While she slept, he tried to read Cooper’s Grammatica, but he had difficulty focusing on the page in front of him. He couldn’t believe how rapidly her health had taken a turn for the worse. One day she’d been glowing and happy, and the next... He was no doctor, but he’d lay odds she’d taken a chill in that wretched cottage in the estate village. It had been cold, dark and cramped. He’d congratulated himself that by marrying Rosalie he’d rescued her, saving her from her dissolute uncle. Instead, he’d brought her to Lyningthorp only to expose her to some pestilential influence. Yes, he’d thought he was doing a good deed, offering her his name and his home, but now—now he didn’t know how he felt about their marriage. How noble could it be to wait until he’d told Rosalie about his past before consummating their marriage, if he was so selfishly determined to hang on to her regard that he refused to confess? One minute he was wishing for her sake that they’d never gone through with the wedding, and the next he wanted nothing more than a chance to start over.
