Improper Wedding: Scandalous Encounters Page 5

  “A boy needs to find his education somewhere,” he said, still low and quiet, and still a half-dozen paces from where she stood.

  “Allow me to enlighten you,” Rose said, her eyes flickering from him to the books and back again. “Proper gentlemen do not treat women as those scoundrels do.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended, but Rose would never take them back. Not after the last two days.

  “Some are not scoundrels,” Hamilton said with a tilt of his head toward the wall of books. “Or have you managed to read all these works?” He paused, but she had no answer for him. “Some simply take the unbeaten path to accomplish what must be done.”

  Rose had the feeling they were having two very different conversations. Or perhaps their opinions on the same subject were so divergent that it simply felt that way.

  “Why do you care?” she demanded again.

  He’d never answered her question from before, why he cared whether she stayed in her father’s house or not.

  “I should be nothing to you. I’m no great beauty nor am I a wealthy woman.” She paused and swallowed, but he made no move toward her. “I’m not an old friend you feel obligated to. Why?” she demanded. “Why do you care?”

  “I simply do,” he said with perfect seriousness. “Is it so difficult to accept? Is it so rare an occurrence that someone cares for your well-being?”

  Rose narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t move. Didn’t shrug dismissively or wave it off or even tilt his head. He simply stood there and watched her. And for the first time since yesterday afternoon, Rose wondered what he thought. What he truly thought.

  She drew in a breath, prepared to respond, though she had no real idea what that response was going to be. But then he held up a hand to forestall her. Hamilton still hadn’t moved but the gesture, weary and preemptive at once, had Rose swallowing whatever words she was going to say.

  “The next stop on this tour is the gallery,” Hamilton said, his voice heavier than the simple words warranted. He cleared his throat and once again gestured for her to accompany him. “Prepare to be marveled by the stoic faces in my family.”

  Rose resisted shaking her head. With one sentence he made her angry and ready to snap at him, and with the next he sufficiently lightened the mood where she felt her lips twitch in the faintest hint of levity.

  Once again they walked down the hallway to another well-lighted room. Sunlight streamed in from the uncovered windows, glinting off glass and gold gilt. Oil paintings lined each wall, the unsmiling faces of, presumably, Hamilton’s ancestors all staring down at her.

  Judging her, Rose thought as she stepped inside. They watched her enter their domain and knew she did not belong.

  Again her skin felt entirely too tight, and she longed to run as fast as she could away from this house. The silence between her and Hamilton hung heavy around them. For several brief moments, things had been lighter—not been lighter, perhaps, but not as dragging, not as awkward.

  Rose forced her steps not to falter as she waited for him to speak. He did have a wit, she grudgingly admitted. Though she supposed even madmen were allowed to be moderately amusing.

  “Great-Great-Uncle Chester always looks like an angry boar to me,” Hamilton said, his head tilted to the left as he studied a painting of a particularly unsettling man. “He even seems to have the fangs.”

  Rose had to admit Chester did look like a wild boar, with his dark, shaggy hair and small, beady eyes, and, yes—even his teeth looked very sharp and boar-like.

  And damn if Hamilton didn’t make her want to smile.

  “Aunt Prudence,” he added, pointing to the portrait next to Chester the Boar. “She resembles Henry the Eighth.”

  He shrugged at that, and Rose felt her lips twitch again. She valiantly schooled her features and nodded instead. One minute she softened toward him, wanted to smile and laugh, and the next he made her crazy with his mad talk of danger and taking her from her home.

  “But do not worry,” he said with a disarming grin that did odd things to her stomach. “The line seems to have improved over time.”

  “Hmm,” she said noncommittally. Really, she had no other answer for him.

  Was Hamilton a handsome man? She’d certainly thought so yesterday. But when he smiled at her like that, so open and unrestrained, Rose was reminded of that first meeting in her father’s study.

  It felt like a lifetime ago.

