by Kelly Bowen
“And I am very glad to be able to offer whatever help I can.” Lady Anne turned toward Eli as he resumed his seat. “Rose explained the plight of the Soameses in her message,” she told him.
“I want you to tell Lord Rivers about Brookside,” Rose urged. “Because I think it might be something that could work in this situation. But I wanted him to be able to speak with you directly. To be able to ask you questions that I might not have the answers to.”
The duke’s sister nodded. “Of course.”
“What is Brookside?” Eli asked, looking between the women.
“Brookside is a boardinghouse of sorts, situated on the southern edge of London,” Lady Anne told him.
“Of sorts?”
“It’s paired with a textile manufacturing and import business,” she continued. “Muslins, to be specific, woven on-site. It has proven quite lucrative, and allows a great deal of profit to be reinvested in the business. It’s run exclusively by women whose spouses have been incarcerated in debtors’ prison, and the entire model is one of self-sufficiency. Those not directly involved in the daily textile production have domestic responsibilities, whether in the house, the gardens, or the animal sheds. Most of the women have children who live with them, and they too have expectations. Aside from their chores, the children are required to attend school classes taught on-site by competent instructors.”
Eli stared at her. “That sounds very…”
“Philanthropic?” Rose suggested.
“Extraordinary,” he breathed. “And bloody, bloody brilliant.”
Lady Anne inclined her head. “From what Miss Hayward has told me, Mrs. Soames’s situation is very similar. I concur with Miss Hayward that this sort of business model would work equally well for war widows and their families.”
“Yes,” Eli said. “It would.” What she was describing was genius. The model could also be applied to products beyond muslins. Lace, perhaps, for a society with a growing, insatiable hunger for Continental fashion. Cottons, now that the American markets were accessible. Sailcloth used by the navy and the increasing number of trade ships that plied the seas. Specialized fabric for military uniforms, tents, and blankets. The possibilities were extensive, should one have the capital and know-how. As an earl, he had money and power at his fingertips. As an officer, he had a working knowledge of provisional logistics. It was an expertise in the industry that he would need to acquire.
Eli drummed his fingers on the snow-white tablecloth. “Who owns Brookside? And is it possible for me to speak to him?”
Lady Anne glanced at Rose with a faint look of accusation. “You didn’t tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Eli shot a look at Rose, but she only offered him an enigmatic smile and sipped her wine.
The duke’s sister hesitated before she met Eli’s gaze again. “I own and operate it. My brother generally provides a front for me, as most men will not consider doing business with a woman, but the day-to-day decisions and operations are mine.”
Eli sat back, not looking at Rose but aware of her studying him all the same. A dangerous mind indeed. “I see.”
Lady Anne’s fingers played idly with the handle of the silver spoon that lay on the table in front of her. “My brother is very good at a lot of things. Buying, selling, investing, reorganizing, reinventing. But managing large groups of people and their needs is not one of them. I have some skill in that regard, so he leaves that to me.”
Rose snorted into her glass. “She’s being modest, Dawes. Everything you see around you at this very moment is also a product of her management and skill. The Duke of Holloway may have bought the Silver Swan, but it is the woman sitting beside you who has made it so successful and profitable. It’s also why she couldn’t get away tonight to meet us at Avondale. She’s bloody talented, and if you ask politely, she might just share some of that talent with you.”
This should all be shocking, Eli knew, these…revelations of ambition and aptitude that were so far outside anything that would ever be considered acceptable in a St James’s drawing room. But Eli couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than…anticipation. Admiration.
“Would you be willing to help me?” Eli asked Lady Anne.
Anne’s fingers stilled. “Would you be willing to accept it from me?”
“Yes,” he said with no hesitation.
Lady Anne gave him a long look with eyes that were far older than her years, as if taking the measure of his answer. “Very well. I split my time between Dover and London, and as such, I’m leaving to return to the city first thing tomorrow. Just send word to Brookside when you would like to start, and we can arrange a meeting. Though I warn you, my brother will likely insist on sitting in. He’ll have some ideas as well. And as much as he can be…overbearing at times, I would counsel you to accept whatever assistance he offers.”
London. The reminder of what still waited for him—of what he had yet to accomplish—reared its head, but for the first time, the lingering dread that had always seemed to accompany that thought was absent. Instead there was a feeling of resolve. Purpose.
“In the meantime, Mrs. Soames and her family would be welcome at Brookside, if that is something that they would be amenable to,” Lady Anne was saying. “I can send word ahead if you wish to make arrangements for their passage to London.”
“Thank you,” Eli said, realizing those two words were woefully inadequate for what he was feeling. “I don’t know what to say.”
He glanced at Rose and found her watching him, her expression telling him that she had heard everything that he couldn’t say in words. Just as she had known what would happen here tonight. Known how much he had needed this. Known him better than he had known himself.
Lady Anne shrugged. “Actions always speak louder than words, my lord,” she said. “Do you have any questions for me?”
