Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  Rose felt his dissatisfaction. Literally.

  She was curled in a ball, trying to ignore the onslaught of kicks, the pain that careened through her upon each booted blow. Each shriek expelled from between her lips distracted from the flood of stinging tears spilling down her cheeks, masked the grotesque thud of boot against flesh.

  Above the din of her own creation, she could hear her father’s promise, repeated again and again, each word punctuated by another blow to her ribs, another bruise that would go unseen by the world. “You. Will. Be. Sorry.”

  Then the beating stopped, so abruptly Rose could barely believe it. It hadn’t yet felt like an eternity, and that was always how her father’s beatings felt. She opened her eyes just enough to see a dark ball of arms and legs and blonde hair topple to the ground with a great “Oof.”

  Then she heard it—the awful sound of fists on flesh. And she knew.

  Charles had come to her rescue.

  He had barely arrived and already he was saving her.

  It seemed like she was getting saved a lot these days.

  But the only reason she needed saving was due to her own reckless actions. She couldn’t say that she would not do it all again—consequences be damned—but she had never meant for Charles to suffer on her behalf.

  While Lord Blythe was no bigger than his eldest child, he was surprisingly fit for his age. In a matter of seconds, he had thrown Charles off of him, his body landing so close to Rose’s still-curled frame that she could feel the heat pouring off of him like steam, like his anger toward their father had manifested into something tangible.

  Lord Blythe followed his son, looming over his body like something evil and sinister. The scowl on his face almost seemed amused, even through his already swelling eye. Rose closed her own eyes again as fists rained down on her brother.

  Unlike Rose, her brother didn’t cower. He didn’t roll onto his side and accept his defeat. He took the beating like a man as his father descended on him. A fist to the jaw, jabs at his ribs, even a knee thrown in for good measure. And Charles gave it all back in due, kicking the feet out from under his father so that the man landed on the ground beside him providing a fair fight.

  Fists flew and Rose did not move, even as she received an elbow in the side of her face.

  She was somehow suspended in time, watching all as though it were a dream. Just when she thought that it would never end, her father was thrown back, landing once more on his backside. Charles, the victor, stood in front of her, a barrier, a protector. As the older man came to his feet, straightening cuffs and puffing up his chest, Charles looked ready to do battle, to fight to the death for his sister.

  Rose watched from her place at their feet as the two stared each other down. The moment seemed to go on and on, until Charles spoke at last, his voice hard and breathless at the same time. “You will never touch her again.”

  Lord Blythe smirked and turned his back on his son. It was what he did best. It was what he should have done more.

  If only his back would remain turned…

  He went to the decanter by the window and poured himself a glass of brandy, drinking deep before speaking himself, his tone hard as granite and cold as ice. “Take your whore of a sister and get out,” he sneered.

  Rose half-hoped he meant out of his house, out of his life, but was relieved when Charles set her down upon her bed, still curled up like the victim she hated being.

  As long as she was here she could protect her sisters.

  Charles sat down beside her, brushing hair out of her face and inspecting the bruise forming high on the outer side of her cheekbone. “You will have a bruise.”

  “To go with all the rest,” she said, her voice dry.

  Charles inhaled sharply, his gaze snapping to the healing wound just above her fresh bruise. “Did he—”

  “No,” Rose interjected, an edge of sadness to her tone. “That was all me.”

  She saw the question in his raised brow.

  “Charles, it wasn’t entirely undeserved.”

  She did rather deserve a sound thrashing for the way she had acted recently, sneaking around as she was. But that didn’t mean she enjoyed the punishment.

  “I’ve been sneaking out,” she offered as explanation.

  “You met someone.” Charles interpreted her well.

  Rose did not respond, did not waver her gaze from his. Though, with her lack of acknowledgement, she conceded that he was not incorrect.

  “Rose,” he said softly, the word a sigh and a plea.

  Tears sprung forth at that and she did not move to brush them away, even as her eyes turned red and swollen, and her cheeks itched with the burning liquid.

  She didn’t need to hide from him. She never did.

  “I know it is wrong, and I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.”

  Charles went white before her, his empathy melting into fear. “What happened?”

  Rose, who was already pale and in pain, turned lighter by two shades as she came to understand his question, what he believed she meant by her declaration. “Nothing,” she said firmly. “Nothing like that.”

  “Good,” he said, his voice coming in on top of hers. And after a moment’s pause, he whispered, “Do you love him?”

  “I barely know him.” They both knew that was as good as a yes, so she added, “I don’t know. But I could. It wouldn’t matter if I did, though. I’m marrying Lord Brighton.”

  Charles looked down at her and the sadness in his eyes crushed her as much as it did him.

  Her lips twitched into a grimace. “What if he’s like Papa?”

  Her brother stiffened, his hand clutching hers more firmly. “I have met Lord Brighton a time or two. I don’t think he’s that sort of man.”

  “But what if he is?” Rose countered, thinking of how Robert had described his master’s disdain for her.

  Charles looked her straight in the eye, and with all seriousness promised, “Then I will kill him myself.”

