One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  His face darkened. “I am no king, and you are no beggar maid.”

  “Close enough.” She began combing her fingers through her hair to loosen it. “A gentleman marrying an actress of dubious origin is scandalous enough—for a duke to do that is outrageous. I’ll be universally seen as a fortune hunter, and you a fool.”

  “There is nothing outrageous about our marriage,” he said sharply. “You were raised in the household of a gentleman, albeit one who decided to go on the stage. You are a lady in speech and manner and refinement—no one who knows you could think otherwise. And any man who meets you will be envious, not judge me a fool.”

  Was he being naive? Or was he so used to deference that he couldn’t see that it would not be extended to her when he was not by her side? With black humor, she thought that it was just as well their marriage would be a short one, because she would never be accepted in his world.

  But that really didn’t matter. When he was gone, she would return to her own kind. In the meantime…“What do you want of me, Stephen? What are the social obligations of a duchess?”

  He looked surprised. “I want you to be my wife, Rosalind. My friend. My companion. My mistress. Your social duties can be as much or as little as you wish. If you want to be presented at court, I shall arrange it. If you prefer never to set foot in a fashionable drawing room, that’s all right, too. The choice is yours.”

  It sounded easy, but she didn’t believe that. “Your rank makes you a public person with responsibilities. There must be many men with strong claims on you.”

  “Why do you think I ran away?” he said with unmistakable bitterness.

  “Is it so dreadful to be a duke?”

  Curbing his flash of emotion, he said, “Actually, in the two years since I succeeded to the title, I’ve found that it’s far more pleasant to be a duke than it was being the heir. Now I can do very nearly anything I please—even become a commoner, at least for a while.”

  “You enjoyed being Mr. Ashe?”

  He hesitated, then said quietly, “I’ve never felt more like myself than I have for the past month. No one had any preconceptions as to what I should be like, what I should do or say. I felt like a falcon that had escaped my jesses.”

  Sensing that the subject was one that should be explored, she asked, “You said that being the heir was worse than being a duke. Why?”

  His face hardened. “I was the Marquess of Benfield from the instant I first drew breath. My whole life was preparation for the exalted rank I would someday bear. A boy who will be a duke does not cry for any reason—not for sentiment, and certainly not when he is beaten. Which he is, often. He does not indulge in undignified activities, such as playing with children of common rank. He must excel at his studies and sports. He does not complain when older boys torment him at school, or for any other reason. He never shirks his duty, nor apologizes to his inferiors, which include almost everyone. He honors his sovereign, even if the king is merely a jumped-up Hanoverian with vulgar tastes. He chooses his companions only from among those who are worthy of his regard. He marries—” Stephen stopped abruptly.

  She stared at him, appalled. “That sounds dreadful.”

  He began unconsciously rubbing the area just below his rib cage, a sure sign of pain. “You’ll have noticed that not all of my training took. It enraged my father that I never set a high enough value on my rank. He considered me soft. Lacking in dignity.” He smiled with ironic humor. “By his standards, I was, and am.”

  But much of that training had taken. No wonder Stephen was so good at concealing pain. If not for his innate decency and sense of justice, he would have become the kind of monster his father seemed to have been. “Did the ducal code allow any room for love?” she asked quietly.

  He shifted his gaze to the window. “Love was…not part of the curriculum. Lust was quite acceptable—both of my parents had notorious affairs. But love was a foreign language.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I think that, like languages, the ability to love must be learned when one is young. Otherwise one will never have the ear for it.”

  So even if he loved his wife, he might not have been able to say the words, Rosalind thought compassionately. She hoped that the previous duchess had been good at hearing what was unsaid. “You make me very glad I’m a commoner. But you turned out rather well despite everything.”

  “So you don’t regret having married me?”

