To Wed A Rebel (20 page)

Do I want him? Do I really, truly want him?

It was not in Ruth’s nature to truly despise someone, and all those negative emotions she had harboured towards him had begun to ebb. To understand all was to forgive all, and she saw him for what he truly was: that lost little boy who had roamed these halls without a friend to call his own. Isaac needed someone, anyone, and that was her. As always, even if it put her at a loss, when she was needed, she would always answer. It’s what she’d done since birth, for her uncle, for the other academy girls, for Lottie…

If I reached out for him, would he…

He was a man, he was flesh and blood, and they were wedded. The next step was obvious, to Ruth at least. When she turned towards him, all she saw was the bolster cushion. She longed to throw it away, to see him, to understand. Frustrated, she turned again, cheek upon the pillow’s colder side, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. If she kissed him, would he reciprocate? Did he not find her attractive?

She had undressed before him, full knowing he watched her and yet nothing had ensued. That invisible wall between them remained, unpassable. Had she not been obvious enough?

Pretty enough, desirable enough…

Half the night went by and still those thoughts stayed with her, torturing her. She waited and waited, but he never once made a move towards her and she could not grasp why. Sleep eventually crept up on her and when she woke, Isaac was gone from the room, almost as though he had never been there at all.

***

The remainder of the week leading up to the ball ran short and Ruth had not known how she’d spent it. Eliza was poor company. All she’d say, if ever she spoke at all, was, “Do you think it looks like rain?” It was not that she was overly simple or unkind, it was more that she was quite content with silences and felt no desire to talk. Had she been a man, it would have been perfectly acceptable; she would have been left to her own devices and even thought pleasant. But, as a woman, such behaviour did test Ruth’s ingrained desire to please.

There was no light chit-chat she could offer, no little compliments,
nothing
, while Lady Mawes expected her to carry all their conversations. And Jemima, Colin’s sister, only ever looked up from her book to offer a cruel observation and could not really be blamed for it, as Ruth’s presence was a threat. It was exhausting.

For the first time, Ruth looked forward to seeing Isaac in the evenings, when he was back from his business in town, sorting out family affairs with his cousin and that ghostly figure Sebastian. They would eat, continue the polite charade at dinner, and hide up in their room to vent their frustrations with the day. Once or twice, they had even made one another laugh.

On the day before the ball, Ruth was curled up in her nightclothes against the bed’s headboard, while Isaac slumped on the chaise longue.

“And Eliza, she’s so – she’s no help at all,” said Ruth quietly, as if the walls were listening. “All she ever does is embroider silks, remark on the weather and eat. I don’t know if she lacks the intellect to hold a conversation or she’s simply rude.” These were the talks she’d had with Lottie, where they’d shared secrets in the dark after a long day training to be the women neither would be. “I – I want to snatch that needle from her and bloody well embroider her to the chair she
refuses
to move from.”

Isaac laughed, a melodic sound, one she hadn’t heard from him before. “I believe you just swore, Mrs Roscoe.”

Ruth put a hand to her lips and sat back. “I – no, I didn’t, did I?”

Mrs Roscoe.

It didn’t jar her as much as it used to, not when it came from him.

He laughed harder at her flustered appearance and she shook her head.

“If I did swear, then it’s your fault; it’s due to spending too much time around you. And there’s nothing humorous about it,” she scolded lightly, aiming for him with a spare cushion, which he caught effortlessly and placed behind his head. “It’s not like you have to spend all day with her, with all of them.”

“That’s true, though Lady Mawes is the one you need to be concerned about.”

“I want to go back to our house,” Ruth heard herself say, fingers trailing the bumps and grooves in the bedcovers, smoothing them down, finding the odd, impractical task comforting. She hadn’t done anything in days, had been of no use to anyone, idle. And she missed her patch in the garden, her head filled with all the tasks she’d still yet to do before October came and brought with it mist and fog and colder sea air. Her arms still bore a few scratches from her tangle with the roses, her skin warmed from the sun. Little reminders that brought a fleeting smile.

“But then you would be spending all day with me,” he said to her, an afterthought, feigning a yawn that she knew was far from casual. A way to end their conversation, if she wished it.

