One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  She stood and crossed the room. Her tall, delectably rounded figure was every bit as fine as in his dream. “In the ape costume, anyone can play that role. In fact, Calvin, our ticket collector, is doing it tonight.” She ladled soup into a deep bowl. “We didn’t want to leave you to the care of a stranger.”

  “You’re all so kind,” he said, wishing for stronger words.

  “It’s no more than you deserve.” She handed him the bowl and a spoon. “After all, you saved Brian’s life and very nearly lost your own in the process. You’re a hero.”

  He took a spoonful of the soup. Beef and vegetable, very tasty. “Not at all. When I got a good look at the river, I almost turned around and got back on my horse.”

  “But you didn’t,” she said, her great dark eyes glowing with warmth. “To be afraid and risk your life anyhow makes you even more of a hero in my eyes.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, knowing that her admiration was misplaced. It had been no great thing to risk a life that might be measured in months.

  She poured some soup into a cup and took a chair near the bed. “By the way, your horse is stabled here at the inn.” Her expressive eyes sparkled with humor. “Every man who sees the beast admires your taste in horseflesh. Your baggage is over in the corner. I’m afraid your boots will never be the same, but Jeremiah, our expert on leather, is drying them out. He says they’ll be quite wearable by tomorrow.”

  Stephen shrugged. Since he’d always been able to buy anything he wanted, belongings meant very little to him—except for his horse. Jupiter was a friend, not a possession.

  “Is there anyone you would like us to notify about your accident, Mr. Ashe?” Rosalind’s glance went to her steaming cup of soup. “Surely your wife and family are worried about you.”

  He thought of his staff at Ashburton Abbey. A single note that he had been injured would bring a dozen worried people down on his head. He could summon family or friends with equal ease. But there was no one who would really miss him. “Thank you, but I’m not expected home at any particular time. And I’m not Mr. Ashe.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “What should I call you?”

  He started to answer, then closed his mouth. The moment he identified himself as the Duke of Ashburton, this friendly intimacy would be over. If Rosalind Jordan was venal, she’d try to crawl into his bed again in the hope of gaining some advantage by seducing a duke. If she was the sunny, straightforward woman she seemed, she would probably be intimidated by his rank. She would become very formal, perhaps leave in confusion.

  He looked at her warm eyes and could not bear for that to happen. “My Christian name is Stephen,” he said. “After all, you said I should call you Rosalind.”

  “Very well.” She cocked her head to one side. “Stephen Ashe?”

  He considering telling the truth, that his family name was Kenyon, but then he would have to explain the “Ash” that he had mumbled, and the monogrammed As on some of his possessions. Easier simply to nod and change the subject. “So you’re a Fitzgerald daughter. Is Mr. Jordan part of the company?”

  She sighed, some of her brightness fading. “He was once, but that was a long time ago. He’s been dead for years.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Stephen said, trying to sound sincere when his real reaction was pleasure. So Lady Caliban was a widow. A lovely, unconventional widow who wasn’t the least upset at lying down by a stranger and wakening to his kiss.

  Mention of her husband brought Rosalind to her feet. “I should be letting you rest. Since you’re doing so well, I’ll go to my own room. Do you need anything before I leave?”

  Suppressing the improper answer that came to mind, he asked, “Will the company be leaving Redminster tomorrow?”

  “No, the town is larger than Fletchfield. We’ll stay for several days.” She smiled. “We even have a fairly decent theater in the assembly room of the Royal George.”

  “Why don’t you stay at the Royal George? Would playgoers pester members of the company?”

  “Perhaps, but the real reason is that we can’t afford the rates there,” she said cheerfully as she left the room. “I’ll see you in the morning, Stephen.”

  After the door closed, he got cautiously to his feet. More dizziness, but it passed quickly. He went to his luggage across the room, feeling every bruise he’d acquired in the river, and dug out Blackmer’s jar of pills. He’d been taking the medication faithfully, despite its limited usefulness. At least tonight opium would help his throbbing head. He tipped two pills into his hand and washed them down with water.

