by Kelly Bowen
And none of them had ever made him forget Rose.
But all of that happened long before Eli had discovered that a man’s character defined his fate. That was before they had all ridden off to war without a backward glance. Before he had understood the repercussions of his ignorance and self-absorption.
Before he understood that of all the regrets that had risen to plague him, Rose would be the greatest.
* * *
It was a half hour later when Eli finally dressed and stepped out of the plush bedroom he had sought refuge in last night. No one had come to disturb him, which suited him just fine, though he mourned the absence of water to wash. He felt rumpled and filthy and like an imposter in his own home. In his own life, really. All the things that surrounded him at this moment—the lavish wealth, the sumptuous decor, the presence of efficient servants—were things he had once taken for granted. Expected. Demanded, even. Now that he was back, that old lifestyle seemed to sit uncomfortably on his skin. Like an ill-fitting coat that chafed and pulled and left him feeling out of sorts.
Perhaps he had recognized that his return to England might be like this. Perhaps that was a reason he had chosen Avondale—to afford himself the seclusion and the time to acclimate to a life he’d left behind. Though that possibility had been dashed spectacularly by the presence of the Hayward family, and now he was stuck here with London as his only option.
Unless, of course, he put his tail between his legs and slunk back to Belgium. But that would be the action of a coward, and Eli still had some tattered remnants of pride. He only hoped they would be enough.
Eli had dressed in clothes that were still muddy and damp, hunger clawing at his empty stomach. He made his way down the long hall and descended the wide staircase but, mercifully, encountered no one along the way. Retracing his steps of the night before, he bypassed the opulent dining room, where breakfast had always been served, and headed straight for the kitchens. He had no interest in another difficult conversation with another Hayward. No wish to face Rose and her distrust. But servants, in his experience, would obey orders and ask no questions. They’d gossip later, of course, but he wouldn’t have to listen to it.
The scent of fresh-baked bread still lingered in the air as he got closer, but more important was the blessed sound of silence. If he was lucky, the kitchens would be deserted. He could get what he’d come for and make a quick escape. Looking over his shoulder to verify no one had followed him, he hurried down the narrow hall and rounded the corner.
It took a moment for it to sink in that there was a crowd of people gathered around the large butcher block table. It took another moment, a moment in which he could have fled but remained frozen with indecision, before every single one of those people turned and stared at him directly.
Eli flinched and pivoted out of habit, presenting the side of his face that was not ruined and sliding farther into the shadow of the hall. He fought the sudden and overwhelming urge to spin and retreat the way he had come. Part of him wondered if it might not be more expedient to throw himself off the nearest cliff.
“Eli?” He heard his name from somewhere in the back of the knotted group, which seemed to be made up of women. Young women, to be precise, varying degrees of interest in their expressions.
He had woken from one nightmare only to walk into another.
There was a commotion near the back of the group, and an elderly woman separated herself and crossed the worn flagstones with an astonishing swiftness. Eli suddenly found himself caught in an embrace, looking down at a head of silver hair knotted neatly at the back of her head. A second woman appeared at his side, this one taller but no less fervent in her embrace as she wrapped her arms around his middle as well.
“Aunt Theo?” he mumbled through his confusion. “Aunt Tabitha?”
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” the shorter and rounder of the two said into his still-damp coat, her voice somewhat muffled.
Eli’s memory struggled to reconcile the women currently squeezing the life out of him with the aunts he had barely known before he had left England. He’d met them only a handful of times growing up and hadn’t given them much more than perfunctory recognition and hadn’t given them even a thought when he’d decided to come to Avondale. That being the case, he was quite certain he didn’t deserve the affection that they were currently showering upon him.
They were his father’s sisters, both widowed, both having chosen to live out their lives in the quiet, remote solitude of Dover. Or at least that was what Eli had assumed. But glancing up at the group of young ladies watching them expectantly, he saw that his aunts seemed to be in the thick of whatever the hell he had walked into.
“I never believed you were dead,” the taller, Tabitha, sniffed as she pulled back to look at him, her cheeks flushed.
“Nor I,” Lady Theodosia declared, extricating herself from the bulk of his coat to join her sister. “I never gave up hope.” She gave his arm a squeeze and swiped at her eyes, which seemed to have become misty. “When our dear Rose told us of your return this morning, I knew our prayers had been answered.”
“We are so thankful and happy that you’re home.” Tabitha’s faded blue eyes skimmed over his face, his clothes, and back up, and Eli braced himself for the pity that he knew was coming. He knew exactly what they were thinking. He knew exactly what they were going to say. God knew he had heard it too many times to count—
“But you need a bath,” Lady Theodosia tutted, her nose wrinkling in her round face.
Eli blinked. A bath?
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Tabitha replied, nodding. “And a decent change of clothes. It looks and smells as if you’ve been traveling as a goatherd for a month, dearie.”
“I imagine he’s hungry,” Theo commented.
“I’m sure he is. Goat tastes terrible.”
