The Clarendon Rose (30 page)

Yet, despite the question of Pepridge’s next move—and whether or not their plan would stymie it, Clarendon found his thoughts returning to his wife, for he still marveled at how lucky he was to be married to her.
 

Indeed, he could hardly imagine a time when he would grow tired of the stimulation of her company—both intellectually and physically.
 
But then, that’s the nature of infatuation, isn’t it?
 
He sighed.
 

If he could be sure it was actually love he felt, he would shout the news to the heavens—and to Tina herself, regardless of whether she reciprocated the feelings or not.
 
He would promise to cherish and care for her always, while never allowing his love to be a burden, if she did not share his sentiments.

Unfortunately, trust in himself no longer came naturally, and so he held his peace out of concern that this intensity would soon burn out.
 
If Tina had begun to care for him, then he refused to allow himself to hurt her by claiming his love was steadfast and deep.
 
He did not want to see the shock, the disappointment—and worst of all, the pain—in her eyes if it turned out that his feelings were, in fact, no more than superficial and short-lived.

Only time will tell,
he concluded, despite his impatience with the platitude.
 
Perhaps someday, I’ll be able to believe my love will last.
 
Then, I’ll tell her, and hope that the news is, at the least, not unwelcome.

He settled into the chair in front of his desk once more and frowned at the papers strewn across its surface.
 

I wonder what Tina will think of these investments.
 

Clarendon took another sip of brandy and gazed into the fireplace, frowning.
 
It’ll be a busy morning, but if I keep on task, I should get through everything, I think.
 
And then, I’ll be on my way home by the early afternoon.

His mouth quirked as he completed the thought.
 
It had been a long time indeed since he had thought of any place as “home.”

As he finished the last of his brandy, he realized he was tired.
 
He rested his head against the tall back of the chair for a few moments, eyes closed.
 
They were there—the memories—lurking at the edge of his consciousness.
 
Following what had become a nightly ritual of sorts, he allowed himself to relax, hovering between sleep and wakefulness.
 
Then, opening his mind to the past, he allowed his memories entry, embracing them as he had never dared do in years past.
 

It still hurt to remember the men he had once known, whose deaths had been so needless.
 

But, by thinking about them, he found that the voices had begun to change, the tormented screams supplanted by other memories.
 
The snorty laugh that would erupt out of Anderson when something surprised him into amusement.
 
The sound of it had always made Clarendon grin.
 
That bloody stupid joke Carruthers used to liked to tell when he got drunk enough to forget that his audience had heard it a dozen or more times before.

And now, those—and so many other details about his men—helped him appreciate the importance of their lives, rather than focusing on the agony of their deaths.
 
Of course, he also made himself face the tragedy and pain of their final moments.
 

He relived the memories, moment by moment, forcing himself to confront them without flinching.
 
By examining every detail of them, he found that the more he focused on what actually happened, the less his vision of it was clouded by the guilt that had wrapped everything in a haze of distortion.

He had committed himself to revisiting every memory of them he could dredge up—and to making himself pause in acknowledgement of those fellows whom he had commanded without any idea of who they were or what they looked like.
 
Those blurred faces and anonymously uniformed figures from so many years ago.

It would be a long project.
 
But, even the work of these last several evenings had begun to spawn an emotional acceptance of something he had understood at an intellectual level for some time.
 
Namely, that no amount of self-abnegation and anger would bring them back.
 
That his own guilt had transformed those good men into howling wraiths demanding his blood as penance.
 

Now, at long last, his soul was beginning to see beyond the pain and understand that his best tribute would be his memories of them—and his attempts to improve the lives of others.
 
And that, such men as they had been, they would probably have asked for no more than that.

Tina continued to fume the next morning, alternately wishing Clarendon would return immediately so she could have it out with him, and hoping he simply wouldn’t bother coming back at all.
 
The pitched battle between her jealousy and her rationality also raged on.
 

She got little work done, and instead spent much of the morning pacing in the study.
 
When she finally realized what she was doing, she let herself out into the garden and managed to pass much of the afternoon striding furiously, first through the hedge mazes, then along the stylized garden paths, and finally into the wilder forests, ignoring any discernable paths in favor of rushing headlong through the bushes.

She ignored the minor nicks and cuts she managed to acquire during her walk, but was forced to pause a few times when the hem of her dress got caught in some low brambles and she had to bend to untangle it.
 

“Typical,” she muttered as she stared at the tattered fabric.
 
Then, releasing it, she continued on her way.

At one point, emerging from the trees, she saw a distant carriage making its way along the manor’s drive, towards the main road.
 
She nodded, glad to be rid of the dowager’s presence at last.

It occurred to her that the dowager had actually done Tina a bit of a favor in raising this issue.
 
This way, she was able to give vent to her fury.
 
Perhaps, she might even have managed to arrive at a moderately reasonable course of action before the duke returned.

“Reasonable indeed!” she muttered, feeling anything but.
 
Once again, the soothing voice of rationality spoke out,

He might not have been lying about the reasons for his trip, missy.
 
Just as he might be quite innocent of all this.
 
If you fling accusations at him as soon as he arrives, he’ll get defensive.

During the last while, as she strode through the forest, her reasonable side had slowly been gaining predominance over the wild urgings of her anger.
 
She resumed her walk more slowly, finally feeling ready to listen.

Why not watch and wait?
 
If all goes well, you can slowly set your mind at ease.
 
