Last Night With the Earl: Includes a Bonus Novella

by Kelly Bowen

  Her hand clutched his arm. “My lord…”

  “You do know the steps?” he asked, letting her set the pace as they moved toward the dance floor.

  She nodded. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “No one has ever asked me to dance.”

  “Their loss.”

  “Did Miss Hayward put you up to this?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered honestly. “She most certainly did not.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly as they stepped out on the dance floor. “I’ll embarrass you.”

  Eli threw his head back and laughed. “Impossible.”

  “But—”

  “I tried using that excuse once with Miss Hayward. It didn’t work on her either.”

  “What if I stumble?”

  “Then I’ll catch you.” He placed her hand on his shoulder and took her other firmly in his. “Lean on me. We’ll go as slow and as carefully as you need.”

  “Everyone is already staring.”

  “Good. They should be. I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Around them the music started. “Shall we?”

  Ophelia took a deep breath. “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once,’” she mumbled to herself.

  “Good Lord, I hope you’re not planning to die on me halfway through this dance,” Eli teased. “Because that would make explanations to your mother terribly awkward.”

  Ophelia suddenly laughed, and Eli could feel the tension drain from her body. “It’s from Julius Caesar. And I’m not planning on doing anything but dancing.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Eli smiled down at her and took the first step.

  It would never have been considered a perfect waltz, and often they fell out of time with the music with their shortened steps. But it didn’t matter because Lady Ophelia’s eyes were shining, and she was smiling like a fool. Eli enjoyed every second of it until the music finally reached its crescendo and ended.

  He grinned at Lady Ophelia. “How did I do?” he asked. “Think you might grant me the honor of another dance one day?”

  “That was— You were superb,” she said breathlessly, allowing Eli to tuck her hand back into the crook of his arm. “And it will always be my honor, my lord.”

  “I suppose I should return you to your mother,” Eli said. “There’s only so much scandal she might be able to handle in one night.”

  “I suppose.” Ophelia sounded less than enthused.

  Eli ignored the gawking stares and slowly led the extraordinary young woman back in the direction of her mother, who was wringing her hands and pacing along the wall. He stopped suddenly. “On second thought, I have a better idea.” Eli didn’t give Ophelia a chance to answer but angled them away from her mother and toward a man standing alone, just beyond the terrace doors, staring out into the night.

  * * *

  Rose had been ready to flee until she saw them dancing.

  She had fought the smothering panic that had risen with each forced step that took her farther into the stifling ballroom. She had tried to control the breaths that came in ever-shorter gasps. Ignored the rising nausea that pressed up into her throat as she ventured into the crowd.

  Around her, people jostled and bumped, fans and silks and evening coats turning into a dizzying blur. The conversation seemed inordinately loud, shrill laughter punctuating the unintelligible cacophony. Critical eyes set in powdered faces with rouged cheeks and lips turned her way, and she cringed each time, unable to stop herself from reacting.

  She hated that she had allowed this part of herself to become diminished. Lost. In her head she knew she was being unreasonable. In her head she understood that the people who had been ruthlessly cruel would have moved on. Found other targets and probably forgotten all about her. In her head she knew that she should have been able to rise above such vindictiveness, then and now, if need be. But that knowledge had done nothing to stop her heart from hammering or the icy beads of sweat from sliding down her spine.

  She had finally come to a stop near the edge of the dance floor, at a set of tall terrace doors, close to a row of potted orange trees, as if their tiny trunks could afford her cover. Her ice-blue gown was suffocating her, and the flowing skirts might as well have been constructed of lead. The walls had started to close in on her, and Rose’s eyes had seized on the doors that led out to the stone terrace and the gardens beyond. A promise of escape, she had thought a little wildly. Because no matter how badly she had wanted to do this, no matter how much she wanted to prove to herself that she was stronger and braver, doubt and fear had seized her hard in their grasp.

  And that’s when she had seen them.

  They had started their waltz not far from where she stood behind the orange trees, Eli holding Ophelia in his arms, lending his strength to her. Their movements were far from fluid, and other couples spun past them. But none of that mattered. Because as the music ended, Ophelia was, on that ballroom floor, the woman Rose had painted. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a little dreamy, her smile uninhibited. Her crutch was nowhere to be seen.

  Eli had never looked more devastatingly resplendent. He was dressed in all the trappings of wealth, his dark evening clothes perfectly tailored to accentuate his strength and bearing. But it was the ease with which he carried himself that made him stand out from all others. A man who had walked through fire and emerged on the other side, fiercer and more resilient than anyone could have imagined.

  And Rose forgot where she was standing. Forgot about the crowd and the crush and simply stared, drowning in her love for him.

  * * *

  “Linfield,” Eli greeted as the Duke of Stannis’s youngest son turned. Eli watched as his eyes slid to Ophelia and widened.

  “Lord Rivers,” Lewis Linfield replied, though his gaze never left Ophelia. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”

  “Your parents have outdone themselves.” He paused. “Lady Ophelia Volante, may I present Mr. Lewis Linfield, son of His Grace the Duke of Stannis. Linfield, the Lady Ophelia Volante, daughter of the Marquess of Kerwith.”

