Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Fourteen

Roman arched his back, tightening his grip on the reins as he righted himself to keep from slipping off of the saddle. He was exhausted, every muscle in his body protested his decision to journey for two days on horseback. What was worse was the light shower that had persisted for over an hour now, conniving with the darkness to distort his vision. He thought of retiring into the carriage long enough for the rain to cease, but decided against it, for he was unwilling to be near Frances. He'd been unwilling to be near her since their marriage one week ago.

Shifting his attention to the simple gold band on his finger, Roman couldn't help the frown that creased his brows. The piece of fine jewelry felt foreign; he hadn't worn a ring in two years. Yet, here he sat, married to the sister of the woman he'd once loved. It was guilt that pushed him to propose marriage to Frances—guilt and desperation. Guilt had eaten at him as he sat by Frances' bedside the night of the ball, blaming himself for the vicious attack on her. He spent several hours pondering upon what he might have done differently to protect her, to keep her from ever getting hurt. As he watched her unconscious form, he saw the resemblance between her and Layla, and was forced to relive the times he'd sat by Layla's deathbed like this, praying for her recovery.

The dreadful memories of his dead wife conjured a deep sense of desperation within him. He was desperate for redemption, a chance to save the life of one sister in recompense for the one that was lost.

Madness, he silently cursed, seeing now the stupidity of his past reasoning. It was foolish to think one could find a price worthy enough to compensate for death, even more so to think he would have a successful marriage with the sister of his deceased wife. Didn't the very nature of things forbid their union? Even the laws of England barred their marriage, forcing them to endure the grueling voyage to Norway to be joined by a foreign priest.

Roman remained blinded to the implications of his actions until the priest handed Frances to him as his wife. He'd stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and in that moment, he knew he couldn't love her. Every fiber of his being resisted the idea of loving Frances, for although Layla was dead, his heart remained devoted to her. He knew he'd made a terrible mistake by marrying Frances.

Desperate to escape the consequences of his mistake, he resorted to avoiding Frances. He abandoned her for seven days in the company of her maid, because he was unwilling—even more so, unable—to be alone with her, to contemplate the possibility of consummating their marriage. He was certain there would be no consummation, for the mere thought of it felt like a cruel betrayal of Layla's trust.

He wondered what their marriage would look like without intimacy. Perhaps Frances might be displeased by the idea once he'd mustered the courage to tell her the truth. He already felt bad for luring her into a loveless marriage to ease his conscience, but he hoped she might see the ultimate benefit of their union to her and her child's safety.

Their child. He was of the mind to adopt the child once born; to give it a name and an inheritance, if he didn't gamble everything away before time. He shook his head at the thought; it was an unlikely possibility, for besides the five thousand pounds he'd needed to pay Dorset after losing their wager, he'd also forfeited all his club memberships. Now that he'd been barred from ever showing his face in all the clubs in London, he had nowhere else to go to foster his gambling habits. Of course, there were the pubs and gaming hells, but he never felt comfortable or safe in any of those places. In fact, if he was being truthful, he never felt comfortable in London. Which was why he'd had no problems selling his house to settle some of his debts, and buying a smaller house in the countryside of Dedham.

Roman raised his head to examine the sky. They were supposedly two days away from their new home in the country, but given the relentlessness of the rain, he doubted they'd reach there in time. Perhaps they must stop by an inn. He thought Frances might appreciate a break from all the traveling. She'd already endured four days aboard a steamship from Norway and two days on the dusty roads. Perhaps she hadn't complained once the entire trip, but three hours ago, when they stopped at the posting house to water the horses, he'd glimpsed her from the parted curtains of the carriage, and had seen how tired she was.