“If you’re leaving for Christmas too, London will be practically bare.” Rose’s eyes widened and glistened. “Honestly, Papa, we should leave, too. The weather is going to be atrocious and it’s never as bad in Kent.”
“I don’t intend to keep you here if you don’t wish to stay but I need your mother here as long as possible. We are holding an important dinner next week.”
“And the boys aren’t expecting us to pick them up from school until the week before Christmas,” Mrs. Darnell added, placing a velvet cushion behind her back.
“If I went earlier I could get the house prepared for you all when you come.” Rose leaned forward in her chair, her gaze fixed on her mother.
“That would be delightful—”
“And Sir Ian might allow me space in his carriage.” Rose sat back and sent him a challenging glance.
Ian glanced sideways at her. “I would, of course, were I not planning on driving the curricle,” he said an even voice.
“Oh, Ian, do you think that is wise?” Mrs. Darnell took her gaze from Rose and showed Ian a creased forehead. “Snow is expected. You might end up with a chill, and that would ruin Christmas for your dear family.”
“I expect Rose would be bored, stuck in a carriage with me for two days.” He kept his tone polite, but the idea of being shut inside a carriage with her appalled him. He would be perpetually cross-legged and she would want to talk about the balls, and routs, and dinners that she was missing, or which of her suitors was the most amusing.
Rose offered him a flawlessly beautiful glance, using a demure lowering of her eyelashes. “I could take my embroidery. But, of course, if you think you would be bored having to sit with me for two days ...”
“Not at all,” he said, meshing his fingers together and resting them in his lap, trying to concentrate on the Lord being his shepherd. “The boot would be on the other foot. You would be bored.”
“Not if I am reading a book. So, that’s settled then,” she said with a melting smile. “Papa, should you reserve two rooms at The Traveler’s Rest for us? That’s where we usually stay during the journey,” she said to Ian.
“I’ll send ahead,” her father said in a wary voice. “Rose, dear, are you sure?”
“You would need to take a maid with you.” Her mother sounded worried.
“Of course, Mama. I’m sure Bess would be delighted to see her family.”
Her mother scratched the back her neck. “I’m sure she would, dear, but we have so much winter packing to do, that I can’t spare her at the moment. I would rather send her later with our baggage, if you don’t mind.”
“I know I can manage without her,” Rose answered, surprised. “ I’m sure The Traveler’s Rest will have a maid I can use.”
“Unfortunately, I shall have to make sure I arrive home before the snow sets in. The coach not being as fast as the curricle, I would need to leave by six in the morning,” Ian said sympathetically, certain that idle Rose couldn’t meet his deadline.
“Oh, what a good idea,” Rose said in a happy voice. “I think I should be out the front with my boxes before six, don’t you? It might take a few minutes to load me on.”
“If she isn’t out the front by six, Ian, go without her. I’ve never known her to open her eyes before seven, even in summer,” her realistic father said. “She can leave with her mother and the boys next week.”
But beautiful Rose did no more than smile prettily. “Since Sir Ian will have to change his mode of transport to accommodate me, I wouldn’t be so inconsiderate as to hold him up.”
He decided he would arrive at five forty-five and if he saw no lights in the house, he would leave a note to say he had gone.
Having Rose all to himself for two days meant he would need to take enough work to keep his mind occupied. His faked disinterest in her would be exposed as the sham it was if she noticed how easily she could distract him.
CHAPTER TWO
As soon as Sir Ian left, Rose raced up to her room. She had two full days with her elusive hero. At last she had a chance to prove she was a suitable wife for him.
At times she had seen a certain look in his hazel eyes, one of restrained amusement, which she could assume might be awareness, but whenever she had flirted with him, or tried to, he turned away. In a carriage, although he could still turn away, she would soon see if he honestly had no interest in her. If he didn’t begin to show some attraction to her during that time, he wouldn’t ever, and she could finally give up on him.
She blinked away her blurry vision as she began to examine her gowns, deciding which would be the easiest to manage without the assistance of a maid: a gown that would not need pressing or help with the lacing when they stopped at the inn for the night. At the thought of managing to undress without help, her mind flitted back to Sir Ian, a natural progression for a woman who thought of little else. Times without number she had imagined being held in his arms, gripped hard against him for a long, deep kiss. On the very few occasions she had managed to trap him into a Quadrille, the clasp of his fingers had caused her entire body to yearn.
She doubted he shared the same thoughts about her, but she knew from the first young man who had insisted he loved her, that her body enticed him more than her soul. If she thought the sight of any part of her person would entice Sir Ian, she needed to be prepared to bare a shoulder or show more than a hint of her breasts. Her plan was to try her hardest to lure Sir Ian. If she saw the slightest response, she would lean into him when the coach rounded corners, or reach across him for reasons she would need to invent. She would use every single feminine lack of subtlety she could devise.
If she had to go as far as compromising herself, she would. This could be her only chance to make her life her own. She would eventually have to marry. Not being blessed with Win’s fortitude, Rose knew she could never cope with the life of a spinster. Her parents had a wonderful relationship, and Mama had told her that she had chosen Papa long before he had noticed her.
