The Last Rose Pearl: A Low Country Love Story (Low Country Love Stories Book 1)

by Grace Walton

  Now she was trapped. She sat wondering if he was apologizing for the kisses, or for the dreadful teasing this morning, or for something else. Something unpleasant that might happen tonight. Maybe she should send the stranger, the one with the perfect dress and hair, to the party in her place.

  Then she could stay here in her bedchamber where she felt safe and need not go out in the dark night to an awful old ball. A ball where she would inevitably be the center of attention. Something she hated worse than a toothache. It’d been bad enough during the last few seasons when she’d been the brunt of so much negative comment. But tonight was bound to be worse.

  No one was going to believe that awkward little duckling Rory Windsor had turned into this elegant swan who stared back at her from the mirror. And nobody was going to believe a man like Dylan St. John had fallen madly in love with her either. What in the world had she gotten herself into this time, she wondered fatalistically. Her skirt twitched as she nervously tapped one slipper shod foot against the leg of the vanity table.

  Rory carefully touched a petal of the gardenia. She had instructed the maid to pin the dainty white flower into her coiffure. And there it perched spreading a heady fragrance in a circle all around her. The enormous emerald winked from her left hand. It felt heavy through her glove and made a sharp contrast against the purity of the soft kid leather.

  Marie said, in a heavy French accent, that the stranger in the mirror looked perfect before she had bustled out the door. But nobody was perfect. And even though Rory wanted to believe the Frenchwoman, she could not.

  Marie insisted she wear no jewelry and had turned up her little French nose at Rory's homemade rose pearls. The string of black beads sat in the open jewel case on the vanity. Rory stared at them. She wondered if she dared to go against the advice of the professional dresser. If she was going to face all the lions waiting in that den of a ballroom tonight, she’d better wear them. It seemed like a sensible thing to do, she assured herself. So in the end, sentiment overcame fashion. Rory fastened the necklace around her throat. The smooth ebony pearls made a dramatic contrast to the pristine beaded gown. And unknown to Rory, the beads would automatically draw eyes to her lavish bosom.

  With a resigned sigh and a quick prayer, she got up and walked out the door. Dangling from her wrist was a delicate chicken-skin fan overpainted with roses and ribbons and a reticule beaded to match the dress. The bag was a little piece of feminine foolishness. But what it held was not. Rory decided to take her role as a spy seriously. To that end, she felt she must be prepared to defend herself or Dylan, if need be.

  She’d tucked into the tiny purse a short barreled pistol Bram gave her years ago. It looked more like a piece of art to her when she'd taken it from its hiding place in a box on the mantle than a weapon. She admired its smooth shiny surface and lightness as she'd loaded it. Bram had taught her that too. Loading and cleaning were easy. Shooting at targets was easy. She knew she could point it at a person, but was doubtful if she would ever be able to fire at someone.

  With a look of determination at her reflection in the mirror, she pushed herself away from the dressing table and left her room. Gathering the fullness of her skirt at the top of the stairs, she prepared to descend. But the sight of the waiting man at the bottom of the stairs made her stop.

  Severe black formal evening clothes made Dylan look dark, dangerous, and criminally handsome. She admired the breadth of his shoulders in the tightly fitted coat and the long muscled line of his legs in the snug pantaloons. Rory noticed a large diamond winking from the intricate folds of his snowy cravat. And she saw the rich patina of a gold ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. She’d noticed that ring many times. But since she’d been told about the mysterious Mariah, she hadn't found the courage to ask any questions. Rory was afraid of the answers. Because the simple gold ring looked like a wedding band. She didn't want to know if he'd bought it for the dead Mariah. She didn’t want to know he now wore it in her memory.

  They stood rooted, watching each other for long moments. He was the one who finally broke the awkwardness. He smiled gravely up towards her. He lifted a beckoning hand.

  Rory smiled back. She carefully picked her way down the steps. She placed a trusting hand into his. Dylan, she thought with relief, he could handle any situation that arose. All she had to do was be herself. That is what he'd told her. It was going to work. He would make it all work.