  The words were light, but she saw in his eyes that the question was in dead earnest. Lord, when time was so limited, why were they even talking about things like social rank? “Of course not—I’m congratulating myself on my brilliant instincts. Here I thought you were merely a delightful, sinfully attractive man. Now I find that I pulled off the marital coup of the year without even knowing it,” she said in a teasing voice. “My only regret at the moment is that you’re too far away.”

  “That’s easily remedied.” He unfolded himself from his seat, stepped over Portia’s box, and settled next to Rosalind. In the tight confines of the carriage, that meant they were touching from shoulder to thigh.

  “Where are we going and when we will get there?” She took his hand, sliding her fingers between his. “Things have been in such a turmoil that I forgot to ask.”

  “I have a small house by the sea not far from Chester. It’s pretty and private, with only a married couple for servants. We should arrive about sunset.”

  “How many houses do you own?” she asked curiously.

  He thought a moment. “Six. Remember when I asked if you’d like a cloistered abbey? The family seat, Ashburton Abbey, has a cloister garden. It’s very lovely.”

  So she’d gone from not having a roof of her own to being mistress of six houses. She shook her head, bemused, then found herself yawning. As she covered her mouth with one hand, she said apologetically, “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  He put his right arm around her. “Use me for a pillow.”

  She curled up against him, her head on his shoulder. They fitted together so nicely. Be damned to the difference in their ranks, this was right. This was what she wanted of a husband, this sense of peace—and this burn of anticipation.

  She drifted into a dreamless sleep, her lips curving into a smile.

  As they rolled across the parklike hills of the Cheshire Plain, Stephen savored the soft, trusting form of his new wife. He felt…contented. More so, perhaps, than ever before in his life. In the last weeks he’d learned to live in the moment, and this one could hardly be improved on.

  Then a blaze of pain scorched down his esophagus and through his belly. He stiffened, fighting the urge to double up convulsively. Not now. Not today.

  His arm had tightened around Rosalind, and she made a small sound. He forced himself to hold still so that he would not wake her. Though how could she not feel the vicious scarlet pain that burned a few inches away from her softly curved cheek? Or the chill clamminess of his right hand, where it rested on her waist?

  But she shifted slightly and slept on, sweet and calming by her very presence. Carefully he used his left hand to dig an opium pill from an inside pocket. He’d taken one just before leaving the wedding breakfast, and would have preferred not to take another so soon. He disliked wasting any of his remaining time in a haze, though perhaps, at the end, cowardice would overcome his qualms. Many people’s fondest wish was for “a good death,” with massive doses of opium to shield them from the pain.

  If another pill meant keeping Rosalind from learning of this attack, it was worth taking it. He swallowed the medication with some difficulty, then closed his eyes and waited. Gradually the tide of pain ebbed, leaving numbness in its wake. He supposed that he must consider himself lucky that he hadn’t vomited uncontrollably or suffered some of the other unpleasant symptoms that sometimes accompanied an attack.

  Lucky. Hell.

  A gentle hand caressed Rosalind’s arm. “Time to wake up, Lady Caliban. We’re almost there.”

  “Mm-m-m.
” She lazed a little longer, enjoying being so close to Stephen. Then, just as the carriage stopped moving, something cool and moist touched her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw that Portia was nose to nose with her. “Am I dreaming, or do I have a cat on my chest?”

  “I let her out. After she exhausted herself playing ricochet, she decided that you look soft and comfortable.” His eyes sparkled with humor. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Blushing a little, she sat up and stretched her cramped muscles. “Have we really arrived already?”

  “Indeed.” Stephen captured Portia and returned her to the travel box. “You have a great talent for sleeping. You hardly stirred through two changes of horses.”

  “Being able to nap anywhere is very useful for a strolling player.” She glanced out the window. Well-kept parkland rolled away in front of her, gradually dropping to shimmering sands. And on the horizon, a blood-red sun was dropping toward the sea, the molten rays transforming clouds into drifts of hot coral and deepest indigo. “How beautiful! What is this place?”