He held Rose’s eyes, even as he answered Lady Anne. “Yes. Quite a few.”
Chapter 13
Rose leaned against the wall of stone at her back, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, caught in that rare moment when day had not yet fully surrendered to night. The sky still had a deep violet hue that was now just deepening to indigo, and the moon was only a barely visible orb hanging low over the darkening sea. The gulls had quieted, and the only sound now was the steady lapping of the surf as it folded over on itself against the stony beach.
She had told herself that she had come here to sketch the sunset, to study the manner in which the light played off the water and the way the shadows grew long, but the book remained under her arm, the pages blank. Rose had opened it, graphite poised over paper…and created nothing. For all the beauty splashed before her, she had failed to find inspiration. Because she hadn’t come here to sketch. She had come to wrestle with her thoughts.
She had listened this evening as the Earl of Rivers had plied Anne Faulkner with insightful, shrewd questions. She had watched him outline ideas and concepts, asking for estimates and opinions and suggestions. He had, in those moments when his intelligence and compassion had been so utterly obvious, never been more perfect. Never been more magnificent.
The ride back to Avondale had been dominated by a continuation of the conversation. Which was a good thing, Rose knew, because if he had let a silence fall, if he had failed to distract her with proposals of locations and technologies, Rose might have given in to the relentless need to kiss him witless. To simply take what she wanted and damn all the consequences that sort of complication would bring. Because the Earl of Rivers would be leaving soon now, she knew. He would be stepping into the role that had always been his, finally claiming position and power among his peers. Armed with ambition and compassion, he would be returning to a world that he would navigate with the same clever charisma that had once so enthralled society.
A world she had been part of, for a small window of time. And it had almost destroyed her. She could never be part of it again.
Rose sighed and gazed out across the water to the
mouth of the cove. In the distance a light glowed, flickered, and then glowed again. A ship at anchor, she realized, preparing to settle in for the night. She should do the same and head back up before darkness settled fully. It would make her ascent slower—
A movement at the far end of the beach at the base of the steps caught her eye. In the pale-violet wash, his hair was more silver than gold, his white shirt almost blending into the chalky background of the cliffs behind him. Eli was picking his way easily across the stony beach, looking out toward the blinking lantern light. He stopped at the water’s edge, not far from where she stood, and put his hands on his hips, an impressive silhouette in shades of charcoal and gray.
A longing so intense it was almost a physical pain coursed through Rose, stealing her breath and making her heart accelerate. The breeze tugged at his hair and pushed the pale linen of his shirt against his skin, outlining the contours of his upper body. Her fingers tightened around her sketchbook, once again itching to trace his form. She closed her eyes, memories of how his skin had felt beneath her fingers still vivid. Knowing that the failing light that had wrapped itself around this beach like a cocoon would impede sketching but encourage explorations of a more intimate nature—
Rose groaned softly, as if that would dispel the desire that was raging through her, making her legs less than steady and making her ache all over. She opened her eyes, wondering how long Eli Dawes planned to stay on this beach. Wondering if she should simply keep herself hidden until he left because right now, on a darkened beach gilded by twilight, she wasn’t confident that she would say no if Eli Dawes asked her to kiss him again.
Which was ridiculous. Rose pushed herself away from the stone at her back. She had kept her head in that damn carriage, and she would not lose it now. She had once told Dawes not to be melodramatic, and it would serve her well to heed her own advice. She still had some pride.
She took a deep breath. “Thinking of swimming?”
He started and spun, peering in her direction. Rose knew it would be difficult for him to see her in the long shadows of the cliffs.
“I only ask because you have forgone a coat, and I do not want to be accused of spying on you again.” She walked toward him unhurriedly.
“Rose?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” she teased, relieved at the casualness of her tone.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone. What are you doing here?” He still sounded distracted.
She gestured to the book under her arm. Trying not to think about kissing you. About how much I want you. “Sketching. Until I lost the light.” She left her sketchbook safely up on the beach and came to stand beside him at the edge of the surf, careful not to touch him. He didn’t move away. Nor did he look at her. Instead his eyes stayed fixed on the light past the mouth of the cove, his chiseled profile touched with just a hint of silver.
The stars began to make their presence known, tiny pinpricks of light winking in the dark as they stood in comfortable silence. The way friends would. The way they would be able to do in the years to come.
“They burned it,” Eli said into the night.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Buhler and his men. Burned the Soameses’ cottage to the ground in the name of the king. As reprisal and a warning to those who would steal from their sovereign or protect those who do.” Frustration and fury stained his words.
Rose’s stomach clenched. “How do you know that?”
“Mr. Wright sent a message to Avondale.”
She tipped her head up to the stars. “They could rebuild.”
“With what? They are barely surviving as it is.”
“Dawes—”
“I should have stayed behind. Perhaps I could have stopped Buhler and his men.”
