Chapter 25

“Papa,” Rosalyn whispered, her hands tight where they gripped together, fingers threaded stiffly through each other, “I do not know what to do.”

“Sweetling, it doesn’t matter,” her father said gently. “Whatever he might think, the duke needed us, but we do not need him.” He reached a soothing hand out.

“But, Papa, it is not about the horses,” Rosalyn whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks. She barely understood it herself. A few weeks before, she would have been relieved if the duke had decided as he had. Standing in an anteroom with Papa, the fire low in the grate, she could not find words. “It is not just about the horses.”

“I know.” Her father breathed out. “Sweetling, I understand. You like the fellow. More than like him, I know. I know how it feels.” He reached for her hand again, and when she placed her palm against his, he drew her into an embrace. He smelled of dust, with a faint undertone of leather, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s just...I do not understand. My sisters overhead him say something, and then it seems as though he never said it at all. And now, because of that foul man and his unwanted embrace, now...”

“I know, sweetling.” Her father let out a sigh. He gazed into her eyes. “But you are still so inexperienced. There are countless opportunities ahead of you. You need not cry.”

Rosalyn shook her head, biting her lip. She understood what her father could see of the situation—that she was young, and her heart would soon mend. But it was not that simple. Even though she had never really met any other men, she knew that the duke was different, that he mattered to her, that he connected with her in ways that nobody else ever had before. She trusted him.

A knock on the door made her jump. Her father tensed, then relaxed.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It’s me,” Sebastian’s voice called through the wood. “May I come in?”

Her father looked at her, and Rosalyn nodded. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, you may come inside.”

Sebastian’s head peered round the half-open door, another man standing beside him. Rosalyn tensed. It was Lord Winbrook. She turned away, her heart thudding. She did not wish to see his face. The memory of his embrace still nauseated her. She heard her father take a deep breath.

“Lord Winbrook. What do you mean by coming here?” His voice was cold as the snow.

“My lord,” Lord Winbrook said politely. “I came to apologise. I did not intend to compromise your daughter’s reputation. I also wish to offer amends, if I may?”

“I do not know that I can accept an apology from you.” Papa’s voice remained cold. “What amends do you propose to make?”

Lord Winbrook’s voice was grave as he replied. “Since I have tarnished your fair daughter’s reputation so, I can think of only one solution. I ought to give myself to her in marriage.”

Rosalyn’s jaw dropped. She turned to her father, terror making it impossible to speak. He could not do it. He must not. Marriage to that man would be repellant. Unbearable.

“Papa...” she whispered urgently. But her father was already replying.

“I suggest, sirrah, that you leave this chamber. And do it quickly. You have tried my patience enough. I am not known for my temper, but I am an expert marksman and I am not averse to duelling if I need to defend a lady’s honour. Get yourself from my sight.”

“My lord viscount! I...” Lord Winbrook began.

“Out!” Papa shouted. Rosalyn gaped. She had never heard her father shout before. His voice was like a whip, like the shot of a gun.

Lord Winbrook fled.

Sebastian was still standing in the doorway. Rosalyn gazed at him, hurt that he had brought the fellow into the room. He opened his arms.

“Sister. I wanted to choke the life out of that loathsome fellow myself, but I thought Papa would do a finer job. I beg your forgiveness. I did not know what he would say.”

Rosalyn went to him wordlessly, wrapping her arms around him. She had been succeeding in holding back her tears, but Sebastian was someone with whom she had always cried if she needed to. She leaned against his chest and sobbed and sobbed.

“You know, I never liked that fellow,” Sebastian said quietly. “He has no taste in cravats. And I cannot speak well of a man who ties them so poorly.”

Rosalyn giggled. In spite of the pain and the horror, it was still possible to find Sebastian amusing. She hugged him close.

“Let us go back to the suite,” Sebastian suggested softly. “It’s late at night. We do not need to sleep,” he said to Rosalyn gently. “We can sit in the parlour and play cards. I do not need to sleep.” He grinned.

Rosalyn gazed at him with affection. He understood better than anyone, better even than Papa did. She let him lead her to the door. They walked out and up the stairs and if anyone was there to stare and whisper, she hugged Sebastian firmly and paid them no mind. Together, they made their way to the suite.

“I shall rest,” Papa said as they entered the parlour area that formed the centre of their three chambers. He was grey with weariness, Rosalyn noticed, and her heart twisted. It was already one o’clock.

“Come, sister,” Sebastian said gently. “We can sit here. It will be like when we tried to stay awake when we were little.”

Rosalyn chuckled. Memories of their childhood were sure to make her laugh, no matter how much her heart was aching. She let Sebastian guide her to the table and settled in a low chair. She had brought a shawl, and she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. There was a fire, but she felt icy cold. She shivered.

“Now,” Sebastian said, reaching for a pack of cards. “I think you might do me the grace of showing me how it is that you always manage to win at cribbage. It has bothered me since you were eight.”

