One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  “The grave’s a fine and private place, / But none, I think, do there embrace.” But now he was alive. Blood and bone and sinew, alive.

  He wrenched his breeches open. Raising her left leg and wrapping it around him, he thrust forward into searing welcome, burying himself inside her.

  Mind and heart and sex, alive.

  She inhaled sharply. He stilled for an instant, ashamed of his rough haste.

  “A fine and private place…” His control fractured, for with Rosalind he was wholly, desperately alive. He surged into her again, impaling her against the costume-padded wall.

  She made a harsh sound deep in her throat, her hands clawing into his back. As he drove forward again and again, her raised leg locked around him, her supple body writhing within the cage of his.

  “None, I think, do there embrace.” But here and now, they did embrace, melded by a savagely primal bond. His wife, his mate, imprinted on his soul, if he had one. Passion rising, building into all-consuming fire. Alive. Alive.

  She gave a shuddering cry. He buried his face against her hair and ground his hips against her yielding body. Her teeth sank into his shoulder, and she convulsed around him. Her climax triggered his own explosive release. Life spilling into her, mysterious and profligate. The little death, annihilating his being and blending it briefly, profoundly, with hers. Life beyond life.

  Then, too soon, alone. Two separate beings instead of one.

  He clung to her, his breath coming in harsh pants. Her raised leg slid along his calf to the floor, but otherwise they didn’t move. She was molded against him, so womanly soft. His closed eyes intensified the intimate heat and musky scents that hung suspended in the silent air.

  So little time left, he mourned. So little time…

  Distantly he heard a clicking sound. Then something pushed against his calf.

  Startled, he opened his eyes and looked down. Farley’s hound gazed up at him with mild interest. The dog had come upstairs and wandered through the open door.

  Stephen smiled wryly. “Reality returns.” Keeping one hand on Rosalind’s arm for balance—he wasn’t sure which of them needed it more—he stepped away and used his other hand to restore himself to decency.

  Looking wonderfully, sinfully desirable, Rosalind straightened her skirts and made a futile attempt to tame her rioting hair. “I think that was a lovely way to celebrate the rebirth of the Athenaeum.” She adjusted her cloak demurely over her morning gown.

  A kind of peace settled over him, replacing the frantic urgency he’d felt. Yes, his death was imminent, but life would go on, with new births, new crises and triumphs.

  He only wished that he could be present to celebrate more of them.

  Chapter 26

  Their social life began as soon as Rosalind and her husband returned from the Athenaeum theater to find a small mountain of invitation cards. Apparently she had passed the preliminary test at Drury Lane.

  Ignoring the cards, they went straight to bed, though not to make love. The shattering encounter in the costume room had left both of them mentally and physically drained, so they slept in each other’s arms. Rosalind tired rather easily these days. Stephen’s stamina was also failing, but that was not mentioned. Though they had agreed on honesty about his illness, she’d soon realized that many subjects were best avoided.

  They slept all afternoon. After a quiet supper, Stephen went through the pile of invitations while they drank coffee in his study. He sorted the cards with the speed of long practice. “Barnham, no. Wigler, no. Manningham, no. Strathmore, yes. Hillingford, no. Devonshire, maybe.”

  Rosalind watched with fascination, her elbow on his desk and her chin propped on her hand. “What are your criteria for accepting and rejecting?”

  “Since we want to present you socially, only the most prestigious of hosts and events.” He discarded three more cards.

  “Do you take any account of what the event actually is?”

  “A little.” He glanced at the next card. “For example, this is for a Venetian breakfast. Too cold at this time of year, and only a second-rank hostess. It joins the goats, not the sheep.”

  She laughed. “And here I thought you weren’t a snob.”

  “Fashionable society is largely a game. If one is going to play it, one should know the rules, and play to win.” After discarding four more cards, he paused. “St. Aubyn, yes. He and his wife are particular friends of mine. In with the sheep.”

  She shook her head dolefully. “All these eager hostesses would be heartbroken if they saw how cavalier you are about their invitations.”