  Then he returned to his bed, shaky enough to appreciate lying down again. Yet he drifted toward sleep in a surprisingly good mood.

  After seeing The Tempest, he had decided that he didn’t want either a wife or the synthetic passion of a courtesan. That was easy to say when desire was dormant. But now it had returned in full flood. Perhaps it would be possible to bed a warm, attractive woman who was worldly and unconventional enough to take a love affair lightly. Was Rosalind Jordan such a woman? He wanted to think so.

  God, how he wanted to think so.

  Rosalind was grateful to return to her room and find that her sister hadn’t yet returned from the performance. She sank onto the bed, her hand pressing to her mouth.

  As she and Jessica had both noticed even during a performance, Stephen Ashe was…very attractive. And not only because he was tall and strong and handsome. She’d been right to see passion in his features when he was unconscious. In fact, she would be willing to wager that under his facade of light, ironic detachment was a character of Shakespearean complexity. Passion and hidden fires. Dark, compelling currents that contained—what? Anger, sorrow, desire? A decisive Hamlet, a man of natural authority. Yet at the same time, he had a gentle courtesy that she found immensely appealing.

  Plus, of course, he kissed very well. Part of her wished they had stayed longer in that hazy, unreal state between waking and sleeping. In his arms she had felt warm. Secure. Desired. And just a little bit alarmed.

  Firmly she told herself that she was letting her imagination run away with her. She and Mr. Ashe were strangers to each other, and she found him intriguing mostly because he was different from anyone else she’d ever met.

  Her vagabond life meant that she knew mostly actors and other volatile sorts. Not that she didn’t adore her father and many of the other actors she’d met over the years, but she’d sworn never to marry such a man again. Charles Jordan had been blindingly handsome and, when he chose, utterly charming. He had also been dishonest and unreliable, and he had overrated his acting ability.

  She chuckled at the last thought and lay back across the bed. Obviously she was enough of a Fitzgerald to rate bad acting as a character flaw.

  Yet she was different from the other Fitzgeralds. The mysterious parents she could not remember had left their mark on her, both physically and mentally. The rest of her adoptive family seemed content with their nomadic existence, but Rosalind often looked at the homes she passed and wondered what it would be like to live in one for always. She talked to men like Stephen Ashe and realized how refreshing it was not to have to deal with an artistic temperament. Sometimes she daydreamed about being married to a good-natured country squire and creating a home and family.

  She released her breath in a sigh. Though her dreams were not outrageous, she might as well be wishing for a castle on the moon and a knight in shining armor. The harsh truth was that she was probably incapable of having children, and she never stayed in one place long enough to form a relationship with the sort of man who attracted her.

  Besides, if she ever did meet a solid, respectable gentleman like that, he’d think her a wicked actress. The thought made her laugh, since she was neither wicked nor much of an actress. Nor was Stephen Ashe a jolly country squire by any stretch of the imagination.

  Laughter was better than the knowledge that the most interesting man she’d ever met would be gone in a day or two, and she’d n
ever have a chance to know him.

  Chapter 5

  Day Eighty-one

  Stephen was almost asleep when the first pains seared through his stomach. He came to full wakefulness instantly, dreading what would come next. The heat flared into paralyzing agony as he stumbled from bed. Luckily Rosalind had left a candle burning.

  He made it to the chamber pot just before a violent, prolonged attack of retching purged his stomach and left him panting on the floor, skin clammy and heart pounding. Christ, how could he have been thinking about initiating an affair with a woman when he couldn’t trust his own body?

  He pushed himself to a sitting position and wiped his sweaty face with a nightshirted forearm as he grimly forced himself to face the truth. Until now he had not fully accepted that he was dying. Deep inside he’d believed that there must be some kind of mistake. He was the Duke of Ashburton and in the prime of life. Surely he could not be mortally ill. But after tonight’s attack, he could no longer believe that. He was dying. There would be no special exceptions made for him.

  Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful. He smiled bitterly as he thought of Donne’s words. He hated knowing that eventually he would surely suffer one of these humiliating episodes in public. The Duke of Ashburton would show himself as a spewing, pathetic wreck of a man. Interesting how illness had brought him face-to-face with his particular sin of pride.

  Though he’d never felt the need to flaunt his wealth and lineage, he was learning that he despised showing weakness. The fact that his illness would soon be visible to the world would doubtless give him a valuable lesson in humility, but he was in no hurry to learn it. The longer he could delay the inevitable, the better. He’d return to the abbey as soon as he was strong enough to ride. There the sight of his failing body would be limited to his servants. As few of them as possible.

  He lurched to his feet, gut burning and far dizzier than he had been earlier. It would be futile to take more opium pills—he’d never be able to keep them down. But he needed something for his terrible thirst. Thankfully he remembered the milk sent by the landlady. It came cool and fresh from a small pitcher. He sipped slowly at first, drinking more deeply when the milk began to settle his ravaged stomach. He’d always had an unfashionable taste for milk, and his consumption had trebled since his illness set in.

  After emptying the pitcher, he lay down and dragged the covers over his shivering body. This time when he drifted into restless sleep, there were no pleasant dreams.

  Stephen awoke to morning sunshine and gray resignation. His thoughts about Rosalind Jordan the previous night had been more than a little fevered. The most she could ever be to him was a fantasy. He had too much consideration and—admit it—pride, to become involved with a woman when his future consisted of decay and death.

  He wearily got out of bed, weak and dizzy and head aching. Yet overall he didn’t feel really wretched. Tomorrow or the next day he’d be ready to go home.

  He glanced into the mirror over the washbasin and winced at the sight of his face. Between beard, bandage, and bruises, he looked like a ruffian. He went to his luggage for his razor. After shaving, he removed the bandage and examined the gash in his scalp. The doctor had shaved the area around it and neatly stitched the wound up. Since there was no sign of bleeding or infection, Stephen applied a piece of sticking plaster and combed his hair over the bare spot. The change in hairstyle made him look faintly rakish, but at least it disguised his injury.

  Then he dressed. As Rosalind had said, his boots were quite wearable, though his valet would have thrown them out immediately. But Stephen Ashe was not a duke and had no need to maintain impeccable standards. The knowledge was rather liberating.

  The routine of washing and dressing improved his mood. Since his stomach was feeling reasonably steady, he went downstairs in search of breakfast. The Three Crowns was the sort of modest, clean establishment he’d become acquainted with on this journey. At the bottom of the steps he paused. Thomas Fitzgerald’s resonant voice could be heard behind a door on the right. The family must be breakfasting in a private parlor.

  He could eat alone, of course, but he was tired of being alone and didn’t feel that another attack was imminent. He tapped on the door and entered when Maria called permission. All five Fitzgeralds were seated around the breakfast table. They were an attractive family, though it was interesting how different Rosalind looked from all her dark-haired, blue-eyed kin.

  Stephen’s entrance was met by a moment of utter silence. Then pandemonium broke out as everyone but Rosalind rose and converged on the newcomer. Even the lanky wolfhound emerged from under the table and loped forward.

  Maria Fitzgerald reached Stephen first. Clasping his hand to her bountiful bosom, she said in a rich, emotional voice, “Rosalind has told us all about you, Mr. Ashe. Bless you for saving my baby’s life. I vow before God that from now on, my life is yours to do with as you choose.”

  Stephen stared at the tears trembling in her great blue eyes, bemused by two simultaneous thoughts. One was that Maria was surely a very fine tragic actress. The other was that under her dramatic manner, she was completely sincere. If he said that he wanted to take her life, she would have handed him a pistol.

  Gently he disengaged his hand. “I did only what any man might, Mrs. Fitzgerald. And I can think of no better use of your life than the one to which you are putting it.”

