Page 3 of Miss Barton’s Mysterious Husband (Mayfair Christmas Romance)
It was nearly two by the time Charmian trudged upstairs. All night, new arrivals had stumbled in out of the weather. There wasn’t a spare inch in the taproom and while she’d saved Roland from sleeping in the stables, that fate had befallen several of the lone male travelers who showed up after midnight. Their guests would be with them for the festival. Goodness knew what her aunt would feed them all.
She was wrung-out and fed up and filthy. The fact that it had been Christmas for two hours already didn’t chime with her sour mood at all.
She’d been in a sour mood for three years. No amount of Christmas cheer would change that.
Charmian pushed open the door to her room, fortifying herself for another thorny encounter with Roland. Given that her estranged husband was her Christmas gift this year, she couldn’t help feeling that her lack of cheer was justified.
He’d come up about half an hour ago, after proving surprisingly helpful. Helpful, cooperative, and diligent. When he’d offered assistance, she’d expected him to retreat, once he discovered how much hard physical work was involved. But he’d hauled hot water and trays and coal and firewood without complaint. His lordly manner had even come in handy for solving disputes between the guests, inevitable in such crowded quarters.
She ought to be grateful, but it rankled to discover that her neglectful husband was as charming as ever.
Once everyone at last was settled, she’d stayed downstairs mopping the kitchen, until she’d realized that she was just being a coward and avoiding Roland.
Her stomach tied itself in nervous knots as she surveyed the small room, but she needn’t have worried. The lamp was lit and the fire burned merrily in the grate, but no far-too-observant gentleman awaited her. Her troublesome spouse collapsed across her bed, lost in sleep.
Very carefully, Charmian edged inside the room. They had to reach some conclusion about where they took their unwise union. But it was a relief to put off the discussion until tomorrow. Or later today, given the time.
She couldn’t help lingering to study Roland. He looked dead-tired. Hardly surprising. He’d been riding all day in worsening weather, then he’d been run off his feet this evening. But now that she had a chance to examine his features without fearing those perceptive dark eyes, she saw that the tiredness seemed more ingrained than the mere result of a difficult twenty-four hours.
Even in slumber, his lips settled into an unhappy expression and deep lines ran between mouth and nose. They hadn’t been there when she’d met him. The man she’d married had been carefree, funny, one of life’s victors. This man sleeping so soundly on top of her bed – he hadn’t even turned down the covers – knew the acrid taste of disappointment and failure.
While she’d spent most of the last three years fuming at Roland, it was hard to maintain her ire when she looked down at him. She’d imagined that she alone had suffered with their separation. But seeing him now, she knew that wasn’t true.
As she stepped back, he stirred. Through one burning moment, dazed dark eyes settled on her. For once, there was no trace of wariness. Instead, warmth flooded his expression and the smile that curved his lips swept her back to those weeks when she’d loved Roland Destry and he’d loved her in return. The happiest days of her life, when she’d been sure nothing could go wrong, now that she’d married this marvelous man.
Despite everything, she smiled back, even as her poor misused heart swelled against her ribs.
Then she remembered what had happened since. He must have, too. His smile faltered and disappeared, and his gaze turned watchful again.
Charmian wasn’t quite so quick to return to the cold, unloved present. For a long moment, she gazed at the man she’d loved so passionately. Until she realized how revealing her expression must be and she looked away. “Go back to sleep. You’ve gone like the clappers all evening.”
He didn’t comply. Instead, he sat up and rubbed his eyes with unconcealed weariness. The fire warmed the small room to comfort, so he’d taken off his coat and boots. He was a long way from undressed, but having her husband sitting on her bed in shirtsleeves, breeches, and bare feet summoned unwelcome ghosts of former intimacy.
“Do you do that every day? If so, I take my hat off to you. I feel like I’ve fought Waterloo single-handed. And I only did it for a couple of hours.”
Because he sounded genuinely admiring, she bit back a gibe about being a skivvy who worked for her living. “Most of our custom is local. We get a few paying guests, but nothing like this.”
“You must be exhausted.”
She was. And like him, not just because of the current emergency. “I’ll live.”
One did, didn’t one? Even when there didn’t seem much point and every heartbeat just counted out loss.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gestured toward the washstand. “I brought you up some hot water.”
“Thank you. That was thoughtful.” He’d been thoughtful as a young man, too. Which was why his behavior since had caught her so off guard.
Because it hurt to look at Roland, she surveyed the room. He’d been tidy, too. That hadn’t changed. His coat and boots were neatly stowed. “And you brought up firewood. Thank you.”
He rose, towering against the ceiling, and moved to place another log on the fire and freshen it up with the poker. “A husband comes in useful.”
Once they’d teased each other, but those happy days were long past. She didn’t smile. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
His eyes narrowed on her, but he didn’t give her an acerbic answer. He’d always been slow to anger, but as she’d discovered when he lost his temper, he held a grudge. “Do you want to do this now when we’re both tired or shall we wait for the morning?”
She’d reached that point of tiredness where she felt too high-strung to sleep. Anyway, how could she sleep when she shared a room with her long-lost spouse for the first time in years? “It is morning.”
“Yes, it’s Christmas.” She’d never heard him use that flat tone before. “Happy Christmas, Charmian.”
Something about that joyless greeting made her want to cry. She’d lived with regret for so long. But it stabbed particularly deep tonight when Roland shared her room.
They’d missed out on so much. They’d never got to do any of the normal things that married couples did. Celebrate Christmas or birthdays. Set up a home together. Have children. In spite of everything, when she discovered that their fortnight of vigorous bed sport in York hadn’t resulted in a pregnancy, she’d cried her eyes out.
At least a baby would have provided a focus for all the love that Roland didn’t want.
It was too much. She either subsided into a sobbing mess – when she’d already cried more than enough over her disastrous marriage – or she fought. She’d only survived because she’d been angry. God save her, she was angry now.
She turned on the only man she’d ever loved and spoke with a voice as biting as acid. “Stop acting as if you’re the one who’s hard done by. Why didn’t you answer any of my letters? You must have known we had to work out some way to go on. We were married, for pity’s sake. You couldn’t just sweep that fact under the carpet and go on your merry way, as if nothing had ever happened.”
He whitened so fast that the shadows under his eyes stood out stark and purple. “Letters? What letters?”
She didn’t have to try to keep up her anger now. Her hands clenched at her sides. “Don’t pretend. I wrote you so many letters. It must have been hundreds. And not one word in reply. Not a single word.”
His eyes were searching. “Is that true, Charmian?”
At this rate, she was going to clout him with the hot water canister. “I don’t lie. Or have you forgotten that since we parted? I’m not surprised that you have. After all, you conveniently forgot you had a wife at all.”
One emphatic gesture sliced the air. “I never forgot. Nor did I ever stop writing to you.”
Roland had never been a liar either. Something told her that he wasn’t lying now, mad as his claim might sound. “I don’t understand.” She’d stepped closer to Roland when someone knocked on the door.