  “Au contraire. Most would admire my ruthlessly high standards and scheme to find a way to join the sheep.”

  She took a swallow of coffee. “In the game of society, being a duke must be like holding a hand full of face cards.”

  He flashed a quick smile. “And as my duchess, you play with the same hand.”

  Not quite, but close enough. At least for as long as he was by her side. “Don’t accept too many. While I wish to meet people, I prefer spending time alone with you.” She stopped, realizing that the fashionable world was his natural milieu and that he probably wanted to see as many of his friends as possible before…before it was too late.

  Stephen didn’t seem annoyed by her presumption. “I like that, too, but it’s important for you to meet some of my close friends. That way you can call on them later if you ever wish to move in society.”

  “Won’t the grander ones assign me to the goats?”

  “Not those who are real friends.” Absently he squared the pile of discarded invitations. “I used to take social obligations more seriously because I thought the heir to a dukedom had to. It never really occurred to me that I had a choice. In the last weeks I’ve learned that there is very little worth taking seriously.”

  The somewhat awkward pause was broken when Portia came tearing into the room like a small black-and-orange rocket. She stopped abruptly, gave her owners a crazed glare, then executed a wild combination of sideways hops and a backward somersault. Rosalind and Stephen both laughed as the kitten streaked away again. “Given a choice between laughter and high seriousness, I’ll take laughter any day,” she said. “After all, I’ve spent most of my life in the business of entertainment.”

  Stephen nodded. “The first night I saw you, in Fletchfield, I noticed two elderly sisters waiting to attend the performance. It was obvious that seeing a play was a rare and special occasion for them, one they would discuss and remember fondly for years. Bringing such pleasure is a task worth taking seriously.” He lifted another invitation, then tossed it over his shoulder. “Going to an assembly given by the most socially ambitious man in England is not.”

  He opened the next missive and scanned it. “This is from Cousin Quintus in Norfolk. He informs me that Mrs. Reese—that’s Ellie Warden’s official name—and her baby have settled in nicely, and that the head groom is courting her. The groom is a fine fellow and the chit seems to fancy him. Would I object to such a match?”

  Rosalind smiled ruefully. “You’re right. Your cousin assumes Ellie was your mistress and her son your by-blow. I imagine you have no objection to her marrying.”

  “None whatsoever. The groom is indeed a good fellow. They should deal very well together.” He opened the last card. “Lady Cassell is having a musicale. I don’t know her well, but I do like music, and she always engages excellent performers.”

  “A sheep,” she declared. “I like music, too. We might as well do something simply because we want to.”

  Stephen chuckled and added that card to the acceptance pile. “If I sent a carriage, would your parents be able to come to London for a day or two? I want to broach the idea about the Athenaeum, since I won’t buy the place if they aren’t interested.”

  She liked the fact that he didn’t automatically assume that the Fitzgeralds would jump to accept his gift. “They should be able to slip away, though their absence will limit the plays the troupe can perfo
rm. Shall I book a room at one of the inns near here?”

  His brows rose. “Will they refuse to stay under my roof?”

  She hesitated, then decided on the truth. “They would not want you to have the embarrassment of housing two players.”

  Stephen looked pained. “I know you think I’m a snob, but I would be a very poor sort of gentleman if I didn’t acknowledge my own in-laws. Besides, I want to have Thomas and Maria here. I’ve missed them.”

  “Very well,” she said, glad that London had not made him too conventional. “The carriage can bring them directly to Ashburton House so they have no choice.”

  He reached for a quill pen. “I’ll also summon my secretary and valet from the abbey. They must be wondering what happened to me.”

  She stared at him. “In all these weeks, you’ve never written to let your household know your whereabouts and welfare?”

  “No,” he said simply. “I quite liked escaping. Though I won’t mind having the services of my valet again. I learned that I can manage alone if I must, but now that I’ve proved it to my satisfaction, I shall cheerfully hand such chores back to Hubble.”