  “A pleasure.” Ophelia dropped into a curtsy, her hand tightening around Eli’s arm for balance.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Linfield replied, tucking his empty sleeve against his abdomen and bowing.

  “It struck me that the two of you might have something in common,” Eli said casually.

  Linfield looked at him sharply, finally pulling his eyes away from his beautiful companion. Beside Eli, Ophelia’s fingers curled into his sleeve, and she dropped her gaze, her cheeks flushing.

  “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” Eli said into the taut silence. “And Julius Caesar.”

  Linfield blinked, and Ophelia’s head came up.

  “I beg your pardon?” Linfield said.

  “You’ve both quoted Shakespeare in our recent conversations. A shame, really, because I am no scholar, and the finer merits are probably lost on me,” Eli continued guilelessly. “I was thinking that, in each other, you might find a partner far more worthy of your academic acumen than I.”

  Linfield’s startling blue eyes were once again fixed firmly on Lady Ophelia’s face. “Indeed?”

  Ophelia was smiling shyly back.

  “Perhaps, Lady Ophelia, you would care to join me on the terrace for a spell?” Linfield asked.

  Eli smothered a grin.

  “I’d like that.” Ophelia glanced up at Eli, a shadow of uncertainty touching her face. “Perhaps I should fetch my crutch before—”

  Linfield moved with smooth grace, and Eli found himself replaced as Ophelia’s escort. “That won’t be necessary,” he said to Ophelia. “So long as you’re comfortable with me?”

  She nodded.

  “Excellent. Enjoy the rest of your evening, the both of you.” Eli turned smartly, leaving neither the chance to respond as he headed back into the ballroom. The grin he had cloaked now split his face as he
lifted his head. And froze.

  For a terrifying moment, Eli wondered if he was imagining her.

  Wondered if she would vanish like smoke in the wind if he blinked or moved or even breathed. She was wearing the gown he had given her, her hair caught up loosely on the crown of her head, curls drifting down to brush her shoulders. She was unusually pale, making her dark chocolate eyes seem huge in her delicate face.

  And then he saw her take a deep breath and lift her chin.

  The joy that surged through him was complete and disorienting in its intensity. And on the heels of that came a wave of deep longing and a feeling of impossible, perfect love.

  Rose’s eyes met his. “It would seem, Lord Rivers, that it was I who had one more thing left to prove.”

  Chapter 23

  She was hot and cold all at once, the way she had felt in a darkened studio on a stormy night in Dover. Only this time, when he caught her hand, she didn’t pull away. Instead she wrapped her fingers around his and held on for all she was worth, anchoring herself with his strength.

  “Rose,” he said hoarsely, and somewhere in her name was a question.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” she managed with a tremulous smile.

  “God, Rose.” His eye searched hers, and he pulled her toward him. He crushed her to his chest, seemingly uncaring who might be watching. “Come,” he said, wrapping her hand under his arm, holding on to her as if he was afraid she might let go.

  She let him pull her into the night, down the wide terrace steps, and onto the gravel paths that wound through the manicured gardens. Rose took deep gulps of the cool night air, an odd, restless energy humming through her, every fiber in her body attuned to the man at her side. They drew near a fountain, the sound of the orchestra inside still audible over the musical splash of water.

  And then he stopped and she was in his arms and he was kissing her until she was breathless and delirious. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her lips.

  “I love you,” she whispered back.

  Eli rested his forehead against hers, his arms tightening around her. “You didn’t have to come here,” he said.

  “Yes, I did.” She pulled back.

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything else to me, Rose. I love you just as you are.”

  “I had to prove it to myself,” she said. She studied his face in the weak light that filtered into the garden from the ballroom windows.

  “Tell me you didn’t come alone.”

  “No, your aunts came with me. To support me. And you too.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?” He waved his hand in the direction of the terrace and the ballroom beyond. “Why didn’t you tell me that this was hard for you?”

  Rose felt her cheeks heat, but she answered him with the truth anyway. “Pride? Vanity? I was so ashamed, Eli. I told you to have done with yourself when I couldn’t do the same. If that isn’t the height of hypocrisy, I don’t know what is.”

  “Rose—”

  “I didn’t want you to think me weak, foolish.”

  “I would have thought you human.”

  “You were right, you know. When you said I was hiding. I was. And you were right to say so—”

  “I didn’t understand.” His hands slid up her back. “But I do now. And I don’t need you to change for me.”

  “I know that. But I need me to change for me. And I need to trust you to help me do it. The way you trusted me.” She bit her lip. “I needed to trust that a great love would eclipse all earthly vanities.”

  He bent his head and kissed her softly. “You once told me that I was brave and inspiring. I think that describes you tonight, Rose Hayward.”

  “I don’t feel brave and inspiring,” she said, laying her head against his chest and hearing the echo of his own words from so long ago. “Walking through that crowd, mostly I felt terrified.”

  “But you survived. And now you’re here. Right where you’re supposed to be.”

  “As are you.” She smiled.

  “I only made it as far as I did because of you, Rose.”