  He bent low over her hand and kissed it. “You will be by far the loveliest lady at the ball tonight, and I am deeply honored to be your escort,” he said. The deep words were practiced and mechanical.

  They were the words a man might say as a duty and never mean. They were the words a man would use with someone he had just met. Words that meant nothing given to someone who was unimportant to him.

  Rory was puzzled. She didn't know this aloof stranger. This cold man wasn't the Dylan St. John she knew. The Dylan she knew would be saying something outrageous. Something that would bring a flush of color to her pale cheeks or make her laugh. Her insecurity with this dignified stranger made her stumble over a reply.

  “And you will surely be the most attractive man there. Everyone will be at odds wondering how in the world you've come to be with me.” As soon as the words tumbled from her mouth, she realized how totally unsuitable they sounded.

  Dylan analytically watched a tide of embarrassed crimson crawl up her face. “Did that ridiculous French maid Sander employed drape all the mirrors?” he asked drily.

  Rory shook her head. She said, “No.”

  “Well then you must know that when we walk into the ballroom tonight, every man there will hate me because you'll be on my arm instead of theirs.” The words were flattering. But his expression of condescension made her feel like a stupid backward child.

  “And every woman will hate me because they would want to be on your arm in my place.” Her words were honest and direct. They were spoken without a hint of flirtatiousness.

  “But as my affianced wife, you are the only woman who belongs there,” Dylan continued on in even tones. “And Aurora, you must promise me not to say the first thing that comes into your mind to other gentlemen tonight. I know you well enough to take what you say in the spirit it is intended. Others may not.”

  “How was what I said intended?” She watched his hard face intently.

  “They were social bagatelles. Flattery used as leverage in a polite conversation.” Dylan's narrowed eyes challenged her to disagree. When she didn't, he tucked her cool passive hand into the crook of his arm. He led her toward Tirzah, who stood by the door with a warm ivory cloak.

  “Remember what I told you before. I've got more important things to do tonight than rescue you from confused puppies.”

  His words seemed dead as they fell on her ears. He took the cloak from the black woman and settled it around Rory's shoulders. She stood in a daze as he efficiently fastened the silk frogs at her throat when she made no move to fasten them herself.

  “My words were not an empty compliment,” she argued softly once they had passed Tirzah.

  Soon they were outside at the waiting coach. One of the carriage horses pawed the ground impatiently and snorted as the man and woman stood watching each other. Neither made a move to climb into the coach. Both seemed intent on somehow reading the other's thoughts.

  Rory could stand the tension no longer. She tried to speak. But her words died in her throat as a strong hand grasped her elbow and helped her into the coach.

  “Neither were mine.”

  The sudden starkness of his voice surprised her. She settled against the squabs inside, waiting for him to continue. Dylan climbed into the carriage. Instead of joining her, he sat as far away from her as he could on the opposite seat. He didn't speak. The darkness of the carriage made it impossible for her to study his face. Even if she could see him, Rory doubted she could have determined what he was thinking.

  His emotions seldom showed across his face. The few times t
hey had, she was sure he’d intended her to see only the feelings he’d projected. Therefore, she was fairly certain she'd seen exactly what he'd meant for her to see. The scent of lemons and spices tickled her nose.

  “You smell good.” She rolled her eyes in disgust. Would she ever be able to control her wayward tongue?

  “I'm gratified you think so,” said the urbane faceless man across from her.

  In the unlit carriage only the white of his neckcloth and shirt was visible. The coach windows were closed against the frigid December night. That eliminated any possible source of light.

  “I suggest, however, that you refrain from making such personal comments to your dance partners tonight.” The superior tone of his voice grated against her already taut nerves.

  “I'm surprised you intend to let me loose at the party at all. Who knows what terrible social blunders I might commit? Who would believe the legendary Heartless St. John could attach himself to such a hopelessly gauche female? In fact,”

  “That's enough Aurora.” The cold words cut her off.