  “Kirby Manor. You’re looking across the estuary of the River Dee to the Irish Sea.” He unlatched the carriage door and helped her out. “The house is behind us.”

  He started to turn, but she caught his hand. “The house can wait.”

  Silently they watched the sun slide into the sea, the sky and clouds darkening. The day passed so swiftly at the end. She thought of Stephen’s approaching demise and felt the tightness of regret in her throat.

  She turned to the house. Kirby Manor was half-timbered in the local style, a sprawling, magpie building with crooked beams and diamond-paned windows that glowed orange-gold in the last light of the day. It, too, was beautiful. She studied the elaborate herringbone timber patterns with fascination. “It’s wonderful, but certainly not my idea of a small house.”

  “The smallest residence I own. Only five bedrooms.”

  A man and woman who had apparently been waiting for the ducal attention came forward. “Welcome to Kirby Manor, Your Grace.” The man bobbed his head and the woman curtsied. “I hope you find things to your satisfaction. If we’d had more time…” His voice trailed off nervously.

  “As long as the main rooms are clean and you have some good Cheshire food, we’ll do very well.” Stephen drew Rosalind forward. “Rosalind, here are Mr. and Mrs. Nyland. Allow me to present the Duchess of Ashburton.”

  She almost winced when Mrs. Nyland curtsied again and her husband made an awkward bow. Rosalind wasn’t a duchess, for heaven’s sake; she was an actress with her hair around her ears like a schoolgirl.

  But apparently she was a duchess, and she must act like one for Stephen’s sake if not her own.

  The solution came in a flash: play the part of duchess as if it were a stage role. She inclined her head and smiled, gracious but not overly familiar. “It’s good of you to be ready on such short notice. When you take the baggage in, please use special care with my kitten’s box. Portia travels very well, but I expect she’s ready for some supper.”

  The Nylands collected Portia and the other luggage and went inside. As the coachman drove off toward the stables, Rosalind and Stephen climbed the front steps arm in arm. He opened the front door, then unexpectedly bent and swept her up in his arms. As she laughed and clutched him for balance, he explained, “Though it isn’t Ashburton Abbey, it is my threshold.”

  “Will this happen at all six of your houses?” she asked as he carried her inside.

  “If you like, but I shouldn’t think you’d want to set foot in the hunting box. All dark wainscoting and stuffed animal heads.”

  And there would not be time to get to all of his houses. “You’re right—it sounds dreadfully dismal,” she said in a more subdued voice.

  He carried her down a dim passage and into a sizable hall. She had an impression of carved oak and softly muted carpets. Then he lowered her to the floor, letting her slide slowly down his body. She was breathless by the time she was on her feet again.

  Laughter died away. His expression was somber, as if he was memorizing her face in this moment. Then he kissed her with aching tenderness. Her mouth opened under his, and carnal shivers danced over her skin. The four days since they had made love seemed like forever.

  When he’d reduced her to the pliancy of wax, he raised his head and said huskily, “After we’ve refreshed ourselves and eaten, may I come to your room?”

  She stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Stephen, my dearest husband, nothing more clearly illustrates the difference in our rank. Among my kind, there is never a question of whether or not a couple share a room and a bed. I suspect that it helps people make up their quarrels more quickly.” She brushed his hair back from his forehead, wishing she could say words of love. “You will always be welcome in my bed. In fact, I shall feel offended if you sleep elsewhere.”

  His gaze intensified. “So I can assume that your answer is yes.”

  “It most certainly is.” She touched her tongue to her lips. “In fact, since it’s been a long day, perhaps we should skip supper and go to bed now.”

  “No.” He stepped away and caught her hand between his. “The first time everything happened too quickly. Tonight, let’s savor the pleasures of anticipation.”

  Too much more anticipation, and she would be wild as a panther. But he was right. There was no need to rush, and many reasons to take their time. “That makes sense, though I can’t say that I feel very sensible at the moment.” She cocked her head. “I have a suggestion. Give me a tour of the house while supper is prepared. Then we can dine informally in our rooms.”

