He couldn’t say the same about himself.
He was the one who should be infuriated. And he was.
“It’s absolutely dreadful, really,” he spat. “Here his father is dead and gone, and he is still expected to marry some spoiled ninny because of an alliance the old man made decades ago. I can think of no fate worse.” Robert’s voice had risen an octave as his anger over the situation flared beyond the bounds of his composure. Restraining himself once more with a steadying breath, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, he continued, “I would wager Lord Brighton feels much the same way you do. Probably worse.”
“Oh,” was her only answer. Robert struggled not to focus upon the shape her lips made with the sound that dissolved his temper.
He could not look there. He also could not look into her eyes or he would sink within their liquid depths. So Robert stared at her nose, for surely there could be nothing attractive about a nose.
Unless, of course, it was on her face.
He could not catch a break, he thought to himself. It was absolute madness. A woman—a girl—could not possibly have such an effect on him. He would not allow her to.
And so he recalled something utterly distasteful in an attempt to dampen the silky sweetness of Rose. He thought of Lady Rosalyn Hayes, eldest daughter of the Earl of Blythe, his wife-to-be. Of the quiet, domineering girl she had been. There was never a spark of fun in her. She was always prim, always proper, watching over the other children, never one with them.
How was he supposed to live with someone who had no personality?
All the bitterness surrounding her he unleashed upon Rose, all cold words and sharp tongue. “Just think about the ladies of the aristocracy. It would be like living with a piece of wood. They are all straight-backed propriety. All the personality is squeezed out by their corsets.”
And, if it was possible, he saw Rose’s spine stiffen even further. “Is that how Lord Brighton feels?” she asked, her voice, too, dipped with a cold edge.
“Absolutely. He’d be damned stupid if he didn’t,” Robert answered hastily, truthfully. And felt immediate shame. He couldn’t recall a single instance when he had sworn in the presence of a female—propriety required that their delicate sensibilities be protected from such verbal abusage—and yet he had just done so, easily, without a second thought. He felt dreadful, but to his surprise Rose didn’t so much as flinch.
Well, perhaps the lower classes were not so careful with their tongues. He thought about apologizing and then thought the better of it. If he could make her dislike him, perhaps his growing affection would be stayed.
However, the curse wasn’t where the guilt initiated. It was the words themselves. The girl was to be married to a man whom did not choose her for wife, how could she not take his words personally? How could she not wonder about how her own betrothed felt about their arrangement?
It was Rose who spoke next, leaving Robert not a moment to try and weasel himself out of the hole he had dug. Her voice was soft and poignant. Again, something in his chest—definitely not his heart—twisted and ached for her. “How terribly cruel of him to have it be let known his aversion towards her. I feel sorry for the lady. She will be coming here and all the staff will be against her, won’t they?” She paused, collecting herself. “They will be his, and knowing his feelings towards her will set the tone for their disliking of her.”
The tears were apparent to Robert. They were in her eyes and her voice. It nearly broke him to think of the pain Rose felt on behalf of a spoiled rich lady whom she didn’t even know. A lady who did not deserve such kindness from Rose.
Robert, of course, had never considered the lady’s feelings whom he was to marry, until now, until Rose forced him to. He had however known Lady Rosalyn as a child and she couldn’t much have changed. And so he tried to reason it away. He would not pity his wife-to-be. He would do nothing short of avoid and resent her.
“Servants are paid not to have emotions towards the affairs of their superiors,” he said, masking his aching for Rose, his bitterness for Lady Rosalyn, and the mixture of emotions that seemed to be tearing him apart, by bristling his tone as though he were swallowing ice. Or knives.
“But you do, do you not?” she asked, turning to him then. “Lord Brighton’s dislike for her will ignite their dislike, your dislike, and, while you may not act upon it, she will know it exists. Women can sense such things.”
She was staring so deep into his eyes that, for a moment, he was lost in her. All that existed were those beautiful ovals that were at once the lightest shade of blue there ever was, and not blue at all. Robert swallowed. “I suppose, then, that there is nothing good about arranged marriages.”
“I’m sure my parents would wholly disagree,” she said, a little too calmly for Robert’s comfort. She continued a moment later, her mood brightening as though she had shed off a raincloud and was ready to begin anew. Though, he shouldn’t really consider it as brightening—her voice had merely lost the terrible weight it had been carrying, returning to the passive poise it had earlier. “I’m feeling quite refreshed and must insist that I take my leave. More than half the day has already passed and I must be back before dark or my father will really be having a conniption.”
“I will prepare a gig and will take you hence.” Though, what Robert would do when he brought her home and was likely recognized by her father for who he really was, he did not know. He could send Reggie in his place, or one of the other stable hands—all of whom seemed to have disappeared at present—he supposed, but that was hardly an option. Robert was intent on seeing Rose home himself, of spending every possible moment that he could with her.
