by Micki Miller
A peculiar rift for which she had no knowledge gaped vacant through the center of her mind’s ruminations. What else transpired between a man and a woman? How far was she willing to travel into that mysterious abyss?
Her curiosity piqued with the same strange force of her yearning to feel once again Lord Darington’s touch. Maybe Ashton was right. Perhaps she was denying herself a wonderful facet of life.
For the longest time she lay in perfect stillness on her back and stared at the intertwined vines of ivy in the white, plaster ceiling moulding.
Chapter 5
Rose enjoyed a long gander at the evening’s bustling scene outside the carriage window, before returning her attention to Ashton and Lewis.
Both men were dressed for tonight’s event in navy breeches and crisp white shirts with ruffled cravats. Lewis’s tailcoat was also navy. Ashton’s blue tailcoat carried the same hue, though several shades lighter and was the exact same color as Rose’s soft cotton gown with a fine, batiste overlay, and matching wrap. Her dear, attentive husband saw to it her slippers were dyed to match.
Cora had styled her hair up with curled tendrils hanging loose from her temples. At her throat hung a round-cut ruby on a shiny, gold chain, a gift from her generous husband.
“It appears as if everyone in town is attending the opera tonight,” she said to the men. Her fingertips tapped an excited tempo upon her thighs. She swiveled toward the window, eager for another look at the throng of enthusiasm.
Coachmen could scarce negotiate the street for all the well-garbed people crossing and milling about. A woman’s trill of laughter preceded the guffaws of several men on the other side of the street. Rose caught glimpses of them through the fluid crowd as the small group bantered beneath the yellow glow of a streetlamp. Most, however, scuttled toward the entrance to get inside and take their seats. She was not alone in her excitement for the evening.
They’d taken her to the opera twice since she and Ashton had wed, but neither time had such excitement teemed through the event. Anticipation of the night’s performance was visceral.
“Sophia De LaGrange is singing tonight, my dear. She’s all the rage across Paris,” Lewis told her as the carriage slow-rolled to a stop in front of the theater.
They’d taken the landau this evening, but due to the chilly night, Ashton had ordered the top to remain closed. The low-reaching windows on the sides, however, still allowed for greater viewing. It appeared all the aristocracy wanted to attend tonight’s performance. And they’d arrived in their best attire. Lords and ladies, dandies and fops, all moods high, eager for the night’s special event.
“Yes,” Ashton said. “We were lucky to get tickets. This evening’s show sold out weeks ago. You’re in for a real treat this night, Rose.”
As the footman assisted them in their exit from the coach, an elated cacophony of sight and sound surrounded them. Carriage wheels on cobblestones, chatter and laughter, excitement for both the social gathering and the anticipated entertainment to come, filled the walkway in front of the theater. The trio conversed with a few friends and acquaintances, stopping several times in the short distance to the theater doors.
As Ashton concluded a conversation with a business associate, Rose happened to glance about at precisely the wrong time. It was too late to pretend she didn’t see them. They already saw her. The pair strolled up the sidewalk straight toward her, her sister Edwina and her sister’s husband, Piers.
The couple wove through the crowd and stopped before her. Edwina took in Rose’s fancy new gown and matching wrap before giving her a smile too tight to hold so much as a crumb of cordiality. No words of greeting or interest could fit through, either.
Rose offered a smile of her own. Perhaps something so simple could open a door, maybe even begin to mend what was broken. Since Rose no longer resided in the house, it was possible her sister might now see her in a different light, a friendlier light. But no. The notion was too imprudent to be anything above wistful.
Instead of even a flicker of warmth, Edwina’s eyes narrowed with the gravity of a sentried gate. Whatever shreds of hope Rose had for family salvation shriveled in her sister’s clear message of rejection.
Piers’ gaze lingered on the ruby necklace she wore. Her brother-in-law let his leer drop to her very moderate display of cleavage before raising his small eyes to meet hers.