  Rose squeezed his hand in return, blinking back the tears from her eyes. “Charles.” Just saying his name served as a comfort to them both. “What, really, will I do?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, his eyes trained on her shoulder, as though it were torture to think of such a thing and look her in the eye. When he did shift his eyes back to meet hers, he said with fervor, “You will always have a home with me.”

  A sad, lopsided smile passed over Charles’ lips before he leaned back and, taking a deep breath, set tentative fingers to her ribcage. Rose winced at the pain of even his gentle touch.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed. Then, “At least a few ribs are broken, I suspect.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  The ribs would heal in time, but her spirit had long ago been destroyed, and that was what she needed most.

  That’s why she had done it. Just one adventure, one day, to find herself. And instead, she found this.

  She had screwed everything up. She always did. Everything was always her fault, and for good reason. She couldn’t be trusted with her emotions. It was why she schooled them. No good had ever come from showing her emotions. Just look where they had got her now. In love with a stranger, her marriage to another fast approaching.

  Her emotions got her bruised and broken.

  She was a fool. She kept her guard up from her parents, but she needed it to protect her from herself, too. And now she was broken in more ways than one. Now she knew the pain of a broken heart and a broken rib—she just wasn’t sure which of the two hurt worse.

  The ribs would heal eventually, and she would once again seal off her heart against further intrusions. And all would be swept under the rug, forgotten, ignored.

  In the past, Rose would have done so dutifully. She would have forgotten, she would have moved on and pretended it had never happened.

  But now, she didn’t wish to forget. She wanted to remember every painful bit of it. She wasn’t a coward. She would no longer cower
.

  Rose squared her jaw and steeled her heart.

  No one would ever hurt her again.

  Chapter 12

  The lantern on her bedside table was running low, its light reduced to a small flicker of flame, bringing her room alive with ghosts.

  Rose had spent the remainder of the day confined to her chamber with no visitors, at her papa’s orders. She should have been grateful for the solitude, as she was exhausted and in pain and could very much use the rest. But she couldn’t rest, for she was surrounded by the flickering ghosts of her mind.

  Each moment brought on a new thought.

  Robert. Charles. Papa. Lord Brighton.

  She closed her eyes and willed sleep to wash over her, steal away her mind. When it didn’t, she opened them again, not feeling the least bit tired.

  She wanted to cry but the tears had long since dried.

  To most girls, her situation was ideal—she was daughter to an earl and soon to become wife to a duke. How many girls dreamed of marrying the neighbor from their childhood? To how many females was this scenario a perfect fairytale? To Rose, the reality of it was so much worse than a dream. It was a nightmare that she couldn’t wake up from.

  The now Lord Brighton hadn’t been a particularly warm child, though he had his father’s looks to be sure. However, if he adopted even a hint of his father’s disposition, that would be enough to make her life miserable. This she had already known.

  What she hadn’t known was why.

  Why he hadn’t left. Why he hadn’t sought out another whom he loved and married them.

  Now she did. Now she knew.

  She’d been confused when Robert had referred to her as being traded when they were alone in the stables—Rose hadn’t known what she was being traded for and she couldn’t have very well asked. Her father enlightened her that afternoon, between kicks and threats.

  Lord Brighton did not wish to marry her, he had to. He hadn’t a choice otherwise.

  Rose had been shocked to discover that she wasn’t merely being forced into a favorable marriage—her dowry for his title, her sisters’ futures. She had been gambled away. Her father had taken Brighton land and now held it hostage in her dowry.

  Heavy is the head that wears the crown, so to speak. That was what it felt like. Only, her crown wasn’t made up of jewels or fine metal. It was comprised of land, lots of it, enough to destitute a duke or launch him skyward into masses of fortune.

  She hadn’t expected to love her husband, didn’t even expect him to like her. She knew that even tolerating each other might not be in the cards. Knew that even though he hadn’t backed out of the arrangement, he would likely still bear resentment because of it. She was prepared for that.

  But if there was any hope that he would not be like her father, or his, it was gone now.

  Lord Brighton would be worse, and she wouldn’t be able to blame him.

  Her father had practically stolen his birthright from him, his rightful inheritance, and in order to restore them he had to give up his choice for a wife. How could he not be savagely infuriated?

  Her only hope was that rumor of her exploits did not reach his ears. Not for her sake, to spare herself a beating, but for her sisters. Her father’s earlier hiss, from before he launched his attack, echoed around in her brain, “What happens tomorrow when our guests arrive? How long will it be until word reaches their ears and their gossip becomes a flame that destroys your reputation?”

  It wasn’t her reputation that Rose was concerned with—it was her sisters’. Lord Brighton had to marry her, scandal or not. He would marry her and likely promptly lock her up somewhere far, far away from Society. He would get his land and get rid of her. She would be married and her reputation would no longer matter, not really. But what of her sisters? Her scandal was not her own—they stuck to families like sap. It was her sisters who would suffer most once word got around.