  “Then I suppose that makes us even.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  She was quiet, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The heady scent of roses eddied around them, the breeze gently rustling the foliage. From the terrace, strains of another waltz drifted over the gardens.

  Rose ran her fingers down the lapel of his coat. “I saw you dancing. With Ophelia.”

  He chuckled, the sound rolling through his chest. “I don’t imagine her mother has recovered yet.”

  She lifted her head. “It was—”

  “Only a charming scoundrel angling to dance with the second-most-beautiful woman in the room,” he said. “Though I may have lied to Lady Ophelia and told her she was the most beautiful woman. But you should know that that was before I was aware you were here.”

  Rose smiled. “I’ll overlook it this once,” she teased.

  “You should also know I plan to take full credit should Linfield decide that he cannot live without her,” Eli continued. He tenderly pushed a curl back over Rose’s ear as he had done so many times before. “In the way that I cannot live without you.”

  “So marry me,” Rose whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Is that an invitation or a command?”

  “A command, I think. I’m done with invitations for a while.”

  He kissed her and then looked at her seriously. “I don’t need you to be anyone other than who you are.”

  “I know. But you have and you will continue to make me a better version of myself, Eli Dawes.”

  The warm, fragrant air swirled around them, still carrying the sounds of the music. Eli slipped from her embrace and bent low over her hand. “May I have the privilege of this dance, Miss Hayward?”

  “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

  He moved to take her in his arms, but she put her hand against his sleeve. She looked up, searching his eye in the filtered light.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that if I am to be the Countess of Rivers, we’d best go inside to dance.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rose reached up and cupped the sides of Eli’s face, feeling the perfect imperfection of the man she loved beneath her palms. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

  Chapter 24

  London, England

  Spring 1821

  The horse had been turned into a unicorn.

  And not only a unicorn, but one with a ruby-red mane and tail, its hooves churning up rainbow-colored dust as it raced across the paper. Rose clasped her hands behind her back and hid a smile as Margret Soames bent her head in concentration. She’d asked the dozen children who sat in the classroom to paint the wooden horse statue that she’d set up in the center, and on Margret’s page this had been the result.

  Rose was rather delighted.

  “I’m done,” Margret announced.

  Her sister hopped down from where she had been sitting next to her to peer over her shoulder. “That’s not a horse,” Mildred commented, her nose scrunched up in her small face.

  “’Er Ladyship never said what it had to look like,” Margret retorted.

  Mildred turned to give Rose a dubious look. “She didn’t follow the rules.”

  “Ah, but this is art class,” Rose replied. “There are no rules in art class. Here you are free to create whatever it is that you see inside your head. There is no wrong answer.”

  Margret brightened considerably. “No rules,” she repeated with satisfaction. “And no wrong answer.”

  “Just in this class,” Rose reminded her. “Arithmetic is completely different.”

  “Exactly,” Mildred said with the same sort of satisfaction. “Which is what makes arithmetic so much fun. Because there is a right answer every time.” She put her hands on her hips.

  Margret opened
her mouth to argue, but Rose interrupted. “You can debate this later,” she said with a laugh. “But your mother is waiting for you out back. There is a garden out there that won’t plant itself.”

  The twins departed, followed by the rest of the students, and Rose picked up the painting of the unicorn. She would hang this among the other artworks that covered the newly whitewashed walls in this room—

  “Is that a goat?”

  Rose turned with a grin to find Eli leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest. His face was flushed and his hair windblown, as though he had just come inside. At his feet a small black one-eyed dog collapsed with a huff. Bruno had taken to following Eli everywhere.

  “If you must know, it’s a unicorn,” Rose sniffed, setting the art aside and advancing toward him.

  “Ah,” he said, catching her by the waist and pulling her against him. Rose tipped up her head, and Eli claimed her lips with his. “It’s delightful,” he murmured. “Almost as delightful as finding my wife in an empty room, all to myself.” His hands dropped to the curve of her backside.

  Rose laughed and extricated herself with some reluctance. “An empty room with no door,” she reminded him. “And a houseful of families who might happen by at any moment.”

  “I should have had the classroom doors installed a long time ago,” Eli muttered.

  Rose plucked a bit of cotton off the back of his sleeve. “I think you had the right of it when you gave the looms priority,” she said.

  “Second shipment of the finished garments is loaded and ready to be delivered,” he replied. “Charlie is coordinating with the merchants.”

  “Is that where you were just now? In the warehouse?”

  Eli shook his head. “Actually, I was in town.” He caught her hand, an almost diffident expression suddenly shadowing his features. “I want to show you something.”

  Rose nodded and allowed Eli to lead her through the maze of hallways, passing more classrooms, common rooms, and the massive kitchens. The scent of new lumber still lingered in the air even now, months after the completion of the house. Eli pushed open the wide front doors, and they stepped into the spring sunshine. To her left, set back from the house, the weaving shed, mill, and warehouse were a hive of activity. And on this day a row of wagons was lined up in front, all in the process of being loaded. Along the other side of the house, stretching back to the river, the extensive gardens that would supply the kitchens had been plowed and were in the process of being planted.