“I know,” said Ruth, sinking down into the covers, facing away from him. “I do not think I would mind that now, if you wouldn’t.”

Silence, a long inhalation, exhalation – each one slow and measured to her mind – and then Isaac finally answered, “I wouldn’t mind.”

And yet that night was like all the others that had fallen before it. They stayed on their own sides of the bed, straining to hear the other’s rhythmic breathing, imagining all that could take place if one dared to make the first move…

***

Trewince Manor was alive. Before, on passing slow September days, it had seemed stuffy, old and infirm; an aged relative on its last legs, unwinding, unravelling, with each mothballed breath released taking it nearer to its last. Now, with the dance approaching, it was a showman, polished to perfection, dust flayed from its insides and grime worked away from its edges. New servants, ones Ruth did not recognise from the short time she’d stayed in the house, breezed along corridors carrying trays and bundles. Each one held an important air, a busyness, either real or forced, with a hard look that willed her not to ask for anything and not to disturb their sacred tasks.

The guests would arrive soon and the Roscoe family were preparing themselves, inwardly and outwardly. Ruth had her own dress prepared. A plain, dark blue. It would do. Lady Mawes, however, had other ideas – ones she was not able to discourage.

A new gown was brought to her, held with careful fingers by a young maid, Hetty. Lady Mawes trailed after it, immaculately dressed, eyes bright and wide.

“I thought the colour would suit you,” the older woman said, as Hetty carefully draped the gown across the bed.

Ruth stayed stock still, hands clasped together in front of her, not daring to move forwards or show any emotion, any gratitude, in case it was a misunderstanding, a trick, a ruse. But the gown was not taken away. There was no deception. It truly was
hers
, at least for tonight.

“Don’t simply stand there,” snapped Lady Mawes. She spoke to the maid, but Ruth jumped too. “Time is running short; let’s get you in it.”

With polite fumbling on Ruth’s part, and Lady Mawes’s constant inference, the gown was put in place. Ruth dared not put her hands on herself, on the material, her body not her own – clothed in a colour she had never worn, never dreamt of.

Lottie had lent her dresses in the past. They had not fit well, the colours had never flattered her and they had never been
new
. And her uncle had never allowed her anything so extravagant, so extreme, had never seen a reason to spend the money.

Lady Mawes put her hands on Ruth’s shoulders and guided her to the mirror. She did not want to look, not yet, not until she could truly savour the moment that would never come again.

It was only a dress; she
knew
that. The practical, reasonable, logical corners in her mind would not let her forget who she was. However, the woman in the mirror was not the woman she had come to know as herself.

The shimmering, sunset colours made Ruth’s light brown eyes seem warmer, brought a red sheen to her hair, complemented her complexion. And the garment showed off skin, more than she’d ever revealed in all her life. The gown plunged, dangerously. In the past, all that Ruth possessed had been hidden, battened down under thick layers and cold colours. It was a time for a change.

Never before had she felt so beautiful.

Two sparkling red earrings were pushed into her palm, pulling her from her stunned shock.

“If you are part of this family, you will wear our jewels too,” said Lady Mawes, as Ruth obediently put them on. “I tried to force them on Jemima, but she hates all that, would rather run around in breeches. She even tried to cut her hair when she was younger, that funny girl. And they’d be wasted on Eliza; she won’t even talk to anyone for long enough to let them be seen.”

“Thank you,” whispered Ruth, staring at a reflection she did not recognise.

“Don’t thank me, girl,” she said. “I am not doing this for you. I am doing this for my own sake.”

For the family.

The dress came at a price. Lady Mawes had words for her. Ones she would heed and obey.

“You need to be firmer with him,” she said, while Ruth’s hair was put in place.

“He won’t listen to me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. There is influence there and you’re his wife; you can
make
him listen.” Before she could argue, Lady Mawes added, “I know all about you. I had my man Sebastian find out all I could. I had enquiries made into your reputation. I even wrote to Miss Lamont, for you attended her academy, did you not? The woman’s an old friend.”

“What did she say?”

