Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  “You just leave that to me, darling. In the meantime, you will not so much as let a hair slip out of place. You will act perfectly respectable, you will show the whole of Society that you were born and bred to be a duchess and that you are worthy of that station. You will not miss a single moment of activity for the remainder of this house party. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Rose said before the older woman left her company.

  She didn’t want to agree, but at least her mama appeared to have a plan. Rose had none other than to wait.

  And she had a funny feeling that her mama was right, which frightened her more than anything else ever had. Robert hadn’t said two words to her since being scandalously caught outside on the lawn. There was nothing he could do to diffuse the situation, couldn’t explain it away. All he could do was turn to her father with a look of harsh condescension and declare they would wed. In a fortnight. He didn’t drop down on one knee, didn’t cite a list of the numerable qualities that he loved about her, didn’t even ask. He declared. He named her his and then he saddled a horse and left.

  He’d left a note of course. Penned carefully, neatly on the cream page. The note was signed sincerely, but there was nothing outside of the barest details. He didn’t reaffirm his love for her or promise to miss her every second that they were apart, and that hurt more than just a little. It hurt a lot. Perhaps he was merely a poor correspondent, but she rather didn’t believe that. He was so eloquent when he spoke, she couldn’t imagine him being any less on paper, especially with his exceptional penmanship.

  Rose was left only to believe that the fault did not lie with Robert’s skill, but with the subject.

  He had declared his love for her and that could not be denied. She had seen in his eyes his desire and knew that it was not feigned. But she knew his heart in such a way that told her that his love for her was not the only consideration.

  He was a man torn. Robert’s entire life had been prearranged for him, just as hers had been. And while she no longer despised her fate, men were fickle creatures. He had wanted freedom, and while he might love her, that did not mean that he wished for his freedom any less today than he did a week ago. He might love her, but he would come to simultaneously despise her. Rose was certain of it. It was a fact that could not be ignored.

  He wanted his freedom—he would never be satisfied without it—and she wanted to give it to him. But how could she? Would she ever love Robert enough to choose him over her sisters? And if she didn’t, did that mean she didn’t truly love him?

  They were questions she didn’t want to ask and definitely didn’t want to answer. So instead, she changed her clothes and guarded her emotions, forced her mind numb so that her thoughts wouldn’t stray to the man.

  Rose went downstairs and she accepted the backhanded comments as congratulations. She spent the remaining four days of the house party under the spotlight of all their guests, and for them she put on the show she had spent years perfecting.

  She was a duchess in all accounts and no one could deny it.

  *****

  They left yesterday, the day after the rest of their guests departed. The season had technically started two weeks prior, but anyone who was in London was a person who had missed one of the most coveted invites London had seen in years.

  Lady Blythe’s house party.

  There was really nothing like it.

  Yes, the air was still a bit chilly so far north, but the food was decadent, the house splendidly decorated, and the company impressive.

  And no one had made a bigger impression than Rose herself.

  It wouldn’t be long until all of London was abuzz with talk of her beauty, her impending nuptials, and her bosom—no doubt. How could it not be? Lady Blythe had, after all, taken great care to cultivate such a diamond. Of course, with all that chatter would come the unavoidable gossip of the scandal that Rose had brought upon herself. They had just better hope that Rose’s actions didn’t reflect poorly upon her sisters when they made their debuts in the years to follow. Or worse, overshadow the spectacular wedding being planned for Saint George’s.

  Rose sagged against the back of the seat as the carriage rocked.

  It had been an uncomfortable journey thus far. Her mama could not tolerate spending a night in a roadside inn and so they had ridden through the night on the bumpy English roads. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad had Rose been given the opportunity to relax, but every moment of the journey bore her mama’s scolding at how a proper lady should sit, even when riding in a carriage with several broken ribs for hours on end.

  With her mama blabbering on about the details for the wedding being thrown together, all Rose wanted to do was scream, but she couldn’t. She was too tired. Her chest was too tender. And every jolt of the carriage made her wince with pain, which it took all her energy not to show.

  She sighed at the slight relief the change in position bought, and immediately regretted it.

  “Sit up!” Lady Blythe barked. Well, that was what it sounded like to Rose.

  Rose gritted her teeth together to keep from grunting. “Or what?” she said through her barred teeth.

  “Really, Rosalyn, I am in no mood for your attitude today.”

  “My attitude?” Rose scoffed, stopping herself just short of rolling her eyes. The morning light might have been dim but her mother would no doubt have caught that.

  Rose just shook her head instead, pulling back the curtain further to inspect where in the journey they were.

  Lady Blythe grabbed Rose by the arm and yanked her back in her seat. “Would you sit still. I have enough to deal with as it is, the last thing I need is to have to mind you too.”

  “What, Mama? Is riding in a carriage really so taxing?”

  Rose didn’t know where she got the strength to speak so disrespectfully to her mother, but she was, for once, rather enjoying herself. She’d spent her entire life thus far trying to please the lady in question that looked so much like her, and she had never won her approval. Now, she found that she didn’t care.