“You had no idea that they would do that.”
The earl bent to pick up a stone and hurled it into the darkness in a fluid motion. “I should have.”
“What will the family do now?”
“I will not allow them to disappear into the workhouses or whorehouses. I will not allow this to destroy the family of fallen soldiers. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Soames. Sent a message of my own to Lady Anne. The Soameses will remain at Avondale until Charlie is healthy, and then they’ll all travel to London and stay at Brookside. At least until I can do more.”
She put a hand on her arm. “You’ve already done—”
“Not enough. I need to…I have to—” He stopped.
“Go to London,” she finished for him.
He nodded wordlessly.
Rose withdrew her hand from his sleeve and tucked it safely back in her skirts. “I will be required to travel to London for a couple of days. I would appreciate the company on the journey.” When she had come down to this beach tonight, she hadn’t known if she would make that offer. But now there was no question about it. A friend—a decent human being—would take this last step. Ensure that Eli Dawes finished this last leg of a journey that had started long ago.
“Is that an invitation or an order?”
“An invitation, of course. Will you come with me?”
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why are you going to London?”
The light floating far off in the darkness blinked out for a second before it reappeared. “I have a completed painting I’ve promised to deliver to my client. He will be in London for a few days, down from his home in Nottingham.” Not the raven-haired Lady Ophelia reclining on her bed of crimson satin but another one, different but no less seductively beautiful.
Eli turned to look at her. In what was left of the twilight, his face was pale, his features shadowed so that she couldn’t read his expression. “What sort of painting?” he asked.
“The kind clients pay me to paint for them.”
“Would you show me?” he asked.
Rose shook her head and shoved the flyaway hair from her face. Those completed paintings and the real reason she did what she did were not a topic she wished to explore with Eli Dawes. Not tonight and maybe not ever, declarations of friendship be damned. “Perhaps another time,” she evaded. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You mean your invitation to accompany you to London.”
“No. My invitation to a man to claim his title and fortune and, along with it, a voice and the power to effect real change.”
He didn’t respond. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of the surf, and Rose began to wonder if perhaps her words had been too critical.
“I owe you a great debt,” he said suddenly.
“For what?”
“For what?” he repeated. “For…everything.”
Rose felt her brows knit. “I don’t understand.”
“For making me take you to dinner, for one,” he said quietly. He reached out and placed his palm against the side of her cheek.
She shivered, afraid to move. “I’ve always had a weakness for French wine.” She tried to make it light.
“This has nothing to do with French wine, and you know it.” His fingers gently tucked a tendril of hair over her ear. “This has everything to do with making me be better. Do better.”
“I can’t make you be or do anything, Dawes. You are your own man.”
He made an unintelligible sound. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”
“Whatever it is that you think I did or that you think I made you do, I can assure you that it was all you. I’m just here to stab you with paintbrush ends and torture you in art class.” She was babbling, she knew, but this was starting to get away from her. This was starting to slide away from the steady solidarity of friendship toward the dark, seductive abyss that was Eli Dawes, and she had no idea how to fix it.
“Did you know that sitting at that table tonight, talking to you and Lady Anne, was the first night I didn’t give a fuck about what anyone thought about my appearance?” he said roughly. “Forgot all about it, in fact.”
Ro
se blinked at the harshness of his words.
“Because for the first time, I think I finally took your words to heart in the interest of something bigger.”
“My words?” she managed.
“That I should take my head out of my ass long enough to stop feeling sorry for myself.”
Rose winced. “I’ve said a lot of things that perhaps weren’t—”
“Stop talking, Rose.” He took a step closer to her and brought his other hand up to cradle her face. “I will come to London with you to claim my title and a fortune. To do what I should have done a long time ago. Because you were correct. I’ve wasted a great deal of time, but it’s not too late to do what matters. To do what is right.”
* * *
There was something dangerous about touching Rose Hayward on a darkened beach. Something dangerous about touching Rose Hayward anywhere, really. Eli could feel the warmth of her beneath his palms, that simple touch sending uncontrollable heat racing through his veins. The way it had that afternoon when her casual, gentle gesture of fondness had instantly ignited into something far more carnal. The way it did every time he was near her.
“Stay with me.” He had asked her that once already.
“What? Where? In London?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Your return will garner a great deal of attention. And I am still associated with the Haverhall School for Young Ladies. I will not do anything to jeopardize its reputation. I keep perfectly good rooms in London at the school, Dawes, attached to my studio. I’ll stay there for the handful of days it will take for me to conclude my business and return to Dover.”
“Don’t return to Dover, then.” He was not going to let this go. Not going to let her go.
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Rose hesitated. “I have responsibilities here.”
“Surely your sister and my aunts can manage without you.”
She started to shake her head.
“A fortnight,” he proposed, not caring that he might sound a little desperate. “Stay a fortnight. At least long enough for me to demand a parade along Rotten Row to herald my return from the dead.”