Mama would certainly approve of Sir Ian as Rose’s choice. Papa respected him as much as he respected any man. Rose had a small inheritance herself but Sir Ian was extremely wealthy, having inherited a substantial estate from his father, the late Duke of Templeton. She wouldn’t change a thing about him, not even his altruism. Accustomed to a household that ran on political lines, she had the experience and contacts Sir Ian needed in a wife. Her parents constantly entertained, not only British legislators but also overseas dignitaries. She would be instituting a successful alliance, if only he would look past her age.
Her maid, Bess, tapped on the door and slid into the room. “I hear I’m needed to help you pack, Miss Rose.”
“I have enough winter gowns at home to last me until you bring the rest, but I shall want something warm and comfortable to wear during the journey, something that won’t be too hard for me to put on by myself.”
“I told your mother I could pack and be ready to go in an instant but she said she needed me here. But don’t worry, Miss Rose. You’ll have help at the inn. You only need to ask.”
“Of course,” Rose answered without glancing at her maid. “If I could have the green woolen gown with the pinafore front left out to wear ...”
“Yes, Miss. But I will certainly be here in the morning to dress you before you go. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you to style your own hair. I wonder what your mother wants with me while you’re away?”
Mama had surprised Rose with her strange order. “Packing, she said.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. If we are leaving next week, we will have plenty to do here. I will need to pack the rest of your winter gowns if you are not planning to return, soon.”
“I don’t have any set plans, yet, Bess. This one turned out to be convenient since Sir Ian is leaving tomorrow. I may as well go now as next week. I’ll have the house spic and span, and ready for when Mama and Papa and the boys arrive.”
Rose had told enough half-truths to last her for a year. If she
told any more, her head would spin off her shoulders, but this was her one chance and she would be a fool not to use the opportunity. Her pleasure in Sir Ian’s company, her willingness to fit into any of his plans, and her ability to make him comfortable could well impress him enough to finally notice she would be a perfect match for him.
She slept fitfully that night, terrified she might not wake in time, but Bess, as promised, lit her lamp at five in the morning. Hastily, but carefully dressed, Rose supervised the footman’s placing of her trunk at the front of the house. The carriage pulled up early and her trunk was loaded while she stepped outside in the dark. A flare had been lit in the sconces beside the front door. In the white light of the waning moon, with the aid of Sir Ian’s groom, she stepped into the carriage.
“Good morning,” she said in a hushed whisper to Sir Ian who was barely visible in the corner. His hat sat squarely on his head, and his kidskin gloves gleamed in the dark. “Fortunately, I was ready early or this would have been a mad rush.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he answered in a disgruntled tone. “It won’t be light for another couple of hours. I hope you don’t mind if I sleep until then.”
“Not at all. I think it would be very efficient. As long as you don’t snore. If you do, I will have to tickle your nose with a feather. That’s what Mama does when Papa snores in the carriage.”
“In that case, I shall do my utmost not to snore.”
Satisfied, for she thought snoring would be most unromantic, she snuggled into her fur-lined cloak, quietly occupying her corner. He settled back and didn’t quite snore, but he breathed like a person who slept. With nothing to engage her mind, she closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, the grey morning light streamed in through the windows.
She angled her gaze to Sir Ian who was slouched hatless in his seat, his dark hair gleaming against the backdrop of the rising sun, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His slumberous gaze met hers. She offered a smile. He returned a faint facsimile. Drawing her capacious bag toward her, she tried ignoring him, but heavens! She had never been alone with him in such a confined space, which his masculine presence managed to fill. Her breath shortened as she groped for her tiny book of seventeenth century poems. She honestly did read a few, but at all times, she was aware of sitting close enough to touch a large, handsome man. “‘Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, to war and arms I fly.’ That’s so sad.”
“What’s sad about it? The poor man wants to leave a dead bore and join the army.”
“Which particular dead bore did you want to leave?” she asked sweetly. “‘True, a new mistress now I chase ...’”
“‘A sword, a horse, and a shield,’ is what that particular man was determined to pursue.”
“Poetry is awfully annoying. You find a good quote about mistresses and it gets messed up by the next line.”
“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more,’” he quoted in a thoughtful voice. He glanced away. “I hope we are not planning on discussing mistresses because I doubt your parents would approve.”
“Possibly not.” The trotting horses had slowed. She glanced out the window at the dark tree trunks outside, few with green canopies. Snow covered the few leaves. A handful of fat snowflakes drifted by the window. The sky had lowered into a billowing white canvas with a distant shadowing of gray, the winter blue now only a hushed memory. The flakes melted as they hit the ground.
Perhaps the air had chilled, but at least her cape kept her snug and warm. “This is good travelling weather.”
“It’s good for us, because we live in luxury, but many others are not so fortunate. For a start, my coachman and groom.” Sir Ian reached across to the forward seat, grabbed a small lap desk, and sat with the polished box on his knee.
Her cheeks warmed. “Well, I’m sure you don’t intend to torture them.”
“Do you suggest we stop?”
Her common sense warred with her need to think of others. “Not unless the weather worsens and we can find shelter. I’m not sure where we are, as it is. When did the snow start falling?”