“Not necessarily. If you spice the meat properly, it’s quite palatable.”
“If you put enough spice on crickets, they’d be palatable too,” Tabitha sniffed. “Regardless, I can arrange to have a plate put together right away. Eggs, perhaps. And bacon. No goat meat.”
“Or crickets.”
“But perhaps not before we get him some hot water and soap,” Tabitha continued.
“Agreed. And don’t forget about clothes. He can’t go wandering around here in a state of dishabille. Or whatever it is he’s wearing now.”
“What about a haircut?”
“If he’s so inclined.”
Eli was trying to follow the rapid exchange, but he hadn’t quite managed to get much beyond the word goat. Thus far, he felt a little as if he had emerged into some alternate plane of reality where nothing was what he’d expected. He started, realizing that both women were beaming at him. Theo wiped at her eyes a second time, but not before she gave his arm another squeeze.
“I—” Eli started before realizing he had no idea what he wanted to say.
“Good heavens, dearie. Excuse my rudeness.” Theo tucked herself firmly against Eli’s side. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the students.”
“Students?”
“Why, yes.” She paused. “Rose said that you were aware Avondale was leased.”
“I am aware. Picnics by the seaside have ever been fashionable. I can see the allure for old Strathmore and his wife.” Eli was aware that his words had a somewhat derisive tone, but this entire situation was untenable.
“The baron and baroness died three years ago, dear. Harland is the baron now.” Tabitha patted his arm.
Eli cursed silently. “Rose didn’t say anything.”
“She doesn’t often discuss it. None of the Hayward siblings do.”
“But you should know that Avondale isn’t leased for picnics,” Theo added. “It’s leased by the Haverhall School for Young Ladies.”
“What?” Years ago, the Haverhall School, owned by the Strathmore family, had been the most expensive, prestigious finishing school for young ladies in London. Rose’s sis
ter, Clara, had been the headmistress. Even Eli had heard of it. Clearly it was still in operation.
“Haverhall leases Avondale for the duration of its exclusive summer program. There are a dozen students staying at the house this summer. Our Rose teaches the art program.” Theo beamed up at him.
Eli hadn’t walked into a nightmare; he had walked past that nightmare and directly into hell. The dull throbbing in his head suddenly became more acute. This was the last thing he needed. He was regretting his decision to return to England more and more with every passing minute.
“They are such lovely, talented young ladies,” Tabitha added. “They will all want to meet you—”
“No,” he snapped.
His aunts drew back.
It would appear that his years of self-inflicted solitude had stripped him of his charm and turned him into a boor. Eli took a deep breath and tried to soften his response. “That is, I do not wish to interrupt…whatever it is you are doing here.”
“Merely casting,” Tabitha supplied, giving him a long look. “Some lovely bivalve and echinoid specimens we collected earlier from the beach.”
His aunt might as well have been speaking a different language for all the sense that made. “I thought you said these were Haverhall students.”
His aunts both looked at him askance. “They are.”
Not that Eli professed to know much about London schools for the daughters of the elite, but he was under the impression that Haverhall focused primarily on polishing one’s deportment.
“Then what? Their dance instructor was late this morning? The French teacher delayed?”
He saw his aunts exchange a look that he couldn’t decipher.
“No, dearie, no one was late,” Theo told him.
“We just decided to go in a…different direction this morning,” Tabitha added.
That still made little sense to Eli, but he was not in the frame of mind to draw out this conversation any further. What did it matter to him what Haverhall’s students did or didn’t do? So long as he could avoid them, he might just survive this.
He glanced over his aunts’ heads at the scene in the kitchen. Only the young lady closest to them was still looking in his direction. She had dark hair and wore a faded moss-green dress that matched her eyes. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and her hands and forearms covered in what looked like plaster dust. Every other student, however, had already turned back to the project that lay on the table’s surface, fine bivalve specimens pressed into a plaster tray apparently far more interesting than his sudden appearance.
He knew he should be vastly relieved.
“The girls really would love to meet you,” Theo said, tugging at his arm slightly. “Let us—”
“No.” At least he hadn’t shouted this time, but he’d rather poke out his remaining eye with a fork than subject himself to the horrified reactions of a dozen delicate sensibilities when they were presented with what he had become. Eli extracted himself from his aunt’s side.
“Truly, you’re not interrupting—”
“I said no. Thank you.”
“Very well,” Tabitha said. “Would you like to eat here? Or perhaps you would appreciate more privacy? I suspect that there will still be food laid out in the dining room, or I can arrange to have something sent up—”
“I’ll look after myself.”
“Very well,” Tabitha said. She gave him a quick embrace again and stepped away from his side. “If you need anything at all, you just have to ask. This is your home, after all.”
“Yes, and we should plan a proper dinner tonight to celebrate your return,” Theo said, clasping her hands together, her eyes sparkling. “We can invite—”
“Never.” It came out far harsher than he’d intended. “There will be no plans on my behalf. Not tonight. Not ever. I do not wish to see anyone.”