  Against all odds, Rose had fallen in love with Robert and now they were going to be married. And against all odds, he loved her back. It had taken him all of five days to fall in love with her. In seventeen years, her mama had never found that. It was her loss, not Rose’s, and Rose was determined to carry it no longer. If Lady Blythe would find no approval in Rose, then neither would Rose find approval in Lady Blythe.

  Robert might come to resent Rose as her mama had, but at least she would have the memory of his love. She’d never had that with Lady Blythe. Lady Blythe was a cold, heartless aristocrat who lived to torture her eldest daughter. Rose was prepared to wash her hands clean of it. Happily.

  Lady Blythe pressed her lips more firmly together at Rose’s derision and remained perfectly still for the last stretch of their journey to their home in Mayfair. Rose, on the other hand, fidgeted relentlessly. Not merely because of her great discomfort, but because she took a tremendous amount of satisfaction in her mama’s disapproval, even as Lady Blythe did not utter another syllable or even twitch.

  However, as the carriage finally rolled to a stop, Rose schooled herself with the proper decorum of a well-bred aristocrat. Wrist arched perfectly, Rose accepted the proffered hand of the waiting footman and descended the carriage with all the grace that had been instilled in her. Every step up to the waiting door was made with intent, and she knew that anyone who might be watching out their windows, would be in awe at how she appeared to float along the pavement. To them, this would all seem natural, as though she were born walking thus, but on the inside she was dead. She’d had to be killed so that this machine of a lady could exist. It wasn’t merely a piece of her—it felt like the entirety of her had been killed.

  Until she entered Gordon House, the Blythe’s Mayfair home. Then she realized that now she had died.

  Chapter 23

  She took the stairs by two, grinding her teeth to dust as she painstakingl
y ignored the agony slicing through her chest. She made it to the nursery in record time, albeit a bit winded.

  All through the house the screams were heard—the stone structure practically rocking upon the foundation—and they only grew louder the closer she got. When Rose finally skidded to a halt in the open doorway, panting, her body shaking, she struggled not to cover her ears to save her hearing.

  There was a maid, looking clearly distraught and entirely disheveled, standing in the corner, and in a heap on the floor was a girl of seventeen years with hair the color of spun gold, and behind those eyelids, squeezed shut, were eyes that were neither grey nor blue, so light that they were almost no color at all.

  Rose fell to her knees on the floor, covering the screaming heap with her arms, whispering in her ear like she was imparting a secret, like a mother comforting a terrified child upon awakening from a nightmare. To the bundle in her arms, it was like a nightmare. Every moment was like a nightmare, and Rose was the only one of her family brave enough—compassionate enough—to confront it, to herald away darkness in the soul she held in her hands.

  The shaking and the beating of fists subsided as the mass quieted, and Rose smiled into the uncombed hair. “Now, my dear Jacqueline, is that how you greet your favorite sister?”

  She felt Jackie’s smile on her upper arm where her cheek rested. And even though it had been nearly a year since she had looked upon her face, she could already picture the lopsided grin that was written across it.

  Rose kissed the hair her face nuzzled. “I’ve missed you.”

  Jackie’s only answer was a grunt. Though, a grunt of approval, to be sure.

  Rose allowed her sister to pull back, letting her sit up properly—as though there was anything proper about sitting on the floor.

  A year hadn’t much changed her sister and Rose was glad for that. It wasn’t that she feared she would forget her sister’s face—all she had to do was stare into the nearest looking glass to recover it. But it was always a delight, and a surprise, when she did finally see her. There were the obvious differences in their features. Take, for instance, the fact that Jackie’s eyes didn’t quite remain straight like everyone else’s, but, rather, crossed perplexingly and had a tendency to shift of their own volition. There was also that Jackie wore glasses, was slightly shorter and carried nearly a half-stone more weight. But really, there wasn’t much difference between the two females, both born ladies but only one treated as such.

  Jackie had been born on the same day as Rose, of the same mother. But where Rose had been born perfect, Jackie had not. When, at the age of five, it became apparent that Jackie would not amount to the standard their parents wished and Society expected, she was sent away.

  Jackie lived in the family’s cottage in Cumbria. The family’s cottage, which the family never frequented. Once a year, Jackie was brought down to Lincolnshire and that was all Rose saw of her—all Rose was allowed to see of her.

  No one knew quite what was wrong with Jackie, but all agreed that something was wrong. Not that they ever sought the opinion of a doctor. If it were discovered that, of their blood, was born an invalid, the family’s reputation would suffer. So she’d been shipped away and forgotten. No one remembered the little girl who used to scream night and day because she could not speak. And anyone who had remembered that Rose had been born a twin, quickly assumed that her counterpart had perished.

  But she hadn’t. Jackie was very much alive. And very much forgotten. Save by one.

  If there ever was a person that could be your other half, it was a twin. To Rose, it did not matter—had never mattered—that her sister could not speak and had a tendency to throw herself into fits. Rose loved her dearly and mourned her desperately when she was sent away. But she wasn’t dead and Rose wouldn’t let her be forgotten. Not in her eyes.

  Now she was here, in London, and what a surprise that was.