Rosalyn smiled at him. She knew that he was trying to make her laugh, and she wanted to let him; wanted him to coax her out of the sadness that had settled like winter on her soul. She just could not quite ignore the pain that she was in.

She took the cards, and they started to play. It was impossible to focus, and so she set the cards aside and they began to talk instead.

“Remember when we tried to get into the kitchen through the window?” Sebastian said.

“I did not try,” Rosalyn reminded him with a smile.

“No. True. You did not. I did, though. Cook almost hit me with a spoon. She thought I was a proper bandit.”

Rosalyn smiled. She was feeling tired. Cold and tired. She blinked, trying to stay awake. Sebastian’s voice continued, talking about how the cook had shouted at him for trying to enter the kitchen by force. Her eyelids drooped and her thoughts wandered, and she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, she woke to the sound of voices. Papa was in the parlour, and Sebastian was with him. They were talking in hushed voices.

“...we should go back.”

“We could go to London!” Sebastian argued. “So many diversions. It would be best.”

“Your sister should avoid London. People talk. We need to go to Cranfield Hall.”

Rosalyn’s heart ached. Her father was correct. Lord Winbrook had damaged her reputation and, though she was grateful to her father for taking her views on things, in many ways it would have been safer for her to do as he had suggested.

“Papa...it should not matter,” Sebastian began, but Rosalyn could hear he agreed. She stretched, and the two instantly fell silent.

“Sister,” Sebastian said gently. “Would you care for some breakfast? I am starving.”

Rosalyn blinked. She was stiff and cold. She smiled at Sebastian, doing her best to look as well as she could. She was grateful to him for his kindness. “I do not really feel much like eating,” she tried to explain.

“I’m going to send for some tea and things anyway,” Sebastian said firmly. “And then you can decide what you would like, eh? I cannot eat it all by myself, you know.” He strode over to ring the bell. He was wearing fresh trousers and a white shirt and Rosalyn shivered. She had slept in the chair without a change of clothes.

“I would like to dress,” she said softly, standing and going to the door of her chamber.

“Of course, sister,” Sebastian said gently. “I shall not touch the pastries.”

Rosalyn smiled. He was trying so hard to make her laugh, and she wished more than anything that she could. She shut the door behind her and went to the wardrobe, selecting a brown dress at random. She dressed herself hastily, drawing her hair back into a bun.

When she returned to the parlour, her sisters were there. They were dressed and they looked worried. They embraced her.

“Rosalyn! We were so worried.”

“Rosalyn, dear! Let us go home to Cranfield Hall.”

Rosalyn sat silently. It made sense to do so. She reached for the food and drink that Sebastian had ordered brought to the room. It gave her something to do while she thought. “We should go to the Hall,” she agreed.

“I shall inform the duchess,” Papa said after they had eaten. Rosalyn’s stomach twisted. She did not want to think about that woman. She did not want to see any of them. She wanted to run back to the Hall and try to ride Marmalade and forget everything that had happened.

They waited for Papa and then all of them went down to the coach. Rosalyn glanced at Sebastian. It was unfair, she realised suddenly. He had no need to depart from the manor. He could stay. She turned to him, about to say so, but he turned back to her.

“Papa said mayhap we could make a trip to Brighton,” he said lightly. “In the springtime, of course. You won’t catch anyone bathing in the wintertime; no one in their right mind, at least.” He chuckled.

“Sebastian. You...” Rosalyn began.

“I am doing what I think is right,” Sebastian said firmly. “Now, let me help you in. It’s snowing and my toes hurt.”

Rosalyn gazed up at him, horror and sorrow aching in her heart. They were both suffering. And her sisters, too, looked sad and subdued. She shut her eyes.

Papa clambered up into the coach, and then he shut the door, and they were heading off. Rosalyn gazed through the window. Sebastian was right. It was snowing. It was thick, heavy snow and she frowned. They should not travel in such conditions. Not only for the horses, but because the coach could easily become stuck.

“Papa. Should we not...” she began.

“I wish to be away from that place,” her father said tightly. “It offends me.”

Rosalyn breathed out. She had not expected his absolute, unwavering upholding of her. Somehow, she had expected societal matters to carry more weight with him than she did. But she was absolutely and entirely wrong. He supported her utterly. She blinked, touched beyond words.

“It shall be warmer in the southern parts,” her sister said firmly.

“And we can see the horses,” Isabel reminded her.

“Yes,” Rosalyn whispered. She gazed at her sisters and at her father and brother. Her heart ached. She was more hurt and frightened than she had ever been, and yet one thing—one wonderful thing—was that she did know just how much she was loved.

The coach rolled on. Rosalyn watched the snow fall, her heart aching, and the only thing greater than her sorrow was the constant, gnawing fear that they might become stuck in the snow.

She closed her eyes, listening to the soft chatter around her, and silently prayed for their safety—for their well-being both on the journey and beyond.