“We were just out for an evening stroll,” Piers said, his smile as genuine as Edwina’s paste earbobs.
Piers was better dressed than his wife. Eddy wore the same drab coat and sturdy shoes she’d had for years. Her brother-in-law, however, sported a new, brocade pique coat and a new cambric shirt. The spoils of his settlement with Ashton, no doubt. It appeared all that went to Eddy was new pair of red gloves.
“How fortunate we ran into you, Rose,” Piers said. “It’s been far too long. You appear well, my dear.”
Ashton had his arm around her as soon as he heard the man’s voice. Then Lewis positioned himself on her other side. Their obvious displays of support reminded her how very much she loved these two men, and how grateful she was to have them.
Rose spared Piers a mere half glance before shifting her attention back to her sister. “How are you, Eddy?”
“I’m quite well,” answered Edwina.
The loose form of her words belied them, as did her appearance. Her cheekbones protruded. The drag of liquor gave weight to her eyes. She leaned on Piers, but this was no show of affection. Eddy used her husband to keep her balance.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Ashton said, managing politeness without warmth. “The performance is due to begin soon.”
“Of course. How very fortunate you are to have tickets.” Piers said. He focused again on Rose, smiling as if that terrible night in her bedchamber had never happened, and said, “You should come by the house for afternoon tea, dear. Your sister and I would love a visit.”
Again, Rose set her attention on her sister, hoping for an invitation from her, even a simple nod of agreement would suffice. Eddy raised her drooping head. No sisterly warmth calmed the chill of her gaze. Naught but loathing lurked in the shallows of her sister’s glassy eyes. It forced Rose to accept her sister’s true feelings had always been there, and were not likely to ever change.
Edwina had just turned twelve when Rose was born into their family, siphoning their parent’s attention with an infant’s needs. By Rose’s eighth birthday, Edwina was married to the baron, a man for whom she held little affection, a man who had perpetrated a gross mislead regarding his finances. Rose suspected now that Piers had overestimated the wealth of her family. The inheritance they’d received after her parents’ death was less than her sister’s dowry.
Edwina once accused Rose of possessing more than her fair share of luck. She said, in a statement rife with bitterness, the best of life’s offerings always went to Rose. Even now, Edwina appeared as if she would like nothing better than to spit on Rose’s lovely gown.
“Perhaps,” Rose said in answer to her brother-in-law’s invitation, the response so quiet as to be almost inaudible. She said only that much out of civility, for Rose would never set foot inside the Rutherford house again. It stung, but not as bad as she would have guessed. Maybe a part of her had been prepared, and it was just as well.
Once through the doors of the theater, Rose excused herself to the ladies retiring room. She removed her reticule from her wrist, and set it on a table beside a pitcher and bowl. She then dampened a cloth with cool water and kept it pressed it to her face.
“Are you unwell?”
She lowered the cloth to see Lady Prudence Hortence at her side. Her lemon yellow, low-cut gown was a fine compliment to her dark hair, piled high atop her head with a yellow, beaded ribbon running through it. Her stiff up and down inspection of Rose laid a crust of churlish curiosity over her concerned expression.
“I’m fine. Lady Hortence, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” the woman said, tipping her head. F
or a moment, her high hairstyle appeared at risk of a fall. “We were introduced at your soiree last week.”
“Yes, of course.”
“We barely had a chance to converse, but Burke, um, I mean, Lord Darington,” Lady Hortence said through a twist of a smile. “Lord Darington has spoken of you.”
“He has?” said Rose, surprised to hear such. She worried, then. Had Lord Darington boasted of their indiscretion in his carriage? Certainly, no gentleman would. Of course, he’d not behaved so gentlemanly the night he’d taken her home. Nor had she behaved the lady.
“Yes. You made quite an impression on him.” The woman’s almond shaped eyes ran an inspection over her again, slower this time, with overt interest dry of any alarm for her well-being.
