fancy I mean to chastise you. Ladies only pretend to be blind to these little affaires, you know. And one cannot expect gentlemen—especially military gentlemen—to be saints. Though,” she waved her whip under his nose reprovingly, “it was rather naughty in you to abandon the poor lady with—’tis a little girl … no?”
    His hands clenched. He said tautly, “No. A boy and two girls. A set of twins this year, you see.”
    For a moment her eyes were very wide, but she made a fast recover, and, pouting, said rather breathlessly, “Out upon you, sirrah! You spoil Papa’s scenario. He wagered you would have a thousand excuses, and swear to me that the talk was all lies, and you loved only me.” Again, her rippling laugh rang out. She turned away, and said, “You will think me a perfect quiz, but I told him that since you had not come nor sent any word, you must surely have been wounded.” From under the dark screen of her lashes, she watched him intently. “I even sent a friend to enquire of Sir Mark if your Commanding Officer had been in touch with him.”
    Rossiter took a slow breath. His pride again! His damnable pride that had rushed him into the army in the first place, then forbidden that his father be notified of the likelihood of his death!
    He said, “No doubt the earl told you what the answer would be; that my father had heard nothing.”
    â€œOh, yes, and he thought me such a great silly, and said I must be prepared lest you should claim you had been brought down, and use it as an excuse for having stayed with your chère —or is it chères ? amies. ”
    Rossiter looked at her innocent face steadily, and she trilled, “La, la! But I have angered the gentleman once more! Did I perchance spoil some carefully planned little speech? I shall make amends.” She dimpled, and fluttered her eyelashes at him, then said with exaggerated naivete, “You are so much changed, Captain Rossiter. Did army life not agree with you?”
    Gideon flushed, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands. How contemptuous she was; how willing to believe the worst of him. His Achilles heel mastered him yet again, and all prideful hauteur he drawled, “’Tis a life of many facets, ma’am. But, alas, I have no palliative speeches for you.”
    â€œPalliative,” she echoed musingly, patting her firm little chin with her riding crop. “Such a big word, and I but a simple girl. Could it perchance mean … begging forgiveness?” On the last word her lovely eyes, hard and scornful now, met his squarely.
    He suggested, “Perhaps you should discover the meaning from your papa, ma’am, since you rely so heavily on his wisdom.”
    She nodded.