“She said you thought yourself superior, aloof and meddled in everything.”

“I did not mean to…”

“That’s the highest compliment you will ever get from Miss Lamont,” interrupted Lady Mawes. “I have no doubt that the place fell apart when you left, with how vehemently she swore me off you.” Her gaze turned critical as she motioned for Ruth to turn. “Yes, that will do,” she said, though her half-smile said much more. It dropped, almost instantly, as she addressed the maid. “Leave us, Hetty.”

The young girl obeyed, leaving the room as silently as she had entered it, giving Ruth one last pleased glance – a job well done.

The door was closed. The quiet did not last.

“If you do not consummate the marriage between yourself and my great-nephew, then you put yourself at risk.”

The wind was promptly taken from Ruth’s sails, for the same thoughts had occurred to her – more so than ever – waiting, expecting, willing all that should take place. Isaac had kept to their boundaries, had not returned the minor brushes she gave him, had done his best to stay far away from her – as though she was, well, undesirable.

Ruth met her own reflection once more and smoothed her hands down her elaborate bodice.

Wouldn’t he want her now?

Surely she was as beautiful, as stunning, as captivating as all the others he had been with?

“I can tell when another of our sex is unplucked and I shall not have further scandal fall upon our shoulders,” said Lady Mawes. “Do what must be done, for your own sake if for no one else’s.”

“He does not think of me in that – in that way,” she said, mouth dry, stomach fluttering.

“Then make him,” came the reply. “He will not be able to resist you tonight.”

A stiff nod and the talk was done. Ruth was left alone. But those parting words stayed with her.

Chapter Thirteen

Isaac

Isaac felt himself a curiosity, a spectacle, an exhibit.

But he was used to it.

All eyes were on him as he passed by the assembled guests, hearing the whispered rustle of conversation. Men and women from across Wessex had accepted Lady Mawes’s invitation to the ball and each one knew about Isaac’s reputation. Or they knew what he had permitted to be known. The rest, his worst deeds, stayed within the low-born circles, the crooked magistrates, the bodies for hire.

All that could be discussed about Isaac Roscoe in polite circles was discussed, though few eyes looked upon him with judgement. That was the trouble with high society. They liked a story to tell, they liked what seemed interesting, so long as it stayed a safe distance away. Isaac, now married, reined in and back in his family home, was seen as safe.

He hated it.

“Will you not go to your wife?”

Lady Mawes was at his elbow, in funereal colours with a smile far too cunning to set him at ease.

The question escaped Isaac before he could stop it: “What have you done now?”

His great-aunt waved towards the high arch that separated the ballroom from the hallway, to where a staircase lolled against the floorboards.

He did not recognise her at first, the woman who descended the steps.

“That’s not…?”

But Lady Mawes was gone, already absorbed in new conversations with old acquaintances, doling out backhanded compliments and feigning interest.

Isaac brought his gaze back to her, the amber rose.

Red sky at night,
he thought.

A sign that the skies would be clear, the rain would not gather, the worst would be kept at bay.

A silence, a stillness, consumed the ballroom, interrupted only by hissing mutters and light talk. The other people around Isaac had seen her too, the young woman on the stairs, his wife, who he approached with a quizzical expression.

It was the nerves that gave her away, that had him truly recognise her – Ruth – behind the fire that clothed her skin. It was the half-smile, the way she stood – back too straight – though he did not recognise the glance she gave him.

“You look…” He trailed off.

“Thank you,” she replied without meeting his eyes.

Isaac offered her his arm because it was expected and he asked her to dance before he realised he had. And she accepted, no refusals, no delay, no thought. The last time he had asked her such a question, they had been worlds away from where they were now, different people, with different lives and expectations.

The floor was lined with expectant couples, many of whom sent curious glances Ruth’s way. Even sour-faced Colin had cajoled his wife into dancing, a rare occurrence to start the evening. The music began, a country dance, and the woman who faced Isaac could have been a stranger for all he knew. It was not only the way she looked that seemed unfamiliar, it was her entire self. Gone was the woman he’d come to know, who he felt was almost a – no, they weren’t friends, they were – there wasn’t a word.