by Lavinia Kent
A few brief conversations with a dear acquaintance, Mrs. Huntley, had led to a brisk correspondence with Lady Smythe-Burke, who was apparently a true doyenne of London society and the aunt of Rose’s near neighbor, the Duke of Westlake. That, through various webs of correspondence, had woven a very satisfactory list of eligible gentlemen and of the ladies who would round out the party. Lady Smythe-Burke herself had even condescended to attend. All but one of the guests were set to arrive on the morrow.
Rose smiled at the tangle of it all. She had conquered.
Plan. List. Plan.
Life could be so simple if one were organized. She left nothing to chance.
A timid knock on the door drew her attention, and she rose to answer. Her stockinged feet sank deep into the rich carpet, and she relished the small pleasure.
She opened the door a crack to see Marguerite standing on the other side, dressed in her nightgown, with a heavy wrap drawn about her shoulders. Rose stepped back to allow her sister into her chamber.
“I am so sorry to disturb you, sister,” Marguerite said. “But I could not sleep. It is too exciting, waiting for the guests tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry. Come in and sit down. As you can see, I haven’t retired yet. My maid has a cold, and I sent her to bed down with Cook. I know she’ll be well cared for there. I haven’t even summoned someone else to help with my laces.” Rose gestured to the simple lavender gown she still wore. “Besides, I must confess to feeling a certain restlessness myself.”
Marguerite perched on the edge of the writing desk’s delicate chair. “I can hardly believe you are going through with it.”
“Hosting a house party surely does not call for such surprise.”
“But, it is not just a house party.”
“Of course it is,” Rose said.
“But, your purpose.”
“You mean to find a husband.”
“Well, yes.”
“And what is surprising about that? I must tell you it is probably the purpose of most such events. Why else would one go to such bother? It is purely a matter of expediency.”
“I do not know that I believe that. I still do not understand why you would seek a husband.” Marguerite edged closer and stared at Rose. “I think you have been very happy just delving through the piles of paper and whatnots left in Burberry’s library.”
“I am surprised at your confusion.” Rose refused to meet her sister’s glance. “I thought you believed it the most glorious goal of all women to seek a husband and live ever after in romantic bliss.”
“I do. Well, at least I believe it is every girl’s duty to seek a good marriage, one that will do her family proud.” Marguerite’s curls quivered and her cheeks grew rosy. “But, you have already been married. You always said you loved the admiral. I just thought you’d mourn him longer.”
Rose pursed her lips and nodded, wanting to show the common sense for which she was known. Her primary reasons for seeking matrimony were sensible. “It’s been a year and three months as of yesterday. I did love Burberry. John was as good and noble a man as ever there was, and he made for a most caring husband.”
“Then how can you think of remarrying so soon? I know if I lost my great love I would mourn for a lifetime, perhaps go into a decline and perish myself. I know I could never so coldly think of taking another husband.”
Rose choked back the nervous laugh that her sister’s naiveté provoked. Probably Rose had similar thoughts herself at seventeen, though she had not been nearly as sheltered by their stepmother. Truly, Mary had kept Marguerite in the shade!
Rose walked over to her sister and knelt beside her, bringing their eyes to the same level.
“Oh, Marguerite, I know that when you love, it will be forever, and you will know a constant happiness, if only you can find a man worthy of you. But, for myself, that was not to be. I did love John and always will, but I find myself at a loss without a husband. I had grown used to the wedded state and I miss it greatly.”
In less than a second, Marguerite grew redder than a robin’s breast. “Oh.” The one word and hurried gulp spoke volumes.
As Rose followed her sister’s thoughts, her own color darkened, as well. “No, I don’t mean that. I will fulfill what is expected of me as a wife, to be sure, but I already have a daughter. All the funds John left me are unentailed. I will seek to have them protected in the marriage settlement. If Anna is left a bit of an heiress, so much the better. I would be happy with further offspring, but would survive without.”
“But, it’s about more than children. Surely your husband . . .” Marguerite’s face grew even darker. “I’ve heard that men, that they - well, that they need a lot.”
“That has not been my experience.” Rose clenched her fingers at this uncomfortable discussion. She well knew that life with John had not been typical. “In any case, I know you are not familiar with society, but husbands and wives avoid each other’s beds with great frequency.”
Marguerite lowered her eyes and chewed on her lower lip at these frank words. Not wanting to further endanger her sister’s ideals, Rose walked over to her and, bending down, took her sister’s soft hands in her own slightly rougher ones. “Oh, dearest. Of course I want a husband with whom I feel warmth and desire.” Rose was overcome by memories of a moonlit, sweaty night and the delights it had held. “Passion . . . passion is magical and wonderful and all the things your young heart imagines. It just isn’t necessary for a good marriage. For myself it is much more important to find a man who respects me and lets me be free to pursue the life I desire, than that I find one who makes me tingle in most improper places.” A sudden image of hot, green eyes and warm, calloused hands momentarily overcame her — but she squelched it ruthlessly, as she had done so often over the past years.