  If only she had thought of them before. If only she hadn’t been so sure that she could go on this little trip to find herself and return unnoticed, unmarked. If only she had thought of the repercussions her actions would have before she made them. But she hadn’t. As much as she loved her sisters, and of all that she did for them, in this she had been selfish. That selfishness now put their futures at risk.

  Really, it didn’t matter if the gossip spread through the ton or not. Word only had to reach one set of ears. Lord Brighton’s.

  What if he decided Rose wasn’t worth it? What if he chose destitution over marriage to her?

  Unofficial or not, their betrothal and subsequent marriage was expected—it was a public secret, common knowledge to the ton that the pair had been pledged to each other. Gossip as to why Lady Rosalyn had been castoff by a duke would be the death of her sisters’ prospects upon the marriage mart.

  And yet, Rose thought for one selfish moment, would they even be happy? Would her sisters be grateful for her sacrifice? She was throwing her life away for theirs, and was it even worth it? But of course, there was no way for Rose to know.

  All she knew was what she felt in her heart—her heart, where she had held her sisters in regard for the whole of her life, and Robert whom had only been there for but a scant two days.

  She lay in bed all night imagining every scenario that could lead to her sisters’ ruin. And by the time that Helen came to dress her the next day the was sun dazzling gold in the blue midday sky, and Rose found she had not the strength to face Lord Brighton and find out which scenario would come true.

  “His Lordship says you are to come down, my lady. The guests are expected to begin arriving shortly.”

  Helen’s demeanor was stiffer than usual. Less of a friend and more the servant that she was.

  Helen wasn’t the only one who depended on her job. Her family did as well. She could not afford to lose her position, and therefore she would no longer lie for Rose, would no longer be her confidant.

  Rose understood the girl’s precarious position. She also felt the sting of her betrayal. They might not ever have been friends truly, but Helen was the closest thing she had to one outside of her siblings. It had made her marriage seem a little less daunting, because at least she would have one familiar person with her when she moved to Brighton Castle. Without Helen’s loyalty, she would be utterly alone.

  “Fetch me my riding habit,” Rose directed, not bothering to turn from the window where she stood, looking out onto the maple trees that lined the drive, not bothering to turn and acknowledge the maid, in too much pain as it was to acknowledge anymore of it.

  “His Lordship will not be pleased,” Helen answered, remaining firmly affixed to her place just inside the door.

  “You can run and tell him just as soon as you have left my company. Though, he will have to ride after me himself if he wishes to stop me. You, however, will not be stopping me,” Rose bit off.

  And Helen did not.

  Twenty minutes later, Rose was high atop her dapple grey mare, having threatened the stable boys within half an inch of their lives to release her horse. Her breathing was labored, her ribs compressed by the half corset, causing her no small amount of discomfort that made every movement nearly unbearable.

  It was still more bearable than having to endure the company of her papa, or the coming guests.

  Rose could see her entire family from where she was. They were lined up stoically on the terrace, a façade of familial perfection, waiting to greet the occupants of the approaching carriage. The conveyance which, as karma would have it, bore the Brighton crest.

  Her stomach knotted and turned within her, before sinking all the way down to her feet. Of course he would be the first guest to arrive.

  It was only a matter of time before they met and their fates were sealed, but Rose relished in putting off the inevitable at present. She couldn’t face reality just yet.

  Instead, she faced her father, who had spotted her from the distance. She wasn’t close enough to see his expression, but she didn’t need to se
e his eyes to feel them boring into her. It came with the knowledge that his wrath at her rebellion would be tenfold of what she had endured yesterday.

  Rose held her stance, shoulders back, chin raised, as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the house. Her eyes, filled with defiance, trained on Lord Blythe.

  A footman wearing the red and gold livery of the Blythe crest, descended and laid down the steps for the carriage. As he opened the door and a figure began to emerge, Rose gave her papa one curt nod and whipped her horse around, turning her back on her family and her future.

  For now.

  She couldn’t, after all, turn her back on them forever.

  Yes, Rose would bear her responsibilities, just as she had been raised to do. She would marry the duke and live out her years knowing that the space Robert had opened up in her, that hole in her heart that he, in such a short, short period of time, came to own, would never be filled.

  She would pray that her actions over the past two days would never be made known.

  Rose would sacrifice her happiness for her sisters. She would secure their futures by chaining herself to a stranger she could never even hope to love.

  This moment was for mourning. For mourning the life she would never have and the man she would never be allowed to love.

  She pushed her horse to a gallop, disappearing over the rise, pushing, pushing, pushing forward as hot tears poured down her cheeks and swelled her throat. She could hardly see where she was going and she hardly cared. She just rode, becoming one with her horse and the wind, picking up speed in the hopes that she could fly away on it.

  She stopped herself short of directing her horse west, riding to Brighton Castle and begging Robert to run away with her, to save her from this life of misery that she faced.

  It was the one place she wanted to go, and the one place that she knew she couldn’t. She could not so betray the sisters that she loved so dearly. The scandal that threatened them now was bad enough as it was, anything more would follow them for years, turning up the nose of every eligible suitor in Christendom.