  “No it is not enough,” she spit out angrily. “In case you've forgotten, this engagement is a farce. You keep telling me you're leaving. Well, when you finally do leave, and let me tell it can't be too soon, I want to be me. I won't turn into some kind of flirtatious, swooning, mindless ninny just to please you. I don't care if I'm not your idea of the perfect woman. I'm going to be who I am.”

  “Are you through?” he drawled.

  “Yes,” she said and sat back against the cushioned seat in a huff. She crossed her arms across her heaving chest, and added ungraciously, “For now.”

  Rory could hear him withdrawing something from his greatcoat pocket. Then a flash of brilliance and the acrid odor of sulfur filled the coach as he struck a lucifer. She caught a momentary glimpse of narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw as he lit a slender brown cigar. Those eyes casually watched the flame. Then bore relentlessly into her own before he blew out the match.

  “Don't make personal remarks to men tonight. Don't leave the ballroom unless you tell me first. Don't dance with Abraham Gottlieb. And save all your waltzes for me.” The abrupt instructions were laid out with mechanical precision. Cruelty was sometimes kind he told himself. This was for the best, he'd decided. Better than a seduction where she might convince herself was love. Yes, this was by far the best thing he could do for Rory. Maybe one day he'd truly convince himself, one day far in the future.

  “Yes, sir!” She saluted sarcastically. Rory knew she was goading him, but couldn't stop herself. “I'll do my duty, sir, anything else, sir?”

  He took a deep pull on the cigar making its tip glow bright red. “Yes, there is one more thing.”

  “Oh, and what might that be?”

  “Try to make people believe you love me.”

  “I'm not that good of an actress.” It was a scathing reply.

  “Pity.”

  She felt rather than saw the massive shoulders shrug at the bored word. This was wrong, all wrong her heart cried out. Where was the man who had kissed her with such passionate tenderness? Where was the man who could calm all her fears and vowed to be her friend? Where was that wonderful, complicated man? She needed him right now, desperately. Something or someone had changed. She knew it wasn't her. The sting of unshed tears burned the back of her throat.

  “Dylan what is wrong?” All the heat was gone from her voice. She just wanted an honest answer.

  “There is nothing wrong.” His neutral words did not convince her.

  “Yes there is,” she insisted. “Why are you acting so coldly? Did I offend you in some way? If I did, I'm sorry. Truly, I am.”

  What he said next would remain seared in her memory from that moment until the day she died.

  “Aurora, I'm not offended. I thought you understood that what we have is a business relationship. Any warmth.” There was an ugly cutting quality to the word. “That you have perceived from me towards you is exclusively for the benefit of our ruse. And as we do not have an audience here in the coach with us, it would be rather foolish of me to keep up the pretense. Don't you agree?”

  “Who were you playing to this morning?” The words sounded accusing.

  “If I remember correctly, two maids hovering in the doorway.”

  “I only saw Sander,” she challenged insisting that he prove the claim.

  “I'm sure you did. The maids were a trifle embarrassed to find their mistress in such a compromising position. They scurried off at a fair clip. But Sander does not suffer from such delicacy of mind.”

  “I didn't see them,” Rory said weakly, stunned at the cynical brutality of his words. “What about the kiss at the Lavender Rose?” She didn't want to believe this was happening. No, this was absolutely not happening.

  “Did I kiss you there?” He drew deeply on the cigarillo again. “Forgive me. I don't remember it, but never fear, my dear,” he continued along in the same vein. “You'll have all my slavish adoration as soon as there is someone about to witness it being lavished upon you.”

  He didn't remember? Oh good Lord in Heaven, the stunned words whirled through her mind. She had been reliving that kiss and the words he'd whispered with it all afternoon. And he didn't even remember. That was the cruelest blow of all.

