Page 31 of Raked Away in September

“Is that what you think I was doing?” Rowan stared at her, his face pale in the dim light of the passing carriage lanterns. The easy, aristocratic mask he wore so well was completely gone, replaced by a raw, stunned hurt. “I was with Ashford—you saw him. He took me to the billiard room. We were talking. You think I went to her?”

“Of course. The billiard room. For nearly half an hour.” She shook her head. “I think you are a rake.” Her voice was remarkably level, though it cost her every ounce of her remaining strength to keep it from breaking. “And rakes do not change their nature because of a forced ceremony and a few vows spoken at St. George’s. I was foolish to forget that, even for a moment.”

“Tamsin, listen to me⁠—”

“I have no wish to listen to you,” she interrupted, turning back to the window with absolute finality. “When we arrive home, I wish to go to my rooms, sleep, and pretend this wretched night never occurred.”

Rowan did not reply. He sank back into his corner of the carriage, his jaw tight, his dark eyes fixed on her with a turbulent, aching intensity. She only glanced at him once, then set her jaw, wondering how on earth she was supposed to live in this sham of a marriage for the rest of her life.

The mahogany-paneled walls of White’s felt suffocatingly familiar, filled with masculine laughter and the heavy scent of expensive tobacco. Rowan sank into a deep leather armchair in a corner shadowed by a marble bust of some long-dead statesman, his boots stretched out toward a hearth that failed to warm him.

Only an hour ago, he had walked away from Tamsin, knowing he’d hurt her and ruined things between them, determined to drown his sorrows, yet the scotch in his hand tasted like ash.

But she’d hurt him as well! He’d never lied to her. In fact, he’d done everything he could to be honest and open with her. He’d shown her more of his true self than he’d ever shown anyone, and it felt like a slap in the face that she’d been so willing to think the worst of him.

He’d promised he’d be faithful to her, and yet the first time they’d gone out in public together, she’d assumed he’d run off to tryst with another woman.

If she couldn’t trust him to go have a conversation with his oldest friend, then what was the point of even trying to make this marriage work?

He stared into the amber liquid, the ghosts of his own lineage looming in his mind. The fear of repeating the past was a cold knot in his gut, but how could he be a better man than those who had come before him if she wouldn’t even give him a chance to prove that he could be different?

Still, as much as he wanted to be angry with her, even now, he wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed with her. Not to make love, but to simply hold her. To his own irritation, he had truly enjoyed his time with her in a way that defied his cynical expectations. She wasn’t just a duty; she was becoming a necessity. The realization frightened him more than any debt or duel ever could. He hadn’t planned on falling in love with her.

Bloody hell.

He hadn’t admitted it, not even to himself, until this very moment. But he knew it was true. He was in love with his wife, and now she wanted nothing to do with him. How had he let this happen? He should have guarded his heart and kept her at arm’s length.

Around him, the low murmur of men discussing Parliament and horses droned on. A young lordling across the room caught Rowan’s eye and offered a knowing smirk, gesturing toward the upstairs where one might find a warm body for the night. Just a few weeks ago, Rowan would have stood up, sought the distraction of a nameless beauty, and drowned his doubts in a night of debauchery.

But tonight, the thought of another woman made his skin crawl. The very idea was abhorrent compared to the memory of Tamsin’s laugh and the soft scent of her skin. He didn’t want the thrill of the chase because he was tired of the emptiness that came afterward. He wanted the sense of belonging he’d only found in Tamsin’s arms.

He finished his second drink, the burn of the peat grounding him, and put out his cigar.

Standing abruptly, Rowan ignored the curious glances from his peers. He didn’t need their company, and he certainly didn’t need their vices. He didn’t belong here anymore. He just wanted to go home.

He wanted his wife. If she’d still have him. Somehow, he had to find a way to make things right with Tamsin. He couldn’t just let her anger and hurt fester.

He walked out into the cool night air, his pace quickening with every step toward home.

Chapter Sixteen

The fire in Tamsin’s bedchamber had burned down to a heap of glowing, amber coals, casting long shadows across the silk-hung walls. She had long since dismissed her lady’s maid, unable to bear the woman’s quiet, pitying glances. Now, dressed only in a simple white lawn nightgown, her hair brushed out and falling in a dark wave over her shoulders, Tamsin sat on the edge of the mattress.

She felt hollowed out.

The carriage ride home had been so silent after that one hurtful exchange, and the moment they had crossed the threshold of Haversham House, Rowan had departed again. He hadn’t even offered an excuse. He had simply walked back out into the miserable London drizzle. To his club, she had told herself, though the cynical voice in her head whispered that Elena’s carriage had likely not been far behind theirs.

She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against her hands. She had known what he was. Why did the truth of it have to hurt so damnably?

A soft, hesitant knock shattered the silence.

Tamsin stiffened, her breath catching in her throat. She looked toward the heavy oak door that connected her chambers to his.

Another knock, slightly firmer this time.

“Tamsin,” Rowan called from the other side. His voice was low, muffled by the thick wood, but the raspy, exhausted quality to it sent a sudden, traitorous shiver through her. “Tamsin, please. I know you are awake.”

She didn’t answer. She gripped the edge of the mattress, her knuckles turning white. She wanted to tell him to go away. She stared at the brass bolt that she had pointedly slid home hours ago, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.