  That elicited a booming laugh from Thomas Fitzgerald, who took hold of Stephen’s newly freed hand and pumped it energetically. “Well said, Mr. Ashe. But I must tell you that I share my wife’s sentiments completely.” He gave an affectionate glance at his son, who stood beside him. “Brian here is a rare scamp, but we would have missed him sadly.”

  Jessica Fitzgerald rumpled her brother’s hair. “That we would. I quite enjoy chasing him about with my hairbrush when he’s impossible.” As Miranda in the play, she had been a stunner; as an affectionate sister, she was completely endearing.

  Flushing a little, Brian bowed and said very formally, “I am eternally indebted to you, sir. I recognize that my thoughtlessness endangered your life, and I give thanks that you took no permanent harm.”

  More than a little overwhelmed, Stephen was wondering what to say when Rosalind’s teasing voice interjected, “You’re embarrassing the poor man to death when surely what he wants most is his breakfast. A cup of tea, Mr. Ashe?”

  Gratefully he moved around her effusive family and accepted the steaming cup Rosalind held out. After a bracing swallow, he said, “Truly, you make too much of what I did. I’m glad to have been of service. Let us speak no more about it.”

  But the Fitzgeralds were not ready to drop the subject of the rescue. As Stephen served himself modest amounts of toast and coddled eggs and took a seat by Rosalind, the family began to relive the previous day’s adventure. Every reaction of shock, horror, and relief was detailed with flare and gusto.

  Though self-conscious about his prominent role in the drama, Stephen was also fascinated. A scene more different from his own childhood meals would be hard to imagine. The Fitzgeralds were a family, not merely a collection of people connected by blood and fortune. Every member was secure in the knowledge of being loved and accepted; in return, they rendered respect and affection to the others.

  The only person who didn’t join in the cheerful babble was Rosalind. Quietly she made sure everyone was well served, even the dog. Stephen sensed that if each Fitzgerald had a role in the family, she was the bright, still center.

  He also received other, more subtle impressions, like the faint scent of rosewater that perfumed the air when she turned her head. And the almost inaudible rustle of her skirts when she got up to ring for a fresh pot of tea. Though he tried not to look at her, he could not recollect when he had been so acutely aware of a woman’s presence.

  When Rosalind returned to her seat, she paused a moment to examine the wound on his head. The touch of her fingertips when she brushed back his hair w
as subtly erotic. “This is healing well, Mr. Ashe,” she remarked, “but you look rather drawn. I hope you’ll stay in Redminster at least another day. Travel might aggravate your injury.”

  “The name is Stephen, if you’ll recall. And yes, I intend to stay at least until tomorrow.”

  She smiled with a warmth that struck to his heart. “Very good, Stephen.”

  “You are my guest for as long as you are at the Three Crowns,” Thomas said emphatically. “Feel free to fill a hip bath with champagne if you wish.”

  Stephen felt a twinge of guilt at accepting the hospitality of a man who could probably ill afford it when he himself could buy the inn from pocket change. But he must allow the older man to express his gratitude. He had learned that from observing the effects of his father’s sometimes oppressive charity. “That would be a criminal waste of champagne. Perhaps later I shall order drinks for everyone in the taproom instead.”

  “By all means,” the older man said. “I shall take the opportunity to propose a toast to your long life and good health.”

  The words brought a sharp jolt of reality. No toast would provide Stephen with either life or health. Appetite gone, he got to his feet. “I think I’ll go to the stables to see how Jupiter is faring.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Brian volunteered.

  “You have lessons to do, young man,” his mother said firmly. “And Thomas, you and Jessica are due at the theater for rehearsal. Rose, why don’t you take Mr. Ashe to the stables, then bring him to the Royal George later?” Maria halted, adding a little shyly, “That is, if you’d like to see our theater troupe at close hand.”

  “There is nothing I’d like better,” Stephen said truthfully. He’d been backstage at several regular theaters but had no experience of strolling players. Visiting this troupe would be a pleasant distraction.