Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  There was a slight pause before Robert queried, “What for?”

  He was going to make it difficult, make her enumerate all of the things she had done wrong, all of her errors in judgment.

  She wanted to confess it all, but when she opened her mouth she found none of that forthcoming.

  Rose’s lips quivered as she stared into his eyes. She didn’t want to cry again. But she couldn’t look at him and not cry. She loved him and it was driving her mad. She had always been so careful to hide her emotions, but she couldn’t hide them, not from this man. Not from the man of her dreams—the dreams she never knew she had.

  She loved him and she wanted him to love her back and she wanted him to stay. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. She wanted him to marry her for more than just the land. She wanted him to marry her, and she couldn’t hide that fact.

  Saying so would make his rejection all the worse, so she didn’t speak.

  But he did.

  “I love you,” he said, the words hardly anything more than breath whispering across her skin. The clarity in his eyes diminished as they filled with tears. “I love you,” he said again, his face coming ever closer to hers. The words were not hesitant, but something about them seemed to surprise even him, like he didn’t know until that very moment that he was going to say them, that he even felt them.

  But he did say them. Again.

  “I love you.” Robert’s forehead rested upon hers, two sets of eyes closing at the nearness. “I think I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you, and every moment since.”

  Rose’s heart leapt and dived at every syllable.

  “But I lied to you,” Rose whispered. She didn’t know why she was giving him a reason to recant the words he’d spoken, the words she had longed for him to say for but a day, but she couldn’t control herself, the words were out before she could think to contain them.

  Robert only shook his head slightly, the movement moving Rose with him. “It doesn’t matter. I love you.”

  The moment was held in suspension, as though time had stopped and all that existed was the two of them. There was nothing else. Not the room, or the house, or the people downstairs, or the entire world for that matter. There was no hunger or pain. They were all there was. Them. Together.

  And then his lips were on hers. The kiss was as light as a feather, a mere a whisper across her lips that made her entire body tingle.

  She could have stayed like that forever—her face in his hands, his lips on hers—but it was only to be for but a few seconds. With a soft knock, followed by a click, the door to Rose’s bedchamber opened and Helen appeared. “Oh,” she gasped in surprise. “Beg pardon, my lady. Your Grace.” She bobbed two dutiful curtsies then, “I’ll just—” she stumbled, clearly uncomfortable and uncertain about what her role in such a situation should be—chaperone or wallflower—“I’ll just be in the, uh, dressing chamber.” And with that, Helen disappeared.

  Rose smiled against Robert’s lips. And he smiled too. It wasn’t an exaggerated smile that stretched the lips across one’s face. They were small and simple and knowing. They were smiles of pure bliss and happiness.

  “I should go,” Robert breathed against her.

  Rose attempted to nod, but that would have required that she break her lips away from his which were once more on hers, lightly caressing the soft skin there that so desired to be touched. The last thing she wished to do was extricate herself from the caress.

  When Robert pulled back, Rose was once again fixed in his eyes. He was the sea and the sky and sun. He was everything she could drown in and thrive on.

  *****

  Rose did not show her presence all morning. She was not seen nor heard from for hours after the incident on the stairs. The incident in her bedchamber.

  Yesterday, Robert would have been infuriated by her so ignoring her guests. Yesterday, he was infuriated. Today was different in every way. Today he was patient. Today he was happy and hopeful and feeling a whole array of emotions.

  He didn’t know if he actually believed in fate or if he just wanted to believe in it, but what he did know was that he was in love. He’d told Rose just that. It was clear, looking into those grey-blue eyes that had turned to a storm with her tears. He knew. When she ran into him on the stairs, when he caught her, when he held her, comforted her, he knew.

  She was the reason that he was alive, the reason he breathed. She brought meaning to everything that had never mattered before.

  And he’d simply had to tell her. He was overcome.

  Kneeling there on the floor before her, he knew that this was what life was about. He no longer lived for himself. He lived for her, to make her happy, to keep her safe and well.

  So he told her. He’d had to tell her.

  I love you.

  He’d said the words. They were not planned per se, but they were the truth, and he wouldn’t take them back.

  No longer did the idea of marriage to Rose scare him. No longer was he angry. No longer did he care about how their marriage had been arranged or even about what his father had done years ago that set all of this into motion. All he cared about was her.

  Rose was his life.

  He’d taken her to the stream to dispel his ghosts, and she’d done precisely that.

  He wanted to rap upon her door. Every second that she delayed her appearance, Robert wanted to go to her. He didn’t fear that she had once again run from the house—there was something in her eyes, something that changed when he was with her in her room, after he confessed his love. He knew that she would no longer flee.

  That didn’t make him want to see her any less.

  True, they would have their entire lives to spend in each other’s company soon enough. But it wasn’t enough. He was greedy, and he wanted more. He couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of her.

  When he went up with the other guests to change for luncheon, it was all he could do not to once again intrude into the family’s private quarters and let his gloved knuckles find her door. But such would be unwise.