“I had no idea,” Rose said. She dropped the cloth in the basket and retrieved her reticule, anxious to be away. The woman’s voice carried a snide tone reminiscent of Edwina, and for a reason she couldn’t begin to guess, Rose had the impression Lady Hortence was aggravated with her.
“Yes, apparently you are a paragon of women.” Her voice took on a distracted tone then, as if her mind had drifted off. “I’ve never actually heard him quite so effusive.” She caught herself, reined in and rushed to add with great enthusiasm, “Except, that is, when he plies me with flattery.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him well enough to say if he’s talkative or not.” Lady Hortence’s expression said she didn’t quite believe that.
“Of course,” the woman said in a hushed voice. She then stepped close for a private exchange even though they were alone. “Lord Darington doesn’t dally with married women. You should know that before you make a fool of yourself, my dear. Speaking of, I must go.” She laughed then, an artificial sound through a fabricated smile.
Lady Hortence’s voice returned to normal as she spun away and glided toward the door. “He gets so impatient when I’m out of his reach. Enjoy the show.”
What was that all about? The woman sounded as if she were jealous.
The evening had barely begun, yet the rough scraping of animosity already dulled the shine. She, Ashton and Lewis had so been looking forward to this. No, she would not allow family or acquaintance to ruin the night. She squared her shoulders, patted her hair, and stepped through the door.
Rose met her two gentlemen who waited with all patience in the noisy vestibule. They wound their way through the chattering crowd, up the stairs, and to their private box.
Though Rose refused to allow Lady Hortence and her snide treatment to spoil the evening for her, the woman’s words continued to make passes through her head. Had Lord Darington truly spoken of her in such lofty terms? Though it was silly and pointless, and she couldn’t say why, but Rose liked knowing she was in his thoughts, even if Lady Hortence did not.
Once settled, Rose took a cursory scan of the crowd of people finding their seats below, as well as the boxes across the theater. She didn’t see Lord Darington. He would be easy to spot, as he was taller than most, not to mention the bright yellow of his companion’s gown.
Then Ashton was explaining the opera, as it would be performed in Italian. Lewis offered some interesting insights, and before long the musicians were playing, and the burgundy curtains opened with a grand, sweeping flourish.
Although she spoke not a word of Italian, the splendor of the music, the passion of the singers, told with great clarity the story of the trials and treasures of realizing true love. Before long, the story had her immersed in the character’s plight. Sophia De LaGrange was indeed a talent. Her voice flowed deep into one’s heart, and when it flowed out again, left it with longing.
During a slow, moving ballad by one of the male performers, Rose let her gaze drift across the theater. On the other side, in a private box that had been empty when they’d entered theirs, Lord Darington sat with Lady Hortence.
He was staring straight at her.
Rose refused to hang her head in shame, though the memory of her behavior in his carriage urged her to do just that. After her wanton conduct, she hated to think what his opinion of her must be, regardless of what Lady Hortence had said. Of course, it was possible his idea of a paragon was a woman of minimal moralities. In which case Lady Hortence had not only been unkind, but correct.
Warmth flooded Rose’s face, yet she did not look away. On the contrary, she lifted her chin and stared back, defiant. She cared not a whit if her impudence angered him. She’d surpassed the time in her life when she would allow a man to intimidate her.
At her audacious response, the one that should have piqued his vexation at her utter lack of humility, Lord Darington had the gall to grin.
Rose’s jaw dropped a tad as she drew in a quiet gasp. The man was a cad, a rake, a scoundrel. Rose lifted her chin higher and swung her attention back to the stage. It required all the will she possessed not to look back.
****
Burke escorted Lady Prudence Hortence out the front doors and through the mad crush of people, all waiting for their carriages to collect them from the front of the theater. The performance had been excellent. At least, so Pru told him. His mind, as well as his attention, kept drifting across the theater to where Lady Rose Sennett sat in harmonious fashion with her two male companions.