  How handsome she’d thought Mr. Hamilton, how attractive. And how she’d wished she’d be able to get to know him better.

  Now, Rose stepped around him, intent on wandering further into the gallery. Hamilton turned with her, a half-step ahead of her. Suddenly he stopped, an intense look on his face. Intense, yes, but also strangely distant.

  Slowly his hand reached out and tucked an errant curl behind her ear. It must have fallen free from the severe bun she’d twisted her hair into early this morning.

  It wasn’t the fact of the gesture that had her breath stopping in her throat but the gesture itself. Gentle and intimate, he tucked the lock of hair behind her ear; his fingers barely brushed her temple before dropping back to his side. But the touch, their first, tingled along her skin in a rush of lightning.

  Had he done that before? This morning, perhaps? During their wedding?

  No. He hadn’t touched her, not once.

  Rose blinked and stared up at him. His eyes, so very dark, trapped her, and the breath caught in her throat. Every single word she knew flew from her head, and all she could do was stare, stunned, up at him.

  “It seemed to be in your way,” he said, the words barely audible.

  Then he cleared his throat, and Rose stepped back away from his touch, from the oddness of memory.

  Tearing his gaze from his, she looked up at the portraits. Walking down the line, she found several landscapes. Confused, she paused before them. They, too, looked familiar—as familiar as the painting in the parlor and as familiar as Hamilton’s touch.

  “You seem to have the same affinity for Scotland my father does,” she said before she thought the words through. Ploughing ahead, she asked, “Are one of these ancestors Scottish?”

  Shoulders stiff, hands clasped behind his back, he stopped next to her. “As far as I know, not a one is Scottish. I merely, as you say, have an affinity for Scotland.” He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet between them. When he spoke again his voice was lighter, more the man she’d seen this last hour or so.

  “There’s a particular whisky I’m fond of,” he added, looking now at her rather than the painting. “There’s something about it that reminds me…of what, I don’t know exactly.” His words halted, and he started again then stopped and looked again at the painting. “There’s something about it that feels familiar. Does it to you?”

  Frowning, Rose looked up at him. “Yes.”

  The word, the agreement, was immediate. She hadn’t even thought to lie to him. Swallowing she admitted, “My father has many paintings of the Scottish countryside in the house. I think I’ve seen much of that land without ever travelling there.”

  He moved closer, or perhaps it was the forceful look he gave her that made Rose think as much. “Is there no other reason it feels familiar?”

  Cocking her head to the side, Rose seriously considered his words. She wanted to dismiss them, but that had not been her first reaction. No, her first reaction had been yes.

  “No,” she lied.

  Stepping away, she deliberately turned her back to him and finished their walk down the gallery. She moved quickly to a glass case full of miniature paintings.

  “It’s always felt familiar to me,” Hamilton said, his voice firm. “I’ve been to that castle a number of times.”

  Curious now, with her stomach fluttering and a new feeling that was not anger and dread, she turned to him. Rose licked her lips and listened. He had her full attention.

  “There’s a crack in the wall,” he said, his finger hovering a scant inch from
the painting. He pointed to a section of the outer wall just far enough from the main entrance. “It’s so deep, it must’ve been there since the castle was built.”

  From here Rose thought it looked strong and impenetrable. But with his words, she easily envisioned the castle. Easily saw the crack in the wall he described. He was not that descriptive a storyteller and though she walked back to the painting, she dismissed his words.

  There was no crack in the wall, not in the painting. But she continued to stand there, so close to Hamilton she felt the heat from his body seep into hers. Rose attributed it to curiosity, but knew that was a lie.

  “A deep crack would’ve been a good place to leave a message for a lover,” she said. Then, hearing her words, she added haltingly, “Or a spy.”

  The words surprised even her. She’d no idea where they came from. Her eyes flew to his, and she saw the unsurprised knowledge in them.

