Free A Rose Before Dying by Amy Corwin Page A

Castlemoor
politely followed Ariadne. A glance over her shoulder revealed his
drawn face, lost in thought.
    The sitting room was not her favorite
location. It was small and the dark, heavily carved furniture was
from the last century. However, there were two armchairs by the
fire that always drew her. She gestured to the chair on the
right.
    “Pray be seated.” She moved to the closest
chintz-covered armchair. She noted he waited politely while she sat
and arranged her heavy bombazine skirts before he sat. At least the
deep brown fabric hid the smears of earth from her previous
occupation.
    When his gaze lingered on her face, she
looked away, self-conscious. She intertwined her fingers in her lap
to prevent her left hand from rising and covering the bruise on her
cheek. She’d forgotten it until that moment. And Lord Castlemoor’s
sympathetic eyes reminded her of the humiliation of Henry
Phillips’s slap to curb her obstinate and wayward behavior.
    She should never have taunted him. It had
been sheer idiocy. She knew him well enough to foresee his
reaction. For the hundredth time she wondered if sheer foolishness
made her refuse to do what everyone expected. It would be so easy
to give in and agree to marry Mr. Philips. And perhaps her abigail
was correct and once they were married, his frustrations would
diminish, and he would treat her well.
    Except in her heart, she feared that if she
were his wife, his brief bouts of ill temper would only grow
worse.
    She rubbed the patch of skin between her
eyebrows and caught Lord Castlemoor’s inquisitive look.
    “Are you unwell?” His eyes rested on the
bruise. Clearly, he’d been too absorbed in his own difficulties
before to notice. But he certainly saw it now.
    “No.” Her hand hovered over her cheek in
embarrassment before she dropped it to her lap.
    An awkward silence fell, thankfully broken
when Mr. Abbott arrived with a tea tray. Miss Baxter trailed behind
him. The older lady was a distant cousin whom the Wellfleets
inherited when she lost her previous home. Now, she acted as
Ariadne’s companion. The tall, slender woman carried a heavily
embroidered bag stuffed with wool and knitting needles.
    Without even looking in their direction, Miss
Baxter walked over to the window and flung back the curtains. Then
she took a seat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair,
positioned so the light from the window would stream over her
narrow shoulders to illuminate the elaborate project dangling from
her needles.
    Mr. Abbott placed the tray on a small round
table at Ariadne’s elbow and bowed before disappearing through the
door.
    Lord Castlemoor waited until Ariadne handed
him a cup of tea before he spoke. “Forgive me for asking, but did
you have an accident?”
    “I was careless.” She touched her bruised
cheek with her fingertips. “It’s not serious.”
    “What happened?”
    “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss
it.”
    The warmth in his brown eyes deepened. “Very
well. But if you find yourself in difficulty, I hope… Well, I
realize we’re barely acquainted. However, I hope you’d feel you
could come to me. For any reason.”
    “I appreciate the offer.” She forced a smile
as her hands smoothed her skirts. “However, it’s hardly necessary.
I’m unlikely to find myself in such desperate straits that I
require the assistance of an earl.”
    “Perhaps. Though anyone may need a friend,
even at the best of times.”
    “No doubt.” The teapot shook in her hand as
she refilled her cup. A flush rose to her cheeks as if to emphasize
the bruise. She felt excited and yet ashamed of her reaction and
wished Lord Castlemoor would not look at her with such discerning
eyes. “In any event, you were speaking of your uncle?”
    “Yes,” he said heavily. He studied the logs
piled on the grate in the fireplace. “Would you like a fire?”
    “Thank you, but no. With all this sunshine,
the room seems comfortably warm to me. Are you chilled?