And if, on the other hand, real evidence begins to emerge that he has decided to seek his pleasures elsewhere…

“Then I’ll be justified in excoriating him,” she murmured with relish.
 

Then, she pulled in a deep breath.
 
Calm yourself.
 
Be friendly and welcoming to him, for he may well have done nothing wrong.
 
And then, watch and see what happens.
 
If you begin to have doubts again, you can always ask him what his feelings are about fidelity in marriage.

She continued her walk more sedately, going deeper and deeper into the forest as she forced herself to think soothing thoughts and imagine peaceful vistas of snow falling, streams trickling and gentle breezes rustling through leaves.

It was evening when Tina finally made her way to the manor, once more a picture of calm—and deeply exhausted—rectitude.
 
She had boxed up her anger, finally truly convincing herself that she required proper evidence of infidelities before jumping to conclusions.
 
She was now ready to retire for the night, and faced the thought of meeting Clarendon with equanimity.
 
From what he had said, she didn’t expect him until tomorrow, at the soonest.

So, it was with some surprise that she let herself into the study and found Clarendon himself pacing the room.
 

He stopped when he saw her.
 
“Thank God.”
 
He closed his eyes a moment.
 
When next he spoke, an aggressive hostility edged his tone:
 
“Where the devil have you been?
 
I was about to send out search parties.”
 
He threw her a scowl before resuming his pacing.
 
“Edmund had no notion of where you were when I spoke to him just now.
 
Neither did any of the servants.
 
That new fellow, Archer, had gone off in search of you, but without success.
 
So, where were you?”
 
He came to a stop in front of her, still glaring.
 

“I was out walking,” she said, too tired to bristle at his tone.

His expression shifted as he truly saw her.
 
His mouth thinned and something dark flared in his eyes as they raked over her appearance. “Good God, what happened to you, Tina?
 
Are you all right?”

Tina shrugged tiredly.
 
“I’m fine.
 
Why, what is it?” she asked, looking down at herself.
 
Only then did she recall all the cuts and scrapes—not to mention the tangled hair and tattered hem—she had managed to acquire during her restless walking.
 
“Oh, this.
 
I just didn’t feel like staying on the paths in the forest and ended up leaving a bit of skin and dress behind on some of the brambles and branches.
 
It’s nothing.”

“Are you certain?
 
Why don’t you sit?
 
You look like you’re about to fall over,” he said, taking her elbow and leading her gently to a chair.
 
Tina frowned at the discovery that she could be so profoundly tired and still feel so intensely aware of his touch—and his musky, spicy, leathery smell.
 
But, she allowed herself to be led and sank gratefully into the seat.

He loomed over her, frowning as he watched her in silence for a few moments.
 
Then, he turned away abruptly.
 
“I’ll order food.
 
You can eat it here, then go up to your room to rest.”

Tina sat, her eyes closed as she listened to the murmur of conversation between Clarendon and the nearest footman on duty.
 
She forced her eyes open when he returned a few moments later and stood over her once more.
 
His concern was starting to make her uncomfortable, for it seemed out of proportion to the extent of her negligible injuries.
 
“Clarendon, would you stop hovering?
 
I’m tired, not dead.”

He responded by crouching down beside her, still frowning.
 
“Did something—or someone—upset you?
 
Something must have done to bring you back from your walk in such a state.
 
What happened while I was gone?”

She sighed, not prepared to air the humiliating details of her conversation with the duchess.
 
Given his solicitous attitude, she felt even gladder of her decision to wait for some real evidence before allowing herself to worry about whether her husband had decided upon a “fashionable” marriage.

“Your mother and I had a bit of a fracas last night,” she said finally and heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

“Where is she?” he said, rising and walking towards the door before she could continue.
 
“I already warned her—“

“She’s gone, Clarendon,” Tina said.
 
He returned to her side.
 
“She left earlier today, at my request.”

He nodded grimly.
 
“Good.
 
I only regret it reached that point.
 
I should have suggested it might be time for her to move on before I left.
 
I’m sorry about that, Tina.
 
Whatever she said must have upset you deeply, for it seems to have outlasted her own stay.”

Tina smiled at him, her anger and insecurities allayed for the moment.
 
How could it be otherwise when he was being so sweet?
 
She touched his hand, where it rested on the arm of the chair.
 
“I’m fine now, Clarendon.
 
I just needed to walk off my anger—to do some thinking.”

Clarendon pressed his lips against her palm, then reached out with his free hand to touch her cheek.
 
He swallowed, then flashed her a crooked smile.
 
“Now I understand how they must have felt, watching me, over the years.”

“What d’you mean?
 
Who?” she murmured, mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze.

He looked down, tracing the scratches on her arm with a gentle finger.
 
“It’s not really comparable, I suppose, but you must have been in a dark mood to be so heedless.
 
All these small rips and cuts—they remind me of the punishments I used to inflict upon myself.”
 
He looked up again and their gazes held.
 
“All the ways I used to try to bring myself down because I could not forgive myself for my own failings.”

Tina looked away, disturbed by his insight.
 
Was that really part of it?
 
If she had been asked, short moments ago, why she had allowed herself to be scraped and cut, she would have responded that she simply hadn’t noticed, in the midst of her anger.
 
But that wasn’t actually true.
 
She had felt the cuts—the little throbs of pain from each of them as she walked.
 
But she had been able to ignore them because they had felt somehow satisfying to her.