But when he did leave and her mother left and Rose was finally left alone in her own company, she simply closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
Rose didn’t exactly wake in the morning. Well, she did awake at some moment. It just wasn’t clear to her which. She had been staring up at the ceiling for she didn’t know how long, a thin sliver of morning light filtering in from between her curtains, before she started to shift relentlessly, unable to find a comfortable position in the most comfortable bed.
Helen was slumped awkwardly in a chair that had been pulled from the window up alongside the bed. Her head was quirked to the side, a most uncomfortable looking position. Though Rose couldn’t remember her coming to her room, she did find it oddly comforting that at least one person cared enough to stay with her through the night.
The maid was still sleeping and Rose wished that she could continue to sleep too, but already she could hardly lay still. She really did want to close her eyes in an attempt to let the day pass away unnoticed, but her body wasn’t going to permit such happenings.
Today a handful of late arriving guests were due, but that wasn’t what had Rose inching out of bed, buttoning herself into a simple dress and running from the house.
It was the thought of Lord Brighton that did that.
Robert.
She sighed.
Those days with him had been magical. She had been but a farmer’s daughter and he a stable hand. She had shared things with him that she had never shared with another. She had practically bared to him her soul. She had told him of her reservations concerning her marriage. She had complained about her marriage. Their marriage.
And he had done the same. Essentially.
He hated her.
What had he called her? Some spoiled ninny?
It would be like living with a piece of wood, he had said.
Now there was an analogy, and it was none too flattering.
Oh, yes, and all the personality she might possess, he believed to be squeezed out by her corsets. And look, she had gone and proven his point last night. Not only was her personality nowhere to be found, but there had also been no breath.
The thought brought back the night’s events. Sitting at the table silently, trying to ignore the existence of the person sitting beside her, pushing food around on her plate because she couldn’t eat strung up so tight, accompanying the ladies to the drawing room where they tittered on about hats and the eligible bachelors present. And then, the dancing.
Oh dear, she had fainted. Fainted! Something she had never before done in all her life.
And he had come to her rescue.
Rose would not go so far as to compare him to a knight in shining armor—that was taking things a bit too far—but he had saved her nonetheless, even if in doing so he had essentially stripped her naked in the presence of basically every aristocrat worth knowing. But she could similarly not neglect the notion that, had Robert not had the gall to do the completely inappropriate thing and cut her out of her dress, she likely would have perished last night, suffocated in that confining corset.
The thought shouldn’t have sounded so appealing. And yet, it did.
The problem was… Well, she wasn’t quite certain what the problem was, why she so desired to die.
She had spent years worrying about her marriage, fretting that her husband would treat her as her papa did. But her husband was to be Robert, Lord Brighton, the man she had come to love, who had changed her life in just a matter of days. He was to be beside her always.
So why wasn’t she jumping out of her skin with joy?
Well, okay, there was the fact that jumping up and down at a dinner party—or at all, in the case of a lady—was entirely unacceptable behavior. Then there was the matter that her dress certainly did not allow for her to do so even if she did decide to toss propriety to the wind for a moment of jubilation. But all that aside, she couldn’t jump, respectability or garment hindrances without. She could hardly move for the pain in her chest.
Still, she should have felt something—something other than dread—she was sure of it.
But how could she?
She had lied to him. She had disguised herself in a servant’s clothing and stolen away from her home. Twice. At least, that is, twice that he knew about. He would be very well within his rights to suspect that she had done so far more times than he was privy to know about. But even if he didn’t, even if he believed she had never before done anything like that, it didn’t really matter. Robert knew all that he needed to know, and he could ruin her with it.
Rose had privately met a man and she’d allowed him pleasures that no gently bred female should give. It didn’t matter that the man in question turned out to be the very man she was to marry. It very easily could have been someone else, like his stable hand. She had, after all, believed him to be just that.
No, what mattered was that it had happened at all.
Robert would think her wanton, unclean. She couldn’t blame him, really.
It wasn’t that she regretted what happened, only that she wished it hadn’t happened. Which were two entirely different things, even as they didn’t seem like they could be such.
How could she feel shame and at the same time not feel shame? It made no sense.
And yet it made perfect sense.
Rose didn’t regret what she had done and she wouldn’t have changed the experience for the world. She still would have snuck out, still would have sought out that same adventure. The same adventure she didn’t know she had been searching for until she had happened upon it. At the same time, had she known then what she knew now, that Robert was Lord Brighton, she would have told him. She would have confessed her love, and her name, in the hopes that he would forgive her.
But it was too late now to go back and change the past. It was always too late to change the past. The only thing she could change was the present; and she certainly couldn’t change this, couldn’t fix it.