  “Yes,” he said softly, “it would be. It’d be a very convenient way for two lovers to pass letters.”

  His eyes held hers, not blinking, not letting her look away. Rose swallowed, wondering what he was thinking and how this conversation had taken such an odd turn. Clearing her throat, she purposely stepped back.

  “What is through that door?” she asked and pointed vaguely in the direction of a door she’d seen just moments ago.

  He blinked and nodded, and the moment vanished. He bowed slightly and walked through the door. Rose, confused over what happened, what she’d seen and felt, and about everything that was Hamilton, followed.

  “Ballroom,” he said shortly, but not harshly, “and dining room.” He turned to face her. “And that ends the tuppence tour of the main floor.”

  “You have a beautiful house,” she admitted.

  “I’m glad you approve,” he said, sounding surprisingly pleased. “The staff will come to you tomorrow. I asked they maintain their distance today.”

  Rose met his gaze, and watched him struggle, but he said no more.

  “I’m not certain I can manage a staff like you might have,” she admitted.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he said and shrugged. “The place runs itself. If you have any problems, just tell Digby. He’s one of the footmen around here.”

  Hamilton paused again then nodded. Rose’s stomach plummeted.

  “Allow me to show you upstairs.”

  His words confused her—she’d expected him to say her rooms. Or his. But he merely motioned for her to walk beside him again and, not seeing any real choice, she did so. As they exited the ballroom, Rose was surprised to notice the sun had begun to set.

  They’d talked for most of the day.

  With each step her stomach knotted itself in tighter and tighter knots. She alternated between wishing she’d had more than a few sips of tea and wondering if even that tea, hours ago now, had been too much.

  She didn’t notice the paintings along the staircase or the tapestries or the view from the open curtains.

  Rose concentrated on controlling her breathing and hoping he didn’t see her nervousness. Or mayhap it was better he had. Would he be gentler then?

  At the top of the stairs, they made a right and continued down the hallway, past two doors, until they stopped before an ornately carved one with a gilt handle. Rose wiped her clammy hands down her skirts and willed her heart to slow.

  Surely he heard its frantic pounding?

  “These are your rooms,” he said and grandly opened the door. “Lady Octavia redecorated this room some years ago. She insisted I could not bring a wife into this house with such masculine appointments.”

  Hamilton stopped, not crossing the threshold, and looked down at her. “However, if there is anything you do not care for, we can have it replaced. Or perhaps you may wish to redo the rooms entirely.” He stopped again, watching her with that penetrating gaze Rose swore looked straight through her. “Whatever you care for,” he said in a near whisper.

  His hand hovered near her cheek for a heartbeat, but he withdrew without touching her.

  “I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he added and stepped back. His lips raised in a slight smile, a hint of the man who almost made her laugh earlier coming through. “The rest of the tuppence tour can wait.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I’M SORRY,” HE murmured to the closed door.

  James’s hand lingered on the doorknob, unwilling to leave her. He couldn’t explain his compulsion; it was as maddening to him as it appeared to his friends. To Rose.

  Forcing his fingers to unclench from around the handle, he ran his hand down his face. Good God, what had possessed him? He turned on his heel and stalked down the hall to his own rooms and his private study.

  Work. He needed to immerse himself in work. Maybe then he could grasp a thread of his sanity.

  His skin tightened with each step he took from Rose’s rooms, and his steps slowed. James clenched his teeth and forced his legs to carry him away from her. She was in his house, safe from her father.

  His study was much smaller than the one downstairs where he met with investors, solicitors, and his various agents, and where Digby kept a constant flow of whisky in his glass. James looked at the sideboard but had no taste for alcohol; the very thought turned his stomach.

  With little dignity, he flopped into his chair and once more ran his hand over his face. Exasperated, he closed his eyes and wondered what the hell he’d done. The curtains opened to the side garden, the last vestiges of sunlight barely lighting the area.