  She shook her head, smiling. Different worlds.

  “No smug smiles,” he said sternly. “We must engage a lady’s maid for you. You’ll need one.”

  She groaned but agreed. After all, her foray into society was not for her own sake but for Stephen and the child she carried. For them she would give the performance of her life.

  They quickly fell into a routine where Stephen attended to business in the mornings. Afternoons they spent together, talking or reading or laughing at Portia’s antics, and in the evenings they went out. Every day was different, and as Rosalind had pointed out after their wedding, they were tasting only the cream. There was painful irony in that fact. Most newly married couples soon began laying the foundation for their future lives. Rosalind’s marriage would be over before the honeymoon ended.

  And they were still on their honeymoon, with all the romance that implied. Every morning, she found a perfect red rose in a crystal vase on her dressing table. A red rose for the passion that thrummed and sang between them.

  Her new wardrobe started to arrive, several garments every day. There was nothing like stunning clothing to make a woman feel capable of anything. Stephen’s friends made her very welcome. As a bonus, the events Stephen had chosen were uniformly enjoyable. Despite his flippant remarks about playing the social game, clearly he had decided not to waste his limited time on anything he didn’t like.

  One of the subjects they didn’t discuss was Stephen’s first wife. When Rosalind admired the exquisitely embroidered fire screen in her sitting room, Stephen said tersely that it had been done by Louisa. After that, Rosalind started taking note of the superb needlework scattered about the house. Pillows and chair seats, a lovely hanging, a bookmark sewn with graceful flowers.

  Rosalind studied the bookmark when she found it in a Bible, tracing the stitches of the delicate blossoms with her fingertips. A framed pastel sketch of the late duchess had shown Rosalind what her predecessor had looked like. Louisa had been truly beautiful, with an otherworldly quality and small skillful hands.

  Sometimes Rosalind wondered if Stephen’s illness was rooted in grief over Louisa’s death. She had seen cases where the loss of a beloved spouse had been soon followed by the passing of the survivor. In fact, she suspected that when one of her parents died, the other would not last long. It was impossible to imagine Thomas and Maria separated.

  She returned the embroidered strip of fabric to Louisa’s Bible, where it marked the Twenty-third Psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

  Her throat tightened. Stephen knew fear. He never spoke of it, but she could sense its dank presence, perhaps because she had lived with fear herself. Without faith in something greater, how could he not be afraid? She had many small fears, but she also had an underlying faith that had always been part of her. It was a mark of Stephen’s courage that he carried on so calmly, finding intense enjoyment in life when possible, enduring the increasingly corrosive pain without complaint.

  Resolutely she put aside both the thought and the Bible. Then she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Soon it would be time to dress for the Cassell musicale. As always before a social event, she called on one of Maria’s tricks and spent a few minutes mentally preparing herself to be very charming and very beautiful.

  There was so little she could do for Stephen. At least she could try her best to ensure that he was proud of her.

  Day Thirty-one

  As the carriage took them to the Cassell musicale, Stephen wondered darkly about the accuracy of the thirty-one days left in his mental count. He’d thought three months was a minimum and that he would probably live longer. Now he was beginning to seriously doubt that he would survive the third month. In health he’d taken his body for granted. Now he was acutely aware of his internal rhythms and functions, and of his inexorable physical decline.

  Soon he would pass some invisible boundary and become so ill that he would no longer be able to maintain the illusion of normal life. And if the pain continued to increase, death would eventually come to feel like a mercy.

  But he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die. He looked at Rosalind’s clear-cut profile silhouetted against the window. There was so much more that he wanted to learn about her. More that he wanted to do with her and for her. His day started with her drowsy smile in the morning and ended with her gentle sigh as she settled against him in their bed. There had been shadows in her eyes since the visit to St. Katharine’s, but she always had a smile for him. She was always giving, always warm. His perfect rose.

  Thirty-one days, more or less. Please, God, if you exist, more.