Last night as she descended the staircase, Rose had seen fury in Robert’s eyes like she had never seen before. Perhaps it was just the fierceness of the color that made it seem such, but she rather believed that his anger was tenfold compared to that of what her father’s had been. She’d felt her own initial fury before the dread pooled inside of her, draining all the remaining blood from her face, and she knew that Robert’s anger had to be far greater than hers.
She wondered whether he would break off their arrangement and set her free of the trap that was their marriage. That was what she wanted, but she loved her sisters too much to actually hope for it; she wouldn’t let them suffer because of her own petty wishes. Rose wanted the world to be open to her sisters, to have available to them every suitor—a luxury she was never allowed—so that they could choose exactly whom they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with. Having a duke in the family would go a long way towards accomplishing that.
With Lord Brighton by her side, her sisters would have their pick of husbands.
Rose had come this far. She hadn’t run. It had been nearly nine years since she learned of her fate and still she remained. No matter how she’d feared it, in the end, she always knew that she would marry the duke. She had to.
The love of her sisters outweighed all else.
Now what did she have to fear? She was marrying the man of her heart, so this feeling should have subsided. If Lord Brighton was anything at all like the Robert she had met, then she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could find happiness in their union.
Yet, her terror only grew. Because she loved this man, which was dangerous. He was beyond livid, she knew, and who knew what he would do. Even if he never laid a hand upon her, his anger alone would be enough to break her. With her heart in his hands he had more power to destroy her than anyone ever did.
And so, she sought escape from the emotions flanking her on all sides, in the only way she knew how.
She ran, slipping unseen down the servant’s staircase all the way to the
basement. Her foot was on the last step, her mind already had her at the door, turning the handle and making her escape, when a roar of laughter exploded from further down the hall had her spine straightening and blood curdling.
Of course the servants were having breakfast. It was why they were not yet all about the house, lighting fires and candles and whatever else they did while the well-bred slept. It was why she had almost managed a clean escape.
She was still standing there, her foot hovering in mid-air as though if she were to place it upon the ground it would change the atmosphere and all of those servants down the hall, milling about the servant’s dining room, would simultaneously shift their eyes and see her.
After one unbearably long exhale, Rose turned her head agonizingly slowly, her eyes squeezed shut, willing the Heavens to shine favor upon her and allow her to go unnoticed. When she opened them it was to find a cloister of servants trying to see into the already crowded dining room, necks craned, their backs all turned toward her.
Rose’s hands were trembling and she took a deep breath to steady herself.
She waited a moment longer to make certain they were thoroughly entertained and she was safe to resume her flight, before she finally let her foot touch the tile floor of the basement. She turned her back on the gathering to flee for the door not fifteen feet down the hall opposite, but was stalled again when a familiar voice that filled the corridor had her lips puckering into an annoyed frown and her fists clenching around the fabric of her muslin skirt, dreadfully wrinkling the material.
It was Robert. Lord Brighton. She couldn’t hear precisely what he was saying, but it was unmistakably him.
Robert was down here, dining with her servants, wrapping them about his bloody thumb as if he owned the place. It really shouldn’t have bothered her so, and yet, she was angry beyond measure.
She had spent the whole of her life in this house and never—not once!—had she been allowed to mingle with the servants as he was doing now. Beyond that, her mama ensured that even they didn’t let Rose get away with anything. Lady Blythe had turned the servants into her own personal pack of spies, reporting Rose’s every activity and transgression back to her mama.
But this man, well, he didn’t live by any rules other than those of his own whims. He could do as he wished, go where he wished, be who he wished, with whomever he wished, and he would always be accepted by anyone and everyone. He was a man.
He was a duke.
And that sudden jealousy that nearly ate her alive, that had her stomach churning, was what had her fleeing from the house.
He had such freedom, and she had none.
How could she possibly love him when she despised him so much? And if she did love him, how could she ever again look at herself in the glass with any measure of self-respect?
Rose resumed her flight to the door, her anger and jealousy urging her on like fire nipping at her heels. Her hand was on the handle, she was ready to throw the heavy door open and run as fast as her feet would carry her, when she heard a distinctive stirring behind her. Her heart stopped in her chest with the knowledge that when she turned around she would see the tall, muscled figure of Robert.
She gritted her teeth in anticipation. She had an awful desire to cause him bodily harm, and that scared her. She had never been prone to violence, but here this man was and she wanted nothing more than to sink her fists into him.
She was angry at him—for a myriad of reasons. Including, but by far not limited to, the fact that he was a man, a duke, the fact that he could traipse around the country wearing whatever he wished and do whatever he wished, with whomever he wished and no one thought to question him. Whereas she, in the same situation, would be ruined if found out. Which was only a matter of time, now.
It was rather funny, really. In the sort of satirical amusement sort of way. Her clothes might have been grander but she was in much the same place as she had been when she met Robert.