Lady Theodosia tipped her head, the creases around her lips deepening. “Of course. My apologies.”
Eli’s teeth clenched. Jesus. He was still barking at two elderly women who had shown him only kindness. Bloody hell, but he didn’t like himself very much right now.
He backed away. “It was…good to see you.” His tongue seemed to stumble over the words, and he didn’t wait for a response before he turned and fled.
Chapter 5
The late morning light was perfect.
Rose would have the crimson satin finished on Lady Ophelia’s painting within the hour, a task that could be executed in blissful solitude. And for that luxury she was grateful. It had been this painting to which Rose had retreated after the sudden reappearance of Eli Dawes. It had been this painting that had reminded Rose of what was important. What was important to each and every one of the people she privately painted, and in those numbers there was a great deal of reassurance to be found.
When Rose’s parents had died, they had left behind not the successful export empire that everyone believed they possessed, but one that was secretly teetering on the edge of collapse. Bad luck and bad investments had left a once-profitable shipping empire nothing but a rotting hulk of its former glory, listing badly and threatening to go under at a moment’s notice. At the time the Haverhall School for Young Ladies, willed to Rose’s older sister, Clara, had been the only thing that had kept the creditors at bay and the Haywards from facing complete and total financial ruin.
While her brother had struggled to rebuild the fleet and Clara had managed to keep the school running, Rose had done what she could to bring some much-needed cash to the family coffers in the best way she knew how. She began taking commissions for portraits—usually from the nouveau riche and landed gentry who, despite their astounding wealth, were unable to secure the services of the more fashionable artists who pandered to the aristocratic elite. And while Rose couldn’t charge as much money as her male counterparts for a traditional rendering, she could charge obscene amounts of money for a well-executed boudoir portrait.
It had grown over the last few years, her covert business of scandalous paintings. Sometimes it was young women like Ophelia whom she painted. Often it was a wife or a mistress she painted at the behest of a husband or lover, but not always. Occasionally it was a man. A couple. Or a trio. It mattered little to Rose. Regardless of her subject, her discretion was absolute.
The financial pressure had lessened of late—Harland had managed to turn the export business around and was gaining ground, and Haverhall was as popular and prestigious as ever—but demand for Rose’s skill and discretion had not lessened. If anything, it had increased, the relative privacy Avondale afforded always bringing an influx of business. The added work filled her days and brought her a deep satisfaction.
And kept her from dwelling on things she did not wish to dwell on.
Like Eli Dawes.
I’m different from the man I once was.
Well, his appearance was certainly different, she’d give him that. When Rose had first met Eli Dawes, she’d already written him off as a shallow, self-absorbed rogue. Dismissed him as a ladies’ man, interested only in his next drink or his next conquest.
But the more time she had spent with him, the more he had surprised her. He’d proven to be funny, attentive, and courteous. And far more intelligent than he pretended to be under that slick, gilded exterior.
And of course, there had been his astonishing collection and knowledge of Renaissance art, both of which he had shared with her without hesitation. His collection had drawn them together in a manner that no amount of dinner parties and soirees ever could have. His gallery had become their refuge—a place where he’d seemed to delight in her opinions, asking clever questions and arguing enthusiastically, which had pleased her to no end. She’d never once felt compelled to watch her words around him. Rose had genuinely liked and admired Eli Dawes, until the day he had proven himself no better than Anthony Gibson.
But she would not dwell on that. It had already taken up far too much of her life.
Rose glanced up at the ra
ised dais in front of her, where the empty settee was draped with satin, and picked up her brush again.
Focus on what is important, she told herself. Focus on the things that matter.
“Can I come in?”
Rose’s brush froze, and she kept her eyes on the swath of crimson spilling across her canvas. No, she wanted to snap. Instead she smothered the resentment that suddenly threatened to choke her. “You own this house, Lord Rivers,” she replied steadily without looking up. “You can go where you like.”
“Lady Tabitha told me about your parents. I’m sorry.” His voice had that same unfamiliar roughness she had heard the night before, and Rose realized that it was likely from the damage to his neck. “You should have said something last night.”
She studied the tip of the brush’s bristles and the brilliant color that clung to each hair. “Why?”
“I just…Because I would have offered my condolences sooner.”
Rose’s jaw clenched before she forced it to relax. “The packet they were on was lost in an Atlantic storm crossing to Boston.”
He was silent for a long minute, and Rose had almost begun to hope that he would leave. Instead she heard the sound of booted feet advancing into the room. In a single movement, Rose set her brush aside and reached for the gauzy muslin that was tucked at the top of her easel, which she pulled down to conceal the canvas. She heard him, rather than saw him, stop just short of her easel.
“When are you leaving for London, Lord Rivers?” she asked, pleased with how civil that sounded. Reckless, knee-jerk emotion never helped anything. Her sister was forced to remind Rose of that often.