“But, Rose, how can you say such things?” Marguerite began. “I know that making a good marriage is important and every woman’s duty, but surely you want more. I would always do what Mama thought was best, but I must confess I long for . . . I know I . . . oh, forgive me. It is that you still mourn for Burberry, is it not? Of course, how can you dream of passion with another man when you are still in love with the admiral? You just sound so practical, I forget how great your love was. Do forgive me.”
Turning her face away, Rose walked back to the settee. It was so much easier to let Marguerite keep her youthful fantasies than to explain the whole, complex situation.
It was so much simpler not to delve into her past marriage. How did you explain to a seventeen-year-old that you’d had the happiest of all marriages, yet not slept with your husband after the first year and that the illness that ravaged John’s body killed so many other dreams as well?
“Marguerite, you need to rest now.” Rose hoped that would end the conversation. “You don’t want to be wilted and faded before young Lord Simon Moreland, now, do you? How will you ever catch a gentleman if you don’t look your best?”
The giggles continued. “Me, catch a gentleman? Do not be silly. Whatever would a gentleman want with plain Miss Marguerite Wilkes? Besides, you know Mama thinks I am too young. I am lucky she has let me put my hair up.”
Rose smothered the thought that Marguerite was undoubtedly right. Her stepmother would hold onto the girl as long as possible and then probably marry her off to some dour but prosperous merchant. It was amazing that Mary had even let Marguerite visit Rose for the summer. Rose still wasn’t sure which of her pleas had touched Mary’s heart. Maybe it was nothing more than a mercantile calculation in avoiding the cost of Marguerite’s care and summer wardrobe. Mary did know how to spend the same penny three times and still have change left.
Rose forced her mind back to the conversation. “Well, be that true or not, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a little practice being wooed. I think you’ll be surprised at how intriguing the gentlemen will find you. You’re young and fresh and as lovely as a summer daisy. If I, in my advanced age, have hope, surely you can dream a little.”
Rose lay back on the settee and stared up at the delicate plaster frieze edging the ceiling. The round plaster cupids looked remarkably like Anna at the same age, all soft pudgy limbs and dimpled smiles. How she longed for her daughter’s baby days, to feel that soft, silk of hair caressing her chin, that magical baby smell tickling her nose. It had passed too quickly.
Maybe, with a new husband would come new babies. Twenty-nine was not ancient. Her body softened with the dream of future infants staring up at her, with large emerald eyes and glowing blond curls.
She lurched up, swearing. There would be no further green-eyed babes. That was her past, both her greatest mistake and most treasured gift. For the last five years, and most particularly this last, she had worked so hard to forget that afternoon, to put aside the dreams that could never be. Yes, she had made a mistake, a big one, but she refused to let it affect the rest of her life more than it must. She would not be weak now.
Even a year ago when she’d seen him, seen Wulf, in those dreadful days after John’s death, when he returned to torment her at John’s funeral, her memories had not plagued her like this, wrapping themselves around her with their siren call. Fate had been cruel placing him before her in the moment of her darkest grief, opening her to the unforgiving words he’d flung at her so carelessly. She could still hear his cold condemnation echoing through her mind.
Her chest heavy and her eyes pricking with sudden unwelcome emotion, Rose reached for the basin and splashed tepid water in an attempt to push away unwelcome thoughts.
Chewing on her trembling lower lip, Rose settled back and closed her eyes, just for a moment. Soon she’d summon someone to unlace her, and then settle in for the night. Tomorrow would be a busy day. Yes, she’d close them just for a moment.
A thunderous pounding on the door below dragged Rose from her restless slumber. She rubbed the cobwebs and gravel from her eyes, trying to remember where she had left off. She’d slept on the settee, without bothering to change or snuff the candles. Judging by how far they’d burned, it must have been hours since she first fell asleep.
Why hadn’t her maid awakened her? Oh, yes – the cough and cold.
She ran rapid fingers through her hair, smoothing it as best she could, and shook out her skirts before heading down to see what the ruckus was.
Who would be arriving at this time of night? Nobody was expected before tomorrow afternoon, and surely it was too late for any respectable travel?
Sudden concern agitated her. Could it be an emergency? With that thought foremost in her mind, Rose rushed into the upper hall and towards the stairs. The heavy front door groaned open as she approached the top. She hurried down, tripping over her skirts, as she realized she was still unshod.
“May I tell Lady Burberry who is calling?” Matson’s practiced tone resonated up the stair.
Rose didn’t hear the reply as a great bear of a man stalked through the door and shook dust of his coat, his heavily muscled shoulders rippling beneath his shirt. His presence filled the hall.
No.
She must still be asleep. Surely, her unwanted thoughts could not have summoned him. She closed her eyes, then opened them again.
Damnation.
He had no right to be here. After the things he had said, he would never dare show his face, not here, in her home.
Mocking green eyes turned upwards and pinned her to the stair.
“I don’t think it will be necessary to inform her of my identity. She knows very well who I am.”
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