And somehow this made her feel even worse.
I will make this up to you, she vowed.
She would earn his forgiveness.
But it was becoming more and more difficult to imagine how that might be possible. Edward’s ironclad sense of honor—the very thing that had convinced her that she could not reveal her lie before they met with Major Wilkins—meant that she was caught in a new dilemma.
In his eyes, he had compromised her.
They might not be sharing a bed, but they were sharing a bedroom. Once Edward learned that she was not actually his wife, he would insist upon marrying her. He was above all a gentleman, and his gentleman’s honor would never allow him to do otherwise.
And while Cecilia could not stop herself from dreaming—just a little bit—about a life as Mrs. Edward Rokesby, how could she live with herself if she trapped him into marriage in truth?
He would resent her. No, he would hate her.
No, he wouldn’t hate her, but he would never forgive her.
She sighed. He was never going to forgive her, regardless.
“Cecilia?”
She startled. “You’re awake.”
Edward gave her a sleepy smile. “Barely.”
Cecilia stood and crossed the short distance to the bed. Edward had fallen asleep fully clothed, but about an hour into his nap she’d thought he looked uncomfortable and had removed his cravat. It was a testament to the laudanum that he’d barely stirred when she’d done so.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He frowned, and Cecilia thought it a good sign that he had to think about it. “Better,” he said, then corrected himself with a little twist of his lips. “Improved.”
“Are you hungry?”
He had to think about that one too. “Yes, although I’m not sure if food would sit well in my stomach.”
“Try some broth,” she said. She stood and picked up the small tureen she’d fetched from the kitchen ten minutes earlier. “It’s still warm.”
He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Did I sleep long?”
“About three hours. The laudanum worked quickly.”
“Three hours,” he murmured, sounding surprised. His brow furrowed as he blinked a few times.
“Are you trying to decide if your head still hurts?” Cecilia asked with a smile.
“No,” he answered plainly. “It definitely still hurts.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so she just added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s different, though.”
She set the tureen on the table next to the bed and sat beside him. “Different?”
“Less piercing, I think. More of a dull ache.”
“Surely that must be an improvement.”
He touched his temple lightly and murmured, “I think so.”
“Do you need assistance?” Cecilia asked, motioning to the soup.
He gave her a hint of a smile. “I can manage, although a spoon might be helpful.”
“Oh!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m so sorry. Do you know, I think they forgot to give me one.”
“No matter. I can just drink it.” He raised the tureen to his lips and took a sip.
“Good?” Cecilia asked when he let out a satisfied sigh.
“Quite. Thank you for getting it.”
She waited for him to take a few more sips, then said, “You really do look better than you did at the meeting with Major Wilkins.” Then it occurred to her that he might think she was trying to talk him into taking her to Haarlem sooner rather than later, so she added, “Not well enough to head north tomorrow, though.”
He seemed to find that amusing. “Maybe the next day.”
“Probably not then, either,” she admitted. She let out a breath. “I have had time to reflect upon our meeting with Major Wilkins. He said that he would make inquiries at the Haarlem infirmary. I still wish to visit myself, but for now, that is enough.” She swallowed, and she wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to reassure when she said, “I will be patient.”
What other choice did she have?
He set the soup on the table and took her hand. “I want to find Thomas as much as you do.”
“I know.” Cecilia looked down at their entwined fingers. It was odd how well they seemed to fit together. His hands were large and square, his skin tanned and rough from work. And hers—well, they were no longer so white and delicate, but she took pride in her newfound calluses. They seemed to say that she was capable, that she could take control of her own destiny. She saw strength in her hands, strength she had not known she possessed.
“We will find him,” Edward said.
She looked up. “We might not.”
His eyes, almost navy blue in the fading light, settled on hers.
“I must be realistic,” she said.
“Realistic, yes,” he said, “but not fatalistic.”
“No.” She managed a little smile. “I’m not that.”
Not yet, anyway.
They did not speak for a few moments, and the silence, which began as something companionable, grew heavy and awkward as Cecilia realized that Edward was trying to figure out the best way to broach an uncomfortable topic. Finally, after clearing his throat several times, he said, “I would like to know more about our marriage.”
Her heart stopped. She’d known this was coming, but still, for a brief moment she could not breathe.
“I do not question your word,” he said. “You are Thomas’s sister, and I hope you will not judge me as too forward if I tell you that I have long felt that I know you from your letters to him.”
She had to look away.
“But I would like to know how it all came about.”
Cecilia swallowed. She’d had several days to come up with a story, but thinking about a lie wasn’t the same as saying it out loud. “It was Thomas’s wish,” she told him. This much was true, or at least she assumed it was. Surely her brother would want to see his dearest friend marry his sister. “He was worried about me,” she added.
“Because of your father’s death?”
“He does not know of that,” Cecilia answered honestly. “But I know that he has long been concerned about my future.”
“He had said as much to me,” Edward confirmed.
She looked up in surprise. “He did?”
“Forgive me. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but Thomas had intimated that your father was less concerned with your future than he was with his present.”
Cecilia swallowed. Her father had been a good man, but also a fundamentally selfish one. Still, she’d loved him. And she’d known that he’d loved her to the best of his ability. “I brought comfort to my father’s life,” she said, picking her words as if walking through a field of flowers. There had been good times too, and these were what she wished to gather into a bouquet. “And he gave me purpose.”
Edward had been watching her closely as she spoke, and when she chanced a look in his eyes she saw something she thought was pride. Mixed for certain with skepticism. He saw through her words, but he admired her for saying them.