“Not long ago.”
“We shouldn’t need to stop unless we can see snow settling on the road. It’s too early in the year for snow, let alone heavy snow.” As she spoke, the flakes began to adhere to the window seal of the carriage.
The coachman sped up the horses into a trot. A few miles passed while snow continued to fall. Rose couldn’t see any landmarks that she might recognize through the white drifts. Sir Ian seemed absorbed in his papers, which every now and again, he marked with a pencil. Clearly he didn’t want conversation, and she sat silent while the hot brick beneath her feet cooled. The horses gait changed to a plod.
Sir Ian leaned his head back against the squab and pulled his fob watch from his coat pocket. The light reflected into the coach emphasized the chiseled perfection of his cheekbones and his jaw, and the determined tilt of his mouth. “Almost midday. I’m sure you would like a hot meal. We will stop at the next coaching inn.”
She nodded, but since he glanced back at his papers and not at her, she decided not to try another conversation. The clouds lowered and outside the silence grew. A person with a fanciful mind would hear echoes in each of the hoof-beats. The snow continued to drift lightly down and a few houses appeared close to the road, signaling that a village would soon be reached. Finally the driver turned off the main road, and pulled the coach into a slushy paved yard. A small inn with a swinging sign loomed close to the window. With a jingling of tack, the carriage creaked to a halt. The horses stamped and made wuffling sounds.
The outside of the inn promised a warm welcome, with smoke rising from three or four chimneys.
“Apparently we are about to try the cuisine in the Pig and Piper.” Sir Ian offered a brief, polite smile, and placed his hat squarely on head. He swung open the door and helped her out.
CHAPTER THREE
Sir Ian escorted Rose into a small vestibule with muddy boot-prints marking the floor to the taproom. He rang the bell set beside the doorway, while she noted the faded leaf pattern in pink and brown on the wallpaper. To her right ran a dimly lit corridor that led to a plain set of wooden stairs, behind which lurked another four or five doorways. Within a minute, the red-cheeked host arrived from the taproom, wiping his hands on a towel that hung from the waistband of his saggy breeches.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said with an anxious smile on his face. A lock of thin gray hair hung over his sweaty forehead. “How may I have the honor of servin’ you?”
“My lady and I require a luncheon in a private room.” Sir Ian used his polite, impartial voice, the one that he so often used on Rose. “My driver and my groom will also want a good hearty meal, as soon as the horses have been watered.”
The man bowed from the waist. Sir Ian’s orders were always obeyed, not because of his charm—though this showed in his smile, but because of his clear ability to take control in every situation. Rose had previously noticed that a single off-hand sentence from Sir Ian had caused one of her younger suitors to be brought to his side, a slave for life. “I can make space in the taproom for your servants, sir. And a private room for your lovely wife?” For a moment the man appeared at a loss. “We have a small parlor, sir, but as to private ...” His gaze deviated for a moment and his shaggy eyebrows drew down. “Who let that filthy cat in here? Susie,” he yelled in a panicked counter tenor.
Rose turned her head and glanced down at a carefully folded, tiny black cat shivering by her skirts. Her sympathy caught in an instant, she reached down to the miserable little bundle. Her wet fur was coated with snow and she weighed about as much as two feathers. A high-pitched hiss came from the animal, which didn’t appear large enough to make such an impressive noise. In the middle of her lip-curling, she stared at Rose, frowned, and stopped.
“Sorry, my lady. I’ll get someone to drown the filthy creature.�
�
Instead of asking the cat’s name and upbraiding the host for not feeding the wretched little stray, Rose said in the haughty tone she used to her suitors who tried to be too familiar with her, “I beg your pardon. You will certainly not drown my darling cat.”
“That there cat’s been hanging around for days now,” the man said, his voice indignant. “I can’t have an animal like that in a place where people eat and drink.”
Rose slid an eyebrow-raised smile at the melting puddles of snow and mud on the floor and then back at him. “I think you must be confusing my lovely spoiled cat with another. Puss, you naughty girl. You know you must stay in the carriage.” The cat struggled harder, an expression of outrage on her little face. “I expect she was trying to remind me that she hasn’t had her dish of milk this morning. Bring one for her when you bring our meal, and a few scraps of raw meat. She’s been ill, you know, and has barely eaten in the past few days.”
The host’s jaw dropped. He stared at Sir Ian, who glanced sideways at her, as if contemplating a new snuff. Then, apparently deciding to go along with her, he turned a bland face to the host. “I’m sure the cat won’t inconvenience anyone.”
The man’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir, follow me, sir.”
He walked crabwise in front of them and led the way to a room behind them, bowing the whole way while Rose smiled about suddenly becoming Sir Ian’s ‘lovely wife.’
He opened the door onto an area furnished with a rough wooden table, four uncomfortable looking chairs, and two saggy armchairs placed either side of a sparse fire. He clasped his hands together, assessing Rose’s fur-lined cloak, and then pricing her pearl necklace. “We serve plain but fillin’ meals here. Nothing but. I must consult the cook as to what we can present to you, but apart from meat pies, I reckon my mis ... cook will be able to rustle up a stew and a dish of vegetables.”
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