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She had nobody.

And the boy she loved the most - the one who deserved more than he got - was gone. The sight had her physically scrambling for support. She felt the air leave her lungs, and her vision blurred. How could memory feel like sacks of grain falling on her shoulders?

“Rosamund!”

Westbourne moved instinctively. He quickly bridged the distance between them in two strides. He reached a broad hand to catch her as her body shook and flailed.

“Do not touch me!” Rosamund cried out, as she yanked her arm away from him. She was shocked at the violence of her movement, the pull almost throwing her off the other side. She swung her arms around to regain her balance.

Westbourne had frozen a few inches away from her. While she was in motion, he was frozen solid, his muscular frame rooted to where he was standing. There was a twitch on his face as his body fumbled to understand what was happening.

“I am sorry,” he said hastily. “I - I will leave you be.”

He did not step back or yell at her angrily. However, he also did not try to placate her with words. He merely stood there, close but not quite. She could feel the heat coming from his body, but he also did not reach out to touch her. Not again. His gaze fell to the floor, as if giving her the privacy to mourn the moment.

Rosamund wept. She realized that her sharp tongue and efficient ways were nothing but ways for her to survive. She squeezed her eyes, trying to block the flood of memories that still kept on strangling her hopes and dreams. In her desperation to find something tangible to hold on to, she extended her right hand toward the Duke. She did not have to look. He was so close. She reached her coat sleeve with her fingertips, and then her fingers slid down to his palm. This time, it was she who closed her fingers around the calloused ones of his solid grip.

This time, she held on to him tightly, no longer caring what it meant to do so. Why would she reach out to her enemy at all?

Because there was no one else to reach out to.

Nine

“He did not comfort me,” Rosamund complained, because complaining seemed to be easier than explaining the rough tumble of emotions inside of her.

Her voice seemed too loud and too defensive in the otherwise quiet sanctuary of Rosewood Cottage. Minutes ago, she had slammed the front door behind her, leaving it groaning. She had thrown off her bonnet instead of removing it properly, the ribbons tangling in her hair. Soon, wild strands escaped and gave her a frightful halo.

Alice watched her from the armchair closest to the hearth. She had her embroidery hoop in her lap, as usual. Her fingers worked the stretched linen with skill that required no focus. Her eyes were already on Rosamund, ready to listen. Sometimes, Rosamund felt guilty about unburdening herself to her friend quite often. Alice’s blue eyes were always far too perceptive, in Rosamund’s opinion. She sometimes wondered if her friend understood her better than she did.

Her friend’s eyes traveled down her clothes, likely noting the mud at the hem of her skirts and the way everything looked lopsided. There was that fierce flush that warmed Rosamund’s cheeks. She was aware that she must look like a fright, after crying in Henry’s old room and pushing the Duke away, only to clutch at his hand.

It was quite a shame!

“All right then,” Alice said. “I did not ask you whether he comforted you or not, Rosamund, but I believe there must be something about it that you want to tell me about him, and why you are expecting your enemy and rival to comfort you.”

“I - I only meant,” Rosamund fumbled, feeling defensive as she yanked free of her shawl. “You may want to know about my visit to Ashbourne Hall. It was much better than I thought it would be. The housekeeper was civil. All right, she was more than civil! She was quite friendly, which was wholly unexpected, and made it difficult to behave appropriately.”

“Appropriately?” Alice asked, raising her eyebrow.

“Truly. I had a whole plan in my mind for when she becomes mean to me, Alice. Then, she was nice!”

Rosamund suspected that Alice was trying not to laugh. The girl’s nose and lips were twitching as if she were about to sneeze.

“Are you going to tell what happened there? You were gone for hours, Rosamund. You walked to Ashbourne Hall, terrified of what the Duke’s intentions were. You believed he was about to do something terrible or show you something that would cause you pain, and perhaps he did, because I can see tear streaks on your face.”

“It was damp outside,” Rosamund lied, even as she approached the wall mirror. The sight of her face horrified her. She was pale except for appalling red patches on her cheeks, the very image of a woman who had cried herself into exhaustion. Her hair was in disarray, as if ten bandits had attacked her on the way home.

“Still, there is something different about you,” Alice mused, “and I am not talking about how you look like you have just survived a storm.”

“Nothing is different about me,” Rosamund insisted, even though the whole Ashbourne Hall experience that afternoon made her think so differently about the Duke, even if she could not fully admit it to herself.

“Yet, you return to Rosewood Cottage claiming that the Duke did not comfort you,” Alice said patiently. “Did you expect him to? Was that what you truly needed?”

Rosamund could not understand herself. Perhaps she needed some assurance from the man who took her family’s estate that he was a good man and that he intended to keep Ashbourne Hall the way it was at the moment…forever.

Perhaps it was too much to ask.

She had grabbed his hand, seeking comfort, and was ashamed that the truth in that moment overpowered the lie she was telling her dear friend, Alice. It was wrong. So wrong.