Robert couldn’t imagine what she’d grown into.
As he stared into the stream, his reflection staring back up at him, he couldn’t picture the grown up Lady Rosalyn. All he could see was his father.
It amazed him, every time he caught a glimpse in a looking glass or on the surface of the water, just how similar he was to his father. So much so that there was hardly a trace of his mother in him, except for in his hair. That was hers. Hers was dark where his father’s had been a much lighter shade of brown. Otherwise, when he saw a reflection of himself, he saw the man he loathed.
Which, of course, made him loathe his father all the more.
Robert wondered if that man ever existed, the one he remembered from those days when they would come here together to fish, or if it was just nostalgia for the past that made his father appear double-sided in the present. It didn’t matter which it was. The past was the past. His father had ruined this place—had ruined Robert—and now that he was dead Robert was duke, and was to take the wife his father had promised him to.
He swallowed, wanting to erase the memories of this place, of his father, wanting to replace them with her, with Rose. Her soft scent curled around him. She smelled practical, of soap, but there was the faint smell of lavender that excited his senses in no small amount. It was just enough to ignite his intrigue, which had him leaning in, intoxicated.
He stood abruptly, unbuttoning the first buttons of his shirt and sliding it off over his head, following it to the ground with his boots. He needed to be away from her. Now. He needed a cold swim to remind his body where it belonged. And that was nowhere near this girl.
He had brought her here so that he could replace those memories from his childhood that haunted him so, not to make new ghosts.
She was a girl, good and pure, and she deserved better than what he could offer her, what he wanted desperately to offer her.
Below him, Rose gasped her surprise as he undressed down to his borrowed trousers. Her head spun from side to side, looking up and down the empty stretch of road. No doubt looking for a witness to his absurdity.
And it was that little gasp of surprise, mingled with her scent that made him hungry for more, that finally broke his resolve. Ghosts, be damned. “Care for a swim?” he asked, his mouth tilting up in a charismatic grin.
“I haven’t swum in years,” Rose answered. “Besides, I have nothing to swim in.” And Lord, if her spine didn’t grow straighter; all dignity and propriety in her tone.
“And neither do I. But why should we let that hinder our fun?”
He held her wide-eyed stare and he loved that she’d again shed her mask. She was opening her mouth—in protest, he could tell. And he knew. He could be as charismatic as he wanted, he could dazzle her with every trick he had, but she would not be jumping into the dark water with him. She would remain up here, like any proper lady would.
Though, she was no proper lady.
No proper lady would have found herself alone with a man twice in as many days. No proper lady would have her feet dangling over the side of a bridge. No proper lady would be here, now. Or ever.
She had been raised to be proper, and though she tried, there was nothing proper about Rose.
He smiled deviously and then, in one fluid motion, he bent down, grabbing her about the waist and pulled her over the edge with him. Her shriek, the most beautiful sound, permeated the air and filled his ears as they plummeted into the dark water that made the river seem bottomless.
Chapter 9
They came up spitting at the same time, moments later. Robert was prepared for her to bash him about the head, but to his astonishment he did not meet the back of her hand, but her laugh, full and free. He laughed too, his smile growing wider and his chest tighter as lavender and soap and earth whipped around him.
How would he ever be able to let her out of his sights? How could he possibly face marrying someone else knowing that such beauty, happiness, joy, freedom not only existed in the world, but lived scant miles from him?
Amidst their laughing they hadn’t drawn apart, but had drawn closer so that they were chest to chest wading in the middle of the stream, their legs brushing each other. Her hands held tight to his biceps, his rested on the dip in her spine.
The brim on her sodden bonnet sagged over her eyes. Robert moved a hand to pull it back, letting his fingers run a trail over the heavenly soft skin of her temple, tracing the fresh wound there. His eyes watched her watch the movement of his hands, watched her swallow once and then again.
The laughter drained from the air around them as he felt the earlier charge take hold once again.
A soft, pink tongue peaked out from Rose’s mouth and wetted her perfect lips. Robert could do nothing to resist her then.
His lips touched hers, softly at first, a barely-there kiss. Then another, more sure, more present. On the third, his left hand joined his right, cupping her face like a prized possession, and her lips responded to his touch, giving back what he gave.
But there was not a moment, nor a second, with which to enjoy the sensation, for all at once her grip loosened and her feet stopped moving—her mind lost in the fervor of the kiss—before her entire body stiffened as she remembered herself, where she was. In the middle of a stream.
But already it was too late.
Her feet began to kick frantically as she slid out of his grasp, colliding with his shins more than once, as she struggled to tread water with her skirts wrapped about her legs. Then, her head dipped below the surface of the water, pulling him with her.
In a second, it was all over. One moment, their lips were grazing each other. And the next, she was gone. It all happened so fast Robert hardly had a chance to blink, much less consider what was happening.
She was sinking, drowning.