  Rose brushed the hair out of her counterpart’s face so that she could see her more clearly. “My dear sister,” she murmured on a smile.

  She could practically feel the disdain when it entered the room—it was radiating like rays of sun, burning the back of her neck. No surprise, when she turned, it was to find Lady Blythe’s cold gaze lowered onto them.

  “I see you’ve found the reason for you untimely presentation,” her mama sneered.

  Rose was ready to do battle, forming the word “What?” on her tongue, but held herself silent at the last moment.

  She was once again the dutiful daughter she had always been. Silent and reserved, compliant. Such ladies did not question their elders—certainly not their parents.

  Rose should have felt strong. In the carriage, just minutes before, she had felt ready to take on anything that might step in her path—an entire army if need be—but she had once again been reduced to feeling as nothing more than a thorn in her mama’s side.

  It wasn’t so difficult to deduce why this was. It wasn’t that Rose suddenly forgot how to be strong. She needed to be strong in a different manner. With her three younger sisters safe and alone at home in Lincolnshire, she had only herself to protect on the journey to London. Now, it was no longer just herself that she needed to shield, but Jackie. She needed to protect this sister, more than any of the others. The way to do that lay in a road of compliance. To anger Lady Blythe would be invite her animosity. But if Rose could keep her placated, then there was hope for Rose and Jackie both.

  Lady Blythe made an impatient sniff that sounded remarkably like she was rolling her eyes without actually having done so. “Don’t get too comfortable. She won’t be here for long,” she said before disappearing into the hall once more.

  Rose clung to her sister as she felt unease grip her as though it were a fist lodged in her stomach.

  Chapter 24

  The days had been long, and the nights longer.

  Robert had heard separation to be described as such, but he had never really believed it. Or rather, he feared to. Believing that one could love another so tremendously that without them the days literally felt as though they grew longer, was frightening. Mostly because he’d known that he would never be able to have a love like that. And if he did manage to find it, every day he lived would be perpetually long because he’d have to live without it.

  But he had found it, and now he did know that the saying was true.

  Every moment he spent without Rose felt twice as long as it should have.

  At night, he stared blankly up toward the ceiling, picturing Rose in the darkness. When he did manage to drift off to sleep it was only to dream of her. And when he was awake, going about his business in the day, all his thoughts revolved around her.

  It was almost unbelievable that just over a week prior he didn’t even know her. He’d despised her and yet he didn’t even know her.

  It was almost laughable.

  How much energy had he expended actively hating her? And now, without her, time seemed inexplicably long.

  He couldn’t wait to see her, though there wasn’t much time in which to do so. He had much to do. Not that he had much involvement in the wedding arrangements—all that was being taken care of by the mothers—but he had other responsibilities. He was a duke after all, and he’d finally come to the conclusion that he’d better start acting like it. So he called for his solicitor to have a look at his accounts, and he’d summoned his steward, Mr. Danvers, so that he might begin the tedious training of managing his estates.

  All that and he’d decided to dust off his seat in the House of Lords. It was only right, after all. He may have been born to a life of privilege, but so many others weren’t and they could not simply be forgotten or ignored. His was the voice they’d been given and it was about time that he began using it.

  It took a full two days after Rose’s arrival in London for Robert to find his way the short distance from his home on Grosvenor Square to hers on Berkeley Square.

  He felt nervous as he stepped down out of his carriage. He felt lazy as w
ell, and if there was one emotion he felt more comfortable clinging to in that moment, it was the latter. His home was but a short distance away. He could have easily walked or, at the least, ridden his horse, but he wanted the moment when he saw Rose for the first time since they became engaged to be perfect. He didn’t want his cheeks pinked by the walk, his hair ruffled, his clothing wrinkled, and he certainly did not want to smell of horse. So he’d ridden over in a carriage.

  His mother and Agatha had been most adamant that they too would like to pay call, but he’d been fortunate enough to hold them at bay. For now. He wanted a moment alone with his betrothed. He needed a moment by himself to breathe her in, for it felt as though his lungs were starving.

  When he was ushered inside, it was not Rose who joined him after a respectable quarter of an hour, but her mother.

  “Lady Blythe,” Robert murmured, doing—in his esteemed opinion—a remarkable job at keeping a thin veil over his disappointment. And his annoyance. He was most definitely annoyed.

  He wanted to see Rose. Not the older, colder version of her.

  After they concluded with the formalities, in which they each asked to the welfare of the other—and the other’s families—Lady Blythe moved on to matters of actual interest to Robert. Her daughter.

  “Lady Rosalyn is unfortunately not at home, at present, your Grace.”

  That day she was at the dressmakers. The next it was the haberdashers. Then she’d been out for a walk in the park. Every day brought a new excuse for Rose’s absence. And every day raised Robert’s temper just a little more, weakened his patience a bit further.

  He had no way of knowing what was going on in that household. He wrote letters and they went unanswered. He paid call and Rose did not appear. He attended balls and soirees and musicales, and still there was no sign of Rose.

  Had her father beaten her again so that she was not well enough to leave her room? Or was she up to her old tricks of running away?