  Rory felt dizzy as she cast around for something to say that might possibly salvage her pride. Where were the words, she asked herself dully? I need to say something, so he doesn't know what a fool I've been over him. But any reply, she would have made, was forever canceled by a vigorous rap heard through the roof of the carriage. Rory jumped at the sound.

  “What was that?”

  “Sander,” he answered enigmatically.

  “Why is he driving instead of our coachman?” she wondered aloud intensely glad to have something to focus on. She coughed and pointed at his cigarillo.

  “He's driving because I asked him to.” Dylan opened the door, He obligingly flicked his cigar out into the cold darkness of the street, and stepped cautiously down into the black night.

  Rory could hear him climb up to sit beside his uncle. She heard them speaking in low accents, but couldn't make out what they were saying. After several minutes, Rory felt the coach sway with the movement of Dylan's climb down. He stepped back into the carriage. This time he seated himself beside the puzzled girl.

  “We're very close to the Avansley's,” he answered her unspoken question. He pushed up the window cover.

  Rory could see their carriage was one in a lengthy line stretching around the corner. The end of the queue led to the circular drive of the Avansley townhouse. Every coach pulled into the drive, discharged its passengers, and rumbled off to park in an empty lot the Avansley's had leased down the street. Neither Dylan nor Rory said a word as the carriage made its slow progress toward the well-lit house. They sat like actors offstage waiting for their cue.

  He watched her nervously tap the costly fan against her hand. Her beautiful eyes were strained. She stared with a fixed expression out the open window. As Sander reined the horses into the drive, Dylan gently pulled the startled girl into his arms. He gave her what appeared to the surprised footman who opened the door to be a passionate kiss.

  She felt the wonderful warm pressure of his lips against her own. And even though every particle in her screamed out to return his caress, she didn't. She didn't. She lay like one dead in his arms. Her mouth tightly closed and eyes wide open. His eyes held hers during that eternal frozen kiss. She saw they were as black as his soul must be. Black and cold and empty. It was just a game, she finally realized, a cruel and numbing game.

  An involuntary moan of pain ripped from her throat before she could stop it. Then she closed her eyes. She had to. Her eyes would tell too much. They would tell what he mustn't ever know. That to her, there was no game. The love she gave was real, unwanted but real just the same. Instantly the frozen coupling of their lips stopped. The embrace changed to one of comfort and consolation. A tiny sob caught in her throat.
She buried her face in the folds of his cravat. As a hiding place, it was barely adequate. Then Rory felt the merest feather of a tender kiss pressed to her temple. It helped. She didn't know why, but it did.

  Because of Dylan's broad back, the servant could not see the lack of response from the strangely passive woman. But her supposed lover did. He wasn't surprised. In fact, the whole episode was planned this afternoon. Planned as he lay in his room, staring at the ceiling searching for answers to questions he didn’t want to ask himself. From the moment he’d caught a glimpse of her standing so regally at the top of the stairs, he had driven matters to this very point. He’d distanced himself from her in such a way that, in the future, she would be able to remember the events of the evening to come without pain. Hatred perhaps, but not pain. After all, he had proven himself to be a heartless blackguard, and anything else that transpired tonight would just serve to prove what she already knew was true.

  Dylan broke away and spoke sheepishly, “Forgive me darling, we seem to have arrived.”

  The footman was too well schooled to comment upon the impropriety of the situation. He stood aside as the big man helped his lady out of the carriage. The servant in crimson livery didn't think twice about the lady's exceedingly stiff posture. Or that she didn't wait on her gentleman to join her in the torch lit walk up the dozen steps to the mansion's entrance. The quality had strange ways, he mused. One minute they acted like they were anticipating their wedding night. The next minute you would swear they didn't even know each other.

  Rory seemed to come to herself when an impressively matched pair of footmen sprang to attention as she reached the threshold of the Avansley's home. By that time, Dylan had caught up with her. He firmly gripped her elbow, keeping her from sailing through the massive oak doors unescorted.

  She felt his touch as someone experiences a not quite pleasant dream. What had started out as a wish come true was rapidly turning into a nightmare.