Besides, there may be no reason to worry. It was entirely possible that he did not have an acquaintance with her father, that he would not be recognized for the duke. Though, he knew that was unlikely. While a duke might not recognize every face of his subjects, they generally recognized a duke’s. And as he had returned to Brighton Castle, the country seat of his dukedom, nearly a week prior and had, in that time, sought to make an acquaintance with each of the villagers and farmers in the area, checking on their crops and their livelihoods, he found it rather unlikely that he would not have an acquaintance with the man.
What would he say? How could he explain himself if he were recognized? The sliver of freedom that he allowed himself would be gone forever—for the remainder of his time in the country he would not be allowed this one reprieve.
It was true that he had only been in the country for a week, but already he felt an itch here that he had always managed to stave off in London. In town there were a variety of distractions.
Robert was very often written about in the Society gossip papers for his rakish life style. Though, he was no more rake than any other gentleman. Just more duke. And as such, word of his exploits were inevitably read by the masses.
But really, he was a rather good son, if not the most gentlemanly of gentlemen. During the season he obliged his mother, escorting her to a round of balls and musicales, which was not generally what he—or any man of his young age—preferred to do, but it wasn’t really all that bad. But even though Robert—or Lord Brighton, rather—was forever hounded at such events by desperate mamas searching for a respectable husband for their daughters, he didn’t loathe it.
He rather liked the attention. It felt good to be a part of something so grand. But it never failed to remind him that, of all that there was, of all that he had, he was still without a future. He could do so much with the money he had, could help so many people, but he couldn’t help himself. He would never have love.
Love.
It was a silly notion, one reserved for the pages of romance novels he did not care to read. It was the dream of young girls who still had the follies of youth to convince them that the world was a fairytale. But the world was not that. At least, the aristocracy was not.
The aristocracy was not built off of love. Fortunes were not amassed, age-old bloodlines did no
t bear distinction, because of love. Marriage was a contract between families. It was a game of chess, and all moves—all marriages—were made for one’s benefit. Love endangered the game, the win.
So it was a shock that Robert found himself in such need for it. Perhaps if he had been given the choice to choose a respectable lady for himself—one who would bring just as much distinction to the family as Lady Rosalyn—he would be able to live without love. But he hadn’t been given a choice. His father had taken that choice away with the roll of the dice.
Robert sighed to himself.
In town it was easier to forget it all—forget that he had a future that was ever approaching. Here, in the country, his future was so close, his fate so apparent, that he needed all the escape from reality he could get. And this had been the one way that he had found he could get it, could clear his mind from the marriage that was looming just over the horizon. He could blaze down the trails, through the fields, pretending to be anyone other than who he truly was. He could push his horse so fast that the wind whipped around him, stinging his eyes, making him forget the truth: That his marriage to Lady Rosalyn Hayes, eldest daughter of the Earl of Blythe, was growing near.
The country was deplorable. These secret moments were the only way he could find to forget who he was, for a little while. Dress up like someone else and ride through the fields at break-neck speed, dodging holes and fallen trees.
He felt a rush of excitement, not so unlike the way that Rose was making him feel now. He didn’t think he could lose either feeling. Robert also knew that the only way he could keep Rose here was if he tied her up and held her captive. And that certainly would not do. But the image of her tied to his bed had already formed in his mind and he could not relinquish it.
“No,” Rose answered firmly, restoring his mind to the present. “I shall walk.”
It took Robert a moment to recall of what they were speaking, but memory did ultimately return. Her father. He did not want to take her back there, didn’t want to lose her company. At the same time, he wanted to do just that. He had to. What choice did he have? She couldn’t stay here forever. She would have to leave eventually.
Somehow the afternoon had managed to slip away from them, like it was blown away with the earlier prevalent clouds. Already the sun was beginning its slow descent. She would never make it home to a neighboring village by foot before dusk. He had to take her.
“What of your mother who has taken such care in raising such a fine daughter? Will she not be at her death bed with worry?” he pointed out. He couldn’t, after all, allow her to walk home after suffering such a fate as she had earlier that afternoon. He needed to convince her to accept his assistance. He needed her, foolish as that may sound. “I insist on taking you myself.”
“My mother is dead. And there is no need. I walked here, and my legs are perfectly capable of carrying me back. I must bid you adieu”
Robert found it curious the lack of emotion upon the articulation of her mother’s death, compared to the fact that, just moments ago, she had been in near tears over Lady Rosalyn, a lady whom she had no acquaintance with.
He brushed off the paradox, and continued fervently, “Will you not discuss it over tea? Will you not let me try to convince you to allow me to be your escort home?” He knew that he could. Convince her, that is. He needed to convince her. Damn it all, if his identity was discovered by her father it would be worth it just to have spent a few more moments in her blessed company.
Rose was just that, a beautiful rose, but without all the thorns. And everyone loves a rose—they take care to cultivate them, for they make the finest gardens. He didn’t want to let the rose go. He would hold onto her—figuratively, of course—for as long as he could.
“Please?” he intoned.
She sighed in resignation and his stomach—not his heart—leapt for joy. “Alright, one cup of tea and then I must be on my way.”