He dove beneath the surface of the water until his hands found their way back to her waist where he clasped her most firmly, and with one big kick after another he drew them both upwards. When they crested the surface, they were both gasping and Rose was flailing like mad, arms and legs struggling wildly against his hold.
She hadn’t swum for years. She had told him as much.
What had he been thinking dunking her in the water, clothing and all?
The guilt flooded him more than the water that filled his ears and nose.
Despite Rose’s thrashing, he made quick work hauling her to the shore where she stumbled onto her hands and knees on the muddy bank, coughing up water.
Robert knelt beside her, panting, not from the exertion, but from the fear. His heart had sunk so rapidly in his chest he was quite certain that it would never be restored to its rightful throne in the cavity between his lungs. He didn’t know where it was, but it felt oddly as though it had slipped all the way down to the pit of his stomach and there had made itself at home. It was not comfortable there—not by any means.
It was unlike any pain he had ever felt, and it was because of that pain that he could not voice any of his concerns for her well-being.
When Rose finally spoke, the moment they had shared in the water, but moments ago, was all but lost, washed away as though it had been cleansed out of her by the water. “I must leave,” she said. Her voice was less breathless and poised, and more of a strangled cry. It cut through him like a dagger.
He crouched beside her, a hand outstretched, wanting to touch her but feeling too guilty to lay a single hand upon her.
He had almost killed her.
Again.
He stared at his outstretched hand trembling in mid-air. He had never before been prone to violence. This was not a violent act, he reminded himself, but it still nearly left a person dead. Rose very easily could have become lost in the dark water of the stream, and drowned. And it would have been at his hand.
How could he ever forgive himself?
Before him was the same corded hand of his father. And, as his father had stolen his future, he had nearly stolen Rose’s. What future could she have if she we
re not alive to live it? Even marriage to a stranger was a far more favorable future than a future with her immortalized in a pristine box, her grave marked with an inadequate rock and flowers that would wither and die.
He was still staring at that hand in horror when she rose to her feet. Robert looked up at her, and it made his guilt increase ten fold. Her entire body was shaking, her arms hugging herself across her chest. He didn’t have to look into her eyes to see her terror, but he did it just the same, and it made him feel all the worse.
Robert pushed himself to his feet. It took greater effort than ever as his clothing seemed to have turned to lead and his joints were all stiff. Rose was already turning to the bank, made muddy by the wet spring. She was clawing her way up, clinging to roots that jutted out of the ground, covering herself in mud. Robert moved swiftly, climbing beside her and pulling himself up first so that he could offer his hand for assistance.
Frozen on her hands and knees on the muddy embankment, Rose stared at his offered hand for a moment that seemed to last forever. When she looked up once again into his eyes, he was struck.
Terror wasn’t the only emotion dwelling in her eyes.
Rose’s eyes were a warning not to stop her. And of course, he would not—could not.
He could have killed her. He was desperate not to lose her, and yet he had almost killed her.
He could tell himself over and over again for the rest of his life that he hadn’t meant to harm her, but all the assurances in the world could not remove the guilt and the pooling of dread, the drop of his stomach as she’d slipped beneath the surface of the water. He would carry that moment, this day, with him forever. It would remind him that he, Lord Robert Phillip Clarence, Eighth Duke of Brighton, might have a great deal of power, but he was not infallible, he was not a god, and he could not protect everyone.
Not even the woman that he loved.
And in that moment, he couldn’t even summon the energy to deny it. He loved Rose. He didn’t know Rose, not really, but he loved her anyway.
And that love was going to kill him. Because he couldn’t marry Rose, and the reasons why were far too many to count. But even if he could marry Rose, even if he did, he knew that this horrid feeling would plague him until the moment of his death. Every time her bottom left the cushion of a chair he would see every possible danger that lay before her. Every moment she breathed he would be expecting her death, and it would drive him mad.
It was best not to dally with it—with love. It was best to deny its existence.
Best to put Rose from his mind and marry the good and proper lady he was intended for—someone with whom his heart would be safe because he would never love.
The thought had all the blood that had just been flowing quite heatedly in the river with Rose, stop abruptly and turn to ice.
*****
Damn. She could have screamed and cursed most wickedly.
She had ruined yet another pair of boots. First Helen’s the day before, and now her favorite pair of fine leather riding boots. She supposed she shouldn’t have worn them, but in her hasty retreat from the house that morning Rose had not stopped to consider such things.
Rose, of course, had not foreseen that she would be pushed into a river—or dragged in, more like.
The plan had been to return Lord Brighton’s horse, procure a horse from the inn, ride back to her home town of Lincoln in Lincolnshire and leave the horse at the inn there, change back into proper clothes and walk home, adding truth to the lie that she had merely been out for a stroll.
The plan was simple, if not naïve.
And then Robert had to appear.
She didn’t realize how affected she had been by him the day before. Everything had happened so quickly. The day had been a nightmare and a relief all at once. But when she saw him again, when she heard his liquid voice out on that street and turned to gaze into those pure blue eyes, she was quite literally lost.
