No, it was thoughts of Flora. Her worry about his well-being, the way her hands flowed over his skin…her kiss. All he could think about was her kiss and what it meant. She said she was still angry—she deserved to be angry. But she still kissed him and his hope still soared.
There was a light knock on his door and he straightened a fraction, his heart leaping a the possibility that it could be her. “Come in,” he called out.
When the door opened, it wasn’t Flora. Callum stepped in and then leaned on the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. “You look a little better. Although those bruises are fairly horrific.”
Roarke reached up to touch his own face and winced. The way his eye felt, he was certain the bruising had extended lower than the bandage covering. Wonderful.
He forced a laugh. “If it helps, I also feel like shit.”
“Too shit to come to dinner?” Callum asked. “Because you’re invited.”
“By you?” Roarke asked, wincing when he lifted his eyebrows.
Callum shook his head slowly. “No. By Flora.”
Roarke caught his breath at the revelation, but then he shut his eyes. “I came here with nothing but my horse and the clothes on my back. Not fit for a supper gathering even if they weren’t covered in blood and dirt and likely being cleaned by your poor staff at present.”
Callum shrugged. “You can use some of my clothing. It might be a bit ill-fitting, but I doubt anyone will care, least of all Flora. And my valet can help you dress. If, that is, you actually want to try.”
Roarke stared at him. Callum wasn’t talking about trying to get dressed or trying to join the party, that was clear. He was talking about trying with Flora. Trying for a future he didn’t deserve and couldn’t see a path to, even though he desperately wanted it and her.
And yet he couldn’t refuse the chance. Couldn’t turn away from the possibility.
“Of course I’ll try,” he said, pushing the covers away from his legs and gingerly coming down from the high bed. He gripped the edge as he tested his knees. Unlike earlier in the day, they no longer felt like jelly, so that was an improvement.
“Wonderful. My valet, Bledsoe, will be up shortly with a few things for you to wear.” Callum pivoted to go and then froze and turned back. “I wasn’t going to do this, but I think I must. Are you in love with her?”
Roarke lifted his gaze to his friend and clung to the edge of the bed even tighter because the question weakened his knees now, instead of his injury. He straightened his shoulders and then nodded. “Yes.”
Callum’s eyes widened, but Roarke didn’t let him respond. He continued, “But I’ve no expectations. I will make no demands.”
Callum stepped into the chamber and shut the door behind him. He ran one hand through his hair and then he said, “My road with Valaria wasn’t easy. I understand the desperation of perhaps never getting what you desire most. You do have a great deal to prove. If you want help, I’m here.”
“Why?” Roarke burst out without thinking, and then shook his head. “I ask because I’m surprised to hear you say that after everything that transpired.”
Callum let out his breath slowly. “I can see you were between a rock and a hard place when it came to this situation. And you made mistakes. However, I think a man is defined more by how he responds to his mistakes, isn’t he? And I see how she lights up when she speaks about you. Perhaps you both deserve a second chance."
The idea that Flora still lit up when he was a topic warmed Roarke to his toes and the longing that had flared when she kissed him burned a little brighter.
“I’ll send the valet and then go tell the ladies that you’ll join us shortly.”
“Thank you,” Roarke said softly as Callum left with a wave of his hand.
He moved to the mirror above the fireplace and winced as he saw his bruised face. Saw his own hesitations and fears reflected in his eyes. But no, he had to be resolute not uncertain, because this was likely his only chance. He had to make the most of it.
CHAPTER 18
Flora was pacing the parlor, no longer capable of containing her nervousness as she awaited Roarke’s arrival. And then…he was there. He strode through the door and she pivoted, her breath gone as she looked at him in his fine clothes. They were Callum’s, but the lack of perfect fit didn’t matter one bit to her. She was still bowled over by how handsome he was.
And by how damaged. Although his head was still wrapped in the linen bandage, the bruising from the blow crept below the stark white. It was black and blue along his eyebrow and down the side and bottom of his left eye.
“Oh, Roarke,” she said as she moved toward him without a care to what the others saw when she did. She caught his hand. “Does it hurt terribly?”
He gave a half-smile that told the story before he said, “I might normally lie and tell you no, but I won’t ever lie to you again. So yes, it hurts. But it’s manageable.”
She sucked in a breath at that casual promise never to lie again. It hung between them, heavy and sweet and she found herself praying it could be true.
“You really did almost die protecting her,” Bernadette breathed as she stepped a little closer, staring at his injuries. “Thank you, Mr. Desmond.”
Valaria moved forward now and gave him the slightest of smiles. But Flora knew how much that meant. “We should go in for supper and Mr. Desmond can sit and rest.”
She took Callum’s arm and the couple led them through the door to the adjoining dining room. Bernadette smiled at Flora and then followed, leaving her alone, albeit briefly, with Roarke.
“May I take you?” he asked.
Once again her breath caught. She knew he was talking about escorting her into supper, but those weren’t the images her errant mind created. She was breathless as she said, “Yes. Please. Certainly. Yes.”
He chuckled a little at her flustered response, but then held out his elbow and together they stepped into the next room. Valaria had indicated Flora and Roarke be seated next to each other, with Roarke between her and Callum at the head of the table, Valaria across from him and Bernadette on her other side. Flora almost laughed at the absurdity that Roarke was now surrounded by her friends. But if he felt the circle tightening around him, he said nothing and simply helped her to her place and settled, slowly, into his own.
Supper began, dishes were brought, and to Flora’s relief, the night didn’t turn into an interrogation of Roarke. They talked of normal subjects: plays and books, the roads and the state of the government. It was as if her friends had decided to accept this man she cared for back into their circle for a while. And while she knew they were judging him, watching him, they weren’t trying to catch him in some trap.
It was Bernadette who broached the first difficult subject, as dessert was brought out and placed before them: a small selection of biscuits with sweet wine to dip them into. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s condition, Mr. Desmond.”
Flora watched Roarke’s response. His mouth tightened and he set a biscuit back on the small plate before him. He looked up at Bernadette. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Everyone had reverted back to formality, which Flora knew was to be expected, but she missed the easiness between them, especially with this subject.