Finding the stables empty of anyone to assist him, Robert replied, “I will fetch it at once. I shall return promptly.” He stood before her, bowing just slightly over her seated frame, and lifted the knuckles of her right hand to his lips, her fingers trembling in his touch.
“I daresay,” she said, her voice trembling just as slightly as her fingertips, her steady gaze set on where their hands embraced, “I shall be eagerly awaiting your return.” Her breathless reply sent his blood into a mad fury once again and he had to turn away quickly before he made a fool of himself.
He could not kiss her.
If he kissed her then…
Well… He just could not kiss her. That was that.
Robert took the distance between the stables and the servant’s entrance in lengthy strides. Inside, maids backed against walls and curtsied at the sight of him. He could hear their small giggles following in his wake as he made his way to the kitchen.
He surely looked ridiculous to them.
He cursed under his breath. His mother would no doubt hear of this by nightfall—she had a way of inspiring loyalty from the indoor servants—and his charade as a lowly stable hand would come to an end. If it wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t quite the same. But, he reminded himself, it was worth it. He would take tea with Rose and then escort her home, and for one afternoon his life would be perfect. For this one afternoon he would forget the future and the woman it included, and just indulge himself in the impossibility of Rose.
“Your Grace.” Reggie bowed in deference as Robert entered the kitchen.
Robert held up a staying hand for Reggie and the other servants present to cease with the formalities. It felt odd being called your Grace when he was dressed as the utter opposite.
“I thought you might be in need of refreshments, so I came to fetch tea and some biscuits for you.” Reggie looked at him, a question in his raised brows. Is the girl still here?
“Yes, very well. Thank you, Reggie. Let me help you with that,” he said, taking the tray out of Reggie’s hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Crane.”
“Oh, it is my pleasure, your Grace,” the cook answered with a proud smile and a curtsy.
“She don’t speak like any commoner I’ve e’er met,” Reggie said when the two were outside and away from the eyes and ears of the rest of the staff.
Even at the mere mention of Rose his entire body tightened, but Robert managed to restrain his voice, and his thoughts. “Indeed not. She seems like the perfect lady, in fact. Her mother must have been religious with her instructions.”
“I’d say. Most girls her age are out in the fields or married off by now, but she’s so clean and pale I wouldn’t believe she’d e’er lifted a finger a day in her life.”
“She’s to be married. To a farmer, I believe,” Robert said, casting a sidelong glance at the young stable hand. “She said it’s been arranged since her birth.” And the words, the reality in them, ignited in Robert a greater agony than he cared to admit, even to himself.
What was this girl doing to him? He had barely just met her and already he was ravaged by her. One minute he desired her with such urgency it was painful. The next he felt like his spirit had been broken, because soon he would say goodbye to this girl who was utter perfection. It was so bitter that it was hardly sweet.
Suddenly, he needed to see her, needed to touch her. He couldn’t let her leave yet. He needed to kiss her. If this was to be their only afternoon together, then by God he was going to make it perfect. This afternoon would be for them. It would be one memory that they would be able to cherish for all time.
His strides lengthened as he tried to hurry his way to the stables to see her. He wanted to tell Reggie to stay behind, to find something else to occupy himself for the remainder of the day, but his brain and mouth and, well… body… were not working in conjunction and no words came forth.
Damn, he could just see himself bursting into the barn, dropping the tea tray, and barreling right into her, confessing his love for her. Oh, it would be glorious.
They would be glorious.
He couldn’t be in love with her.
Could he?
“Ay, you know something about that, your Grace,” Reggie said, in reference to Robert’s confession to the girl’s arranged marriage. “Well, I can say, that will be one lucky man to have that prize for a wife,” Reggie said.
“I could not disagree,” Robert murmured, distracted as they were coming upon the stables. He fell silent as they crossed the threshold inside. Then his blood, which had been boiling in his veins, suddenly froze, thawed and turned to flames.
Chapter 6
At first Robert assumed it was the feeling of being blinded, going from such brightness outdoors to the far darker stables, but it quickly dawned on him that Rose was not where he had left her, sitting perched on a bale of hay.
“What the devil,” Robert proclaimed as he searched for her with his quickly adjusting eyes, his feet remaining firmly fixed to the floor just inside the doorway. The shock of her disappearance was so great that he found he could not move.
It was Reggie who discovered the open stall. And the missing horse.
“She stole my horse?” Robert’s head nearly exploded. It was not just any horse, but his prized mare. The one he had just been out riding. The one that was likely worth five times more than the girl’s meagre dowry… Than the girl’s life.
What a fool he was! He had thought her a pleasant girl with impeccable etiquette. He had practically been smitten by her. Actually, that was a lie. He had thought himself halfway in love with her. And here she went and stole his horse!
He had liked her despite his better judgment, despite knowing that people from different classes didn’t mix. Shame on him.
Shame on her!
“Put together a search party. I want that girl found and my horse restored!” he bellowed, kicking over a bale of hay with the toe of his boot before stalking out of the barn, a pile of shattered china left in his wake.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 5