Compared to him, she was nothing, a poor farmer’s daughter. And he worked in a castle. Even if they really were those people, they never would have been a proper match. He was still far grander than she would have ever been. It didn’t matter one whit that he owned the castle and she was daughter to an earl. She could change her clothes, but she could not change their circumstances. And the circumstances were thus: She had no choices, no freedom, and he had all the freedom money could buy.
And money could buy a lot. A lot.
Yet, still he had the nerve to complain.
Please, the man was a duke. Yes, she might have his land, but that didn’t seal his fate. He could find another way to get it back. Dukes had power, after all.
He shouldn’t complain.
Really, neither should she. But she couldn’t think on that now. All she could think about was how much worse off her life was than his, thus justifying her unhappiness.
No, she could not love this man. If she did, she would hate herself. He was a rake, a scoundrel, the very worst kind of man.
Last night he was every bit a duke. He was elegant and handsome and finely dressed in his perfectly tailored black and white ensemble. He was the type of gentleman that ladies fell head over heels for before they even spoke to him, before they even knew his name, or his title. He was also the kind of man that would tell you sweet lies rolling off a cold tongue, could break your heart and keep you crawling back for more.
He was irresistible in all the wrong ways, and Rose knew she was doomed, as loathe as she was to admit it.
There was nothing she wanted to do more than bloody his face.
She had spent her entire life certain that marriage to this man would be insufferable. And now she knew it would be. But in a far different way than she had imagined.
Rose wanted to hit him for what she knew he would do.
For she was going to fall in love with him—as if she hadn’t already—but he wasn’t going to love her back. He resented her in no uncertain terms. If the words he had spoken to her in the privacy of their secret meetings weren’t an indication, his demeanor toward her last night was, keeping her at a distance, even as she sat beside him.
He hated her, and it was that hatred that would break her heart, again and again until, finally, it succumbed to the pain and broke indefinitely.
However, when she turned her head to look over her shoulder and spear him with a look burning hotter than the fires of Hell, she had to lower her gaze considerably, leaving her unsettled as her anger found no purchase.
At least, not on a man.
“Oh, my lady,” a kitchen maid said, bobbing an awkward curtsy, as caught off guard by Rose as Rose was by her.
Rose laid a disdainful glare upon her. Her fury could not just build up inside after all, that was unhealthy. She must unleash it on someone and thus the poor maid was to be on the receiving end of her rage.
There was nothing more that Rose wanted to do than rip into the girl, let loose this anger that was threatening to tear her apart. But she held back. She had somewhere else to be.
She had anywhere else to be.
Rose turned back to the task at hand, pushing open the heavy door without a word to the girl.
The maid—obviously misjudging Rose’s mood—spoke up, her voice quivering in the slightest, “My-My lady, you really shouldn’t.” Rose really couldn’t blame her for her stumbling—the girl had never so much as been allowed in Rose’s presence thanks to Lady Blythe, much less allowed to speak to her, and Rose wasn’t quite in the friendliest of moods just then. It was a wonder the maid was able to find her voice at all.
However, Rose didn’t care.
She put one foot through the doorway. The rustling of skirts behind her revealing the maid took a step with her.
“Her ladyship said that you are under strict instructions to—”
The poor maid wasn’t given a chance to complete the sentence.
By Jove, she was being scolded by a maid!
How very embarrassing!
R
ose turned, slowly, locking eyes with the bonneted young maid. And if looks could kill, the maid would have dropped dead. She really should have dropped dead by the fright of it alone, for Rose did not simply look at the girl, she seared her. With no small amount of bitterness in her tone, Rose said, “Yes, and I suspect she will have a firm account of my departure just as soon as I have departed from your company. Now, I’ll be on my way. Be sure to tell Lady Blythe that I will not be present for luncheon.”
Rose straightened her shoulders, holding her breath as she feared it would come out shaking and reveal how truly unnerved she felt. Nose stuck up, she breezed out of the servant’s entrance as though it were the most natural thing to do.
She didn’t make a habit of looking back, finding it rarely brought peace or comfort. But when she was a fair distance away, she turned, taking in the imposing Whitefield Abbey, its grey stone façade appearing to rise up out of the mist like a castle in the sky, looking as out of place against the scenery as a woman in trousers.
This wasn’t her home and it never would be. It was where she was raised, where she loved her sisters, but it would never be anything more than that. It could burn to the ground tomorrow and she would not lose a moment of sleep.
Rose’s eyes settled on the set of windows she knew to be belonging to her mother’s rooms, and she set her lips into a firm line.
Her mother might own the servants, but she would be damned if she owned Rose as well.
“Enjoy your party, Mama,” she said to the dewy morning air.
She pulled her cloaked tighter about her, at once cringing from the chill, and relishing in it. The cold made her feel something—something other than her anger, or fear, or disappointment, or whatever else was in there rattling around.
There was nothing that a damp English morning could not cure.
She smiled weakly.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 20