  Strathmore had informed him rather haughtily that he’d been precipitous with this marriage, his cousin’s polite way of saying he was mad.

  James snorted. As if he didn’t already know that. Of course he knew that, but he couldn’t ignore Rose. Her face—it was hers. He’d dreamt of her face all his life. His family, and friends, had always accepted his eccentricities when it came to Scotland. Had shrugged it off as something Hamilton talked about.

  They never understood how that castle, those hills, haunted him. More, it was Rose’s face—she was always there. Whenever he dreamt of Scotland, he saw her.

  He would’ve been the first to tell himself his actions were ill-conceived. Blackmailing a man into arranging marriage to his daughter? Then marrying her the day after they’d met? Before yesterday, it never would’ve occurred to James.

  That was before he met Rose.

  How could he tell her? She no doubt already thought him mad. How could he tell her the reason for his impetuousness was blasted dreams? James knew it didn’t matter; it had always been the same dream—she wouldn’t care and he couldn’t blame her.

  If he told her, confessed his reason, James knew she’d run from the house as quickly as their marriage took place. Run, find the first solicitor on the street, and annul their marriage.

  The very thought made him sick.

  James rested his head in his hands and stared blindly down at his desk. The smooth wood grains blurred before his gaze, but whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw was Rose.

  No, he couldn’t confess such insanity to her. They’d already started their married life awkwardly. But he’d find a way to court her properly. Show her he was capable of being the husband she wanted.

  His fingers curled against his skull. How did one go about that with a wife he’d already frightened?

  Take it slow. Allow her to know him. Take her to a ball and introduce her to the pleasures of society. If he hadn’t this damn building to begin construction on, James knew he’d take her to the country immediately. Just the pair of them where they could get to know each other.

  Or perhaps she preferred to remain in London. The season had only started; perhaps she’d enjoy that. James knew naught of her save she was Kendrick’s daughter and quite unused to the sort of gatherings he frequented.

  Women enjoyed those sorts of things, did they not? Balls and shopping and…such. Unfortunately, the types of women he enjoyed lately were those cheating on their husbands or thos
e hired for an evening’s pleasure.

  He needed to recall how to treat a young, innocent woman. James wanted to protect her, to show her the world, to lavish her with gifts and make her smile. He wanted her to fall in love with him.

  Rose had to be confused, so many of her questions unanswered. But he did not have the answers she wanted. James had no idea how to relate to her what he felt. The deep-seated need to see to her safety and to protect her from her father; to protect her from a world that wanted to harm her.

  Looking up, he saw the list Isabella and Octavia left for him, addresses of shopkeepers, milliners, and modiste, and jewelers. All were fashionable, he knew, and all necessary to outfit his new wife in the finest outfits. Perhaps he needed to have Digby send for one of them now—something with which to entertain Rose. Was that too soon?

  James groaned and let his head fall against his chair. He wasn’t one to vacillate in these sorts of decisions. But having Rose here changed all that. Changed him. He’d have Digby call them in tonight—at least it’d give Rose something to do this eve.

  “Mr. Hamilton.”

  James froze. He turned and looked at Rose standing in his study doorway. All thoughts of Digby, of fashion, of everything, left his mind. He offered a smile and gestured for her to enter. She crossed the threshold just barely and stood there, waiting.

  “I don’t understand,” she said in a voice that shook only a little. “We were married today, were we not?” She stopped again and took a deep breath. “I’ve no wish to wait in my room until you are ready to take your rights.”

  James’s heart skipped a beat at her words. Not the boldness in confronting him—he admired that. Her words themselves made him sick. Rose thought he was going to force her.

  He walked around the desk in quick strides. She didn’t flinch away from him, but she went utterly still. He only just stopped himself from reaching out to her. James stopped and stepped back, nodding to one of the wingback chairs before his desk. He sat in the opposite chair.

  “I will not visit you to assert my rights,” he said, and the word left a foul taste in his mouth.