  The carriage pulled to a halt in front of Cassell House. They were late, and a harpsichord was playing when the butler admitted them. The earl and countess had finished receiving and were heading toward the salon where the concert was beginning, but they returned to greet the newcomers graciously.

  Lord Cassell introduced himself to Rosalind while his wife, a tall, distinguished woman in her fifties, extended her hand to Stephen. “Ashburton, I’m so glad you could come.” Her voice dropped with mock secrecy. “I’m perishing to meet the new duchess. Everyone is talking about her loveliness and charm.”

  “Every word is true.” He bowed over her ladyship’s hand. “Sorry we’re late. A lame horse. Will we be forgiven and admitted?”

  “A duke may be late almost anywhere except the sacred precincts of Almack’s,” the countess said with wry humor.

  “True, but tardiness is so ill-bred.” He turned to Rosalind, who was laughing at a remark by Cassell. “Come meet our hostess, my dear.”

  She turned with a smile. Garbed in amber silk, she looked particularly radiant this evening. “It’s a pleasure to be here, Lady Cassell. The harpsichordist sounds heavenly.”

  Lady Cassell started to extend her hand, then dropped it. Her face went dead white as she stared at Rosalind. Then, shockingly, she crumpled in a faint.

  Only a step away, Stephen was able to catch the countess so that she didn’t injure herself on the marble floor. Lord Cassell exclaimed, “Anne!” and dived to his wife’s side, taking most of her weight from Stephen.

  Her lids fluttered open. “I’m…all right, Roger,” she whispered. “Help me to the library. Ashburton, you come, too.” She looked at Rosalind, and a shiver went through her. “And your wife.”

  Stephen exchanged a startled glance with Rosalind, then helped Cassell take the stricken woman to the library, which opened off the foyer. As her husband settled her on the sofa, the butler poured a glass of brandy, then withdrew at a signal from the earl.

  Lady Cassell swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and color returned to her face. “Sorry to frighten you all.” Her gaze went to Rosalind. “It’s just that you bear a resemblance—an uncanny resemblance—to my
younger sister, Sophia. My maiden name was Westley. Can we possibly be related?”

  Rosalind stiffened. “I…I don’t know. I was a foundling, adopted when I was about three years old.”

  The countess said sharply, “When? Where?”

  Rosalind folded into a chair, her hands gripping the arms. “I was found near the waterfront here in London in the summer of 1794.” In the silence that followed, the chime-sweet notes of a Mozart sonata could be heard clearly from the salon.

  “Dear God.” Lady Cassell pressed a hand to the center of her chest and looked up at her husband. “Do you suppose it’s possible, Roger?”

  Rosalind’s stillness made Stephen think of a rabbit trying to avoid a fox. He went to stand by her chair, laying a quiet hand on her shoulder. To the countess he said, “Tell us about your sister.”

  “Sophia married a Frenchman, Philippe St. Cyr, the Count du Lac. They both died in the Reign of Terror. She had a daughter, Marguerite, who was about three and a half then. We assumed that the child must have died, too.” Lady Cassell leaned forward urgently. “You look very like Sophia, Duchess, except that you have brown eyes, just like her husband, Philippe. Do you remember how you came to be in London?”

  “No.” Rosalind shrank back, her face ashen and her head slowly shaking back and forth. The tempo of the distant harpsichord increased, the notes swift and edged.

  His worried gaze on his wife, Stephen said, “She apparently was brought across the Channel by an elderly woman who died as soon as they disembarked in London. Rosalind lived by scavenging for some weeks before she was adopted by a couple named Thomas and Maria Fitzgerald. And I’ve recently learned that she speaks some French when she’s half-asleep, though she has never formally learned it.”

  Lady Cassell set her brandy aside, her hand unsteady. “Even though she had trouble with her heart, our old nurse, Mrs. Standish, went to France with Sophia because my sister wanted her children to speak English.” Her voice broke. “In the last letter I received, Sophia wrote that her daughter was speaking both French and English very well. She…she was so proud of the girl’s cleverness.”