  “A splendid notion.” He kissed her fingertips, then tucked her arm in his elbow. His voice took on the pompous tones of a really superior butler. “This, my dear duchess, is the main hall. The oldest part of the building is believed to date from the early fifteenth century. Pray observe the splendid ornamental plasterwork.”

  She chuckled, thinking that he really could have had a future as a good comic actor. “Splendid indeed, Your Grace,” she said in the role of admiring visitor. “But are fornicating cherubs really proper on the ceiling of a hall?”

  “They are not fornicating, madame. Merely great and good friends.” He guided her around the ground floor, pointing out interesting features and making similar remarks that kept her laughing.

  As in all half-timbered buildings, the floors rose and fell, leaded windows sagged gently askew, and there wasn’t a straight line in the place. She loved it. She also loved how they managed to touch in seemingly innocent ways, each encounter another stick of kindling on a growing fire.

  As they started up the stairs, she asked, “How often do you come here?”

  “Perhaps once a year. I usually stay for a few days when I visit my business interests in the north.” He smiled ruefully. “I know. A sad waste, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head in amazement. “Aren’t there any impoverished Kenyon cousins who need a home?”

  “Yes, but they all prefer living farther south. Closer to civilization. One cousin stays at my Norfolk estate, where Ellie Warden and her baby went to liye.” His smile became satiric. “No matter what I might say, Cousin Quintus and his wife will assume the baby is mine, which ensures that the child will be well looked after.”

  “I’m glad for Ellie and the baby’s sake, even if your reputation is impugned.” She hugged his arm as he led her down the lamp-lit, irregular hall. Though she’d dreamed of houses for years, none was as fine as this. She hoped that someday there would be a Kenyon cousin who would have the sense to appreciate it.

  When they reached the end of the hall, he said, “The master’s room is on the left, the mistress’s on the right, with a dressing area and connecting door between.” He opened the door on the right.

  She stepped inside, and once more caught her breath. The left end of the long room was dominated by a massive, canopied four-poster bed, while the right end was a sitting area with a chaise longue, comfo
rtable chairs, and other furniture. But what riveted her was the roses. Every table and bureau was covered by vases full of fragrant flowers, red and pink and white, the colors glowing in the light of a crackling wood fire. The scent was intoxicating.

  Wonderingly she touched a crimson blossom. “Stephen, this is stunning. How on earth did you do it?”

  “I’m rather good at arranging things.” He kissed her on the incredibly sensitive jointure of throat and shoulder. “The idea was natural: roses for my perfect rose.”

  She swallowed hard, hoping he would never realize how imperfect she was. “The flowers are exquisite. But they’ll be gone so swiftly.”

  “That is much of why they are beautiful,” he said quietly.

  Their gazes met for a charged moment. Even now, on their wedding night, it was impossible to escape intimations of mortality. But while he lived, she promised herself fiercely, they would wrench every moment of joy they could from the tempest of time.

  Chapter 19

  Stephen sipped some wine from his goblet, his gaze on Rosalind, who sat on the opposite side of the round table. She’d brushed out her hair and left it hanging loose around her shoulders, the heavy sweep shimmering with dark gold and amber lights whenever she moved her head. Her suggestion to eat in her room had been inspired, for there was an intimacy here they would never have felt in the large dining room.

  He’d asked for anticipation, and the fire-lit room was ripe with it. Every bite of food, every sip of wine, was enriched by the knowledge of how the meal would end.

  He felt an absurd ambivalence about this wedding night. On the one hand, he wanted her with a fierce, unwavering hunger. He wanted to make love until they were sated, sleep the rest of the night with her in his arms, then wake and do it again.

  Yet at the same time, he felt as awkward as a callow boy. Before his first marriage, he’d had the usual experiences of a wealthy young man, bedding several of London’s finest courtesans with uncomplicated enjoyment.