Even now, with Pru whispering indecent enticements into his ear, his gaze traveled the throng, seeking out Lady Sennett as if such a thing was natural for him. Indeed, it was not. Had he ever cared whether or not a specific woman was in attendance to any event? No. Never. And to his chagrin, this particular woman wasn’t even close to his usual taste in women.
He admired the lady’s mettle. Her mind challenged him. The situation in which she’d inserted herself to establish her safety was fascinating, to say the least, and roused his curiosity from its long dormant state. If he were to be frank, most everything about her roused him in one way or another.
All right, well, perhaps he did appreciate certain aspects of her. Though it stopped at any interest beyond her unconventionality. The women he chose to share sparse time with were not innocent, nor were they shy in expressing their amorous interests. These qualities made them a perfect, albeit temporary, match for him. Lady Sennett possessed neither of these qualities. So why was he searching the crowd for her?
Burke was on the verge of calling himself every kind of fool and taking what the voluptuous woman beside him offered, when he spotted her.
Deep in conversation with Lord Lewis Da Ville, Lady Sennett did not at first see him, but her husband did. Burke placed a hand between Pru’s shoulder blades and guided her through the crowd and in their direction.
“Lord Darington,” said Lord Sennett, a welcoming smile upon his youthful face at their approach.
“Lord Sennett, how are you this grand evening?”
“Quite well, and yourself?”
“Fine, just fine. I take it you and your companions enjoyed the performance.”
“As did everyone fortunate enough to attend,” Lord Sennett said. “Miss De LaGrange has a voice to cow the angels.”
Burke tipped his head in agreement, and then motioned toward Pru. “Lady Prudence Hortence.”
“A pleasure to see you again,” Lord Sennett said. He took her offered hand and touched it with a quick kiss. “You did me the honor of gracing our soiree with your attendance. And this is Lord Lewis Da Ville. You may have met him, as he too attended our event.”
“Lord Da Ville,” Burke said.
After Da Ville acknowledged the lady and the men shook hands, Lord Sennett said, “You remember my wife.”
“Of course. Lady Sennett,” Burke said, taking her hand and brushing a light kiss across her knuckles. “How could any man forget such a lovely creature?”
“Lord Darington,” she said with a polite nod and a hint of discomfort. “How nice to see you again.”
Before he let go of her hand, Burke gave her fingers a meaningful squeeze, accompanied by a fleeting but pointed and impish leer. The woman brought out a juveni
le facet in him. Awareness of his folly prodded him to stop. He ignored it.
He surprised himself because it was not his habit to indulge in playful banter. He didn’t tease, he didn’t cajole, and he certainly didn’t flirt. The women with whom he was intimate understood what he was about and vice versa. Invitations might be outright or implied. Either way, getting to where they both wanted to be required a minimum of words.
Once between the sheets, he thoroughly enjoyed taking his time pleasuring a woman, and taking his pleasure with her. Some things in life deserved one’s full attention. Until that point, however, coy preambles held no appeal to him. Speaking with a woman was for the sole purpose of reaching a destination. Conversing itself offered no gratification.
At least, so it had always been in the past.
“Have you visited the foundling home lately?” Burke asked with deliberate directness. He kept his smile polite as the lady’s cheeks reddened.
“I visited the children, briefly,” Rose said.
Her words trailed off at the end as she cast a meaningful glance toward her husband. Her face bore an obvious beseech. She wanted to leave. Lord Sennett was either oblivious or set on further pursuit of his request. Burke would bet a purse full of coin on the latter.
“We were just going back to my home for a brandy,” Burke said, though it was a complete lie, something else he never did. He saw what lies did to his parents, to his family. One lie led to another, and then another, until the hole was so deep there was no chance for ascension.
Yet, here he was, conjuring a story for the sole purpose of having a bit of time with her. What had come over him? No, this was different from what his parents had done. Nothing here was of any consequence. This was just for fun. When in his life had he ever done anything just for fun?