  So he’d resisted. He had changed for the meal, dressing in his standard crisp black and white palette, and went downstairs where he found himself seated between the Countess of Lethem and Lady Blythe. They had all just been seated when one of the guests—a mama whose name Robert had no hope of remembering—asked as to the whereabouts of Lady Rosalyn.

  It was odd, no matter how many times he reminded himself that that was Rose’s name, he couldn’t accept it. It didn’t feel right. She wasn’t a Rosalyn. She was a Rose—a beautiful flower.

  Pulling Robert from his reverie, Lady Blythe answered the query in a whisper meant for the entire room to hear. “Oh, my dear daughter, Lady Rosalyn, is still recuperating from her spell last evening. She did so want to join us,” she added addressing Robert specifically with the last, a practiced placating frown adorning her rosebud lips. Then, returning her attention to the assembly at large, “But I insisted she stay abed until she has fully recovered.”

  “Recovered from what?” came a perfectly demure voice from the door.

  Robert looked up, a smile of pure joy already lighting up his face as his eyes met Rose’s, who didn’t match his smile, but certainly exceeded it.

  Rose was not smiling with her lips—as she rarely did—she was smiling with her eyes. Those enchanting creations that couldn’t decide whether to stay blue or grey.

  She was wearing a dress that would be considered simple by ton standards, but was radiant on her. And upon second inspection it was really much more intricate than what originally met the eye. Not that he noticed such things ordinarily—only when they concerned her. Then he seemed unable to notice anything but everything.

  The cut was modest, and the sleeves lacked the lace, the bodice the bows, that were so popular. Yet despite all that it lacked, it was in no way plain. The style was considerably more modern compared to the gown she had donned last night, the fabric flowing from the high waist. The dress
was of an ivory fabric that complimented Rose’s skin perfectly, and was adorned with gold stitching throughout that matched the color of the hair piled neatly atop her head.

  She was stunning standing there in the dewy light of the afternoon that had found its way through the bank of clouds to glisten in through the west facing windows.

  All this made her beautiful. But it was those eyes, come alive in a smile, that made her shine.

  “My apologies for the late arrival. I seemed to have lost track of the time,” Rose said as she breezed into the room like she was walking on air.

  All the grace of a queen taking her throne.

  And as any good queen has a legion of servants at her beck and call who know what she wishes before she speaks, so did Rose. A chair and setting were immediately procured, and by the time that Rose came to stand between her mother and he, she did not have to wait a moment to be seated. Robert, and all the other gentlemen present, hardly had time to stand at her entrance before she was seated… beside him.

  Robert smiled indulgently.

  To her credit, Lady Blythe did a remarkable job at masking her shock at her daughter’s sudden—and rather embarrassingly timed—appearance. “Darling, Rosalyn, I was not expecting you. I thought I told you to rest?”

  “Did you, Mama? I do not seem to recall, though, you must have, surely. No need to fuss, all is well, I am feeling quite myself,” Rose answered, all innocence.

  The tension was hidden well, Robert had to admit, but still he could feel the daggers, being thrown in-between the lines, back and forth between these two ladies. Perhaps he noticed only because of his proximity to said figurative throwing, and thank goodness for that. He wanted to be near her, so that, if the moment arose that Rose required defending, he would be ready to draw up his butter knife in her defense.

  Not that he would likely need to, of course. They were at a luncheon with the better half of the ton. Though, Robert conceded, there was sometimes nothing more deadly than the malicious comments thrown about disguised as innocent gossip within the ranks of these people. Perhaps it was for the best that he keep the knife close at hand.

  But as he sat there watching the exchange between these two formidable ladies, their resemblance uncanny in both appearance and in strength, he knew that Rose didn’t need protecting. She would protect herself. Not that he wouldn’t promptly step in to offer aid so that she didn’t have to bloody the soft silk of her gloves. It was merely the comfort of the knowledge that, if he hadn’t been there, she would have been able to take care of herself.

  She was strong—stronger than Robert ever could have imagined.

  How much had she endured? And still she found the strength to stand up against her mother? It was remarkable, and there was nothing more that he wanted to do than ignore all rules of propriety and seize her hand in his and hold her.

  Robert watched closely as they faced off, their innocent smiles hinting at more than just joy.

  The exchange didn’t last long before Rose’s attention turned away from Lady Blythe and settled upon him. He felt like a girl the way his breath caught in his throat at her every movement, at her every breath. This didn’t happen to grown men. They didn’t literally have their breath stolen away at the mere whiff of a woman. And yet, it was.

  “Lady Rosalyn,” he murmured, leaning in as close as was socially acceptable.

  “Lord Brighton,” she responded in turn.

  “I trust you are feeling well.”

  “Quite, thank you.”

  Robert couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her, and so he spoke to her alone, ignoring propriety and etiquette and the horde of other guests crushed around this enormous table that was far bigger than any table had a right to be.

  He started by complimenting her on her dress—the ivory and gold combination of tailored silk that suited her skin perfectly. It was a color not many could wear. He had seen many a debutante standing alone on the fringes of ballrooms wearing the same shade, but on them the color washed their complexions in such a way that it made them look perilously close to fainting. On Rose, it was radiant, it made her eyes burst as the gold shimmer of the gown reflected off of her grey-blue irises.