It was like she was swimming and couldn’t tell which way was up. She was just stuck there in that moment with him, and she hadn’t the mind to wriggle herself free from his grasp.
She couldn’t think.
She had wanted an adventure. Though, this was most certainly not the adventure she had imagined, she told herself firmly.
She should have said no. But she hadn’t, and now here she was, soaked quite literally to the bone.
She sighed. Freedom was not all it was cracked up to be.
Her parents would be furious with her. Disappearing twice in as many days. Rose would be lucky if she were not locked away in a tower until the day she was wed.
She wouldn’t think of such things.
Despite the reservations that bubbled to the surface after Robert had drawn her into the privacy of the woods, she had been having a rather marvelous time with him. He was young and charismatic—he had that youthful charm that lit butterflies in her stomach.
And it was wrong. All wrong. He would recognize her when she finally came to live at Brighton Castle as its duchess. He had seen her on two rather lengthy occasions now. And they had been close. So close.
They had been kissing!
The thought!
How could one forget such a thing?
Perhaps if one’s partners numbered many, one might forget a kiss or two. But Rose didn’t believe for a single, solitary moment that that kiss would ever be lost in her mind. As far as she could tell, it would be seared into the backs of her eyelids until her dying day.
Of course, she had never been kissed before.
Short as it was, this had ignited a passion in her that she feared would burn into an all-consuming flame.
And then she had nearly drowned.
Well. She deserved no less. She was due to marry his master, the duke. Her dalliances with the stable hand would be seen as a mighty betrayal, causing Lord Brighton a great deal of embarrassment if word ever got round, ruining her reputation, and quite possibly causing Robert to lose his position, his livelihood—but most likely not his head.
Thank goodness for small favors.
Rose wanted to turn around and tell Robert the truth, beg him to keep her secret, beg him to forget that the past two days ever happened. But she couldn’t find the courage to do so.
One would think that after having such a close encounter with death one would focus of one’s mortality. Something along the lines of the meaning of life, and all that. Not the loss of a pair of boots, or of a man—or two.
It was true, she had just been very close to death, indeed! A fact which did not go unnoticed by her. Though, if she were to be truly honest, it didn’t quite terrorize her as much as it should. She was trembling, but that wasn’t because of the chill of her sopping garments or the fact that she had nearly died.
Rather, she was terrorized by her ruined boots.
And by Robert.
And Lord Brighton.
What a predicament she was in!
She scurried back up to the bridge, stopping only long enough to retrieve her belongings left discarded there. She was desperate to be away from him. She feared his closeness, afraid of how it made her feel.
Rose couldn’t feel anything for this man—she refused to.
It was entirely wrong. And yet, she feared that she would never touch him again. The pit that created in her stomach—in her heart—was enough to have her fleeing.
She needed to get her emotions under control. She needed to get away from this man, forget about him.
But already she knew that she could never forget him. He was remarkable in every way. He had touched her and kissed her and ignited in her a passion she never would have imagined existed.
How could life be so cruel?
So she stormed away from him. Away from her emotions. Away from herself. Though, no matter how quick her stride, she couldn’t break free of any of them. It didn’t help that he was following not too far behind, tugging his clothes on as he went.
Luckily—Rose thanked Heaven above—he was fol
lowing silently behind.
She didn’t think she could bear to hear his voice again without going completely out of her mind.
Rose turned her attention back to her boots, desperate to clear her head of its multitude of thoughts which seemed all too eager to set upon Robert.
Her ruined boots!
Oh, Helen would be in straits.
Forget Helen, her papa would be in straits!
Rose would have to order a new pair. She had several, indeed, though none so pristine as these. These were her favorite—black leather that buttoned halfway up her calves, adorned with a golden floral applique.
They were absolutely exquisite and uproariously expensive. Papa had been extremely dissatisfied when the bill had come due. Despite the fact that he could afford to buy her a pair a day for the rest of her life and still have a fortune to spare, she had felt her father’s dissatisfaction all the way from London.
How would she explain the misfortune of their destruction to him?
And, as if almost drowning wasn’t punishment enough, her boot, drenched from her spill in the stream, slipped on a rock, turning her ankle most uncomfortably. “Ow, ow, ow,” Rose cried, hopping on her right foot to offset the pain in the left, which of course put her off balance.
As if the universe didn’t have anyone else to bother, it had to stick it’s nose into her life and send it spinning in reverse.
But really? Really? She had almost died. For the second time in two days. Did she have to twist her ankle too? Was the universe just that cruel? Was God up there having a good laugh with all his buddies?
She rather hoped he was. Someone should be enjoying her pain, because she sure wasn’t.
And, as if nearly getting trampled by a horse, nearly drowning, twisting her ankle, and now falling wasn’t enough, Robert had to go and catch her.
He slid a hand—an ungloved hand—around her waist as she teetered off balance toward the ground, leaving her with no choice but to lean into his warm, firm muscles.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 10