  Or perhaps it was just her attitude that was radiant.

  She was more joyful now than she’d ever been—or, than he’d ever seen her. Her eyes were alight, and the corners of her lips were turned up in the barest and most beautiful of smiles, and every time she said “Lord Brighton” he wanted to jump to the other side of the table just so that he could crawl back across to her and kiss her openly on the mouth.

  Chapter 19

  After luncheon, the house party broke into factions. One group took to the drawing room to write correspondence and practice their needle work, while others chose to be one with nature, despite the rain, and took to the enclosed greenhouse that connected with the backside of the abbey. The third and final group was, at the insistence of Lady Blythe, to have a tour of the gallery led by Rose.

  Robert didn’t care about the portrait of the Fifth Earl Blythe or the Fourth or the Third or any of the portraits that hung in the gallery at Whitefield Abbey.

  Under any other circumstance, Robert would have admired the artistry of each painting. He would have enjoyed each stroke of the brush and admired the artist’s use of color and shadow. Today, all he could think about was his guide and how, once they were married, he would commission the best artists to paint her. He would settle for no less than the best, but even the best would be unable to capture her beauty on a canvas. Though they would try, and he would fill the whole of Brighton Castle with their valiant attempts, there was simply no matching her beauty.

  Rose looked exceedingly like her mother, yet nothing like her, at the same time. She was far more beautiful. Rose was a younger, more vibrant version.

  Rose, she had a beautiful heart kept safely hidden beneath her modest exterior, giving her beauty both outside and within. Rose wasn’t quite certain that the older lady even had a heart. Perhaps that was the reason for the discord between Lady Blythe and Rose. Perhaps it was a fair amount of jealousy. It wouldn’t be so surprising. It seemed everyone present was envious of her good fortune in the way of appearances.

  Rose locked arms with a younger version of herself as she led on to the next painting, hung in a gilded frame, a picture larger than Robert was tall.

  Robert had been introduced to the girl on Rose’s arm the day before when he’d had no patience for listening. Though, he knew who she was today. No need for an introduction.

  She looked so much like Rose that the resemblance was unbelievable. They had the same grey-blue eyes and small, straight nose, same complexion, same lips and golden hair. They walked with the same airs, sported the same demeanor, and were nearly the same height. There was hardly a trace of distinction between them so that, had he not known Rose so well, he wouldn’t have been able to tell her apart from her sister, Lady Isabelle. More than one present had already confused the two. But Rose was the love of his life and he knew her well enough to see the difference.

  Rose was just a touch more reserved than Isabelle, even if the emotion was only noticeable to him. Oh, Isabelle was reserved too, but her eyes were intent, searching. Her eyes were confident, whereas Rose’s were guarded.

  “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” came a voice from his side.

  Robert turned to the speaker, a one Charles Blythe, whose bruised jaw had paled from the purple it was in the days prior, to now be interspersed with green and yellow.

  Robert nodded his consent, turning back to gaze upon the portrait he now stood in front of, of yet another woman who looked remarkably like Rose.

  “My grandmother, on my mother’s side, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. Baroness Grinalde.”

  “Your grandfather was a baron?”

  “Yes. A rather rich one, I might add, but a baron nonetheless. Though, they say if you admit such too loud the Baroness rolls over in her grave.”

  The two stood sid
e by side, Robert feeling increasingly uncomfortable as the conversation stilted when the joke fell like lead between them. Well, if it even was a joke. Of that, Robert wasn’t certain, as there was nothing about Charles’ tone to indicate his meaning.

  Robert remained silent.

  He didn’t know Charles. The four years that separated them ensured that their paths had hardly crossed in their years at school. Robert knew that he was young, although not drastically younger than himself. Charles was attending classes at Oxford, looked a rather lot like his father—save for in the eyes which were startlingly blue, almost to the point of sapphire. And he was sporting a blackened jaw that matched Lord Blythe’s blackened eye.

  He didn’t know much about Rose’s brother, but what little he knew of him was enough. He was a young man but he was clearly already more of a man than Lord Blythe would ever be.

  Robert’s eyes, not satisfied with the substitute on the wall, drifted down from the portrait of the petite woman that hung there and settled back upon Rose who had moved on to another painting along with the rest of their group.

  “She is beautiful,” Charles said after a moment, his own eyes remaining fixed to the painting of his late grandmother.

  Robert didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He knew of whom Charles spoke. “Yes.”

  “You’d better take good care of her. No one has ever taken care of her,” he said firmly.

  Robert turned to face the young man then and motioned towards Charles’ jaw. “It looks as though someone already has.”

  Charles’ hand moved up to the discolored flesh, the tips of his fingers pressing softly against his skin. “I’m not enough. I’m rarely here enough to protect her.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” Then, after a beat, “She told me how you met. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Robert started, alarmed, meeting Charles’ gaze directly. He didn’t know what Rose had told her brother exactly but surely she wouldn’t have shared the truth or Charles would have been ready to draw pistols at dawn.