One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “I suppose I can let you attempt it. I’m rather particular about the way in which books are read aloud. Too much expression vexes me; too little bores me.”

  Rose stood and placed her napkin on the table. “I shall endeavor to do my best. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch the book and meet you in your room in a few minutes.”

  For a few minutes was all she’d need.

  She glided from the breakfast room and down the chilly corridor, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her. The drawing room door was open, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows, banishing the shadows of the previous night. Standing in the bright room, it was hard to believe that she and Charles had managed to hide by the bookshelves.

  But Rose had no time to linger, no time to contemplate that unexpected, intimate encounter. She spotted the viscountess’s book across the room, went to pick it up, and tucked it under one arm. Then she strode directly to the desk, eager to see her mother’s familiar handwriting once more. She’d already decided she wouldn’t read the letter right away. She would slip the folded paper into her pocket and wait until after Lady Bonneville was napping to read it. She suspected it would take some time to digest, and she wouldn’t be able to do so while she was reading to the viscountess.

  Rose’s hand trembled as she opened the desk drawer. Just like last night, it was full of letters and writing supplies…  but something was different. The papers were neatly bound in string or ribbon. Several ink pots sat in a row with quills nestled beside them. Rose set down the viscountess’s book and frantically flipped through the bundled papers in the drawer, hoping against hope that her mother’s note—the one she’d held in her hands just hours ago—would be there.

  It was not.

  Anger, hot and fierce, welled up inside her. Somebody had removed the letter to ensure that she could not read it.

  And there was no doubt who that somebody was, for only Charles had seen her snooping.

  She’d thought she could trust him. She’d thought he was on her side.

  But perhaps he was not the man she’d imagined him to be.

  She checked the other desk drawers, but didn’t really expect to find the letter there. If she wanted to get it back, she was going to have to find Charles and either convince him that she deserved to have it or take it without his consent—and if it came to that, she would.

  No one had ever accused Rose of being unscrupulous, but she knew in her heart that she’d do anything to obtain that letter—that little piece of Mama.

  Lord help the handsome steward who stood in her way.

  Charles divided his duties into two categories. The first, which he vastly preferred, were the physical sorts of activities. Riding around the estate, seeing to repairs, and visiting tenants took up much of his day. He knew he should delegate more of the work, but he liked the satisfaction of mending a fence or patching a leaking roof. Anything to get him out from behind a damned desk.

  Which brought him to the second, reviled group of tasks: reviewing ledgers, ensuring accounts were up-to-date, and meeting with Lady Yardley. Not that she was a particularly demanding employer—he just felt trapped if he had to spend more than a few hours sitting indoors.

  Today in particular he would avoid the manor house. He needed to lose himself in his work.

  Because the one woman he’d always wanted was here in Bath—staying on the estate where he lived and worked.

  During his last summer working at Huntford Manor, he and Rose had forged an unlikely bond. He’d been a sullen nineteen-year-old with a huge chip on his shoulder and every reason to distrust Rose. As the sister of a duke, she stood for the very things he resented: wealth, privilege, and power.

  But damn it, she hadn’t looked like a spoiled debutante when she came into the stables, sat on an upside-down pail, and silently pet Romeo behind his mangy ears. Animals loved her, and he’d respected that. Besides, the loneliness and sadness in her eyes would have crumbled anyone’s defenses.

  The connection was more than that though. She’d seen something in him that no one but his father had. She believed he could do anything—break the wildest stud colt, heal the sickliest mare, and manage the finest stables in all of England. He might have been a stable master on her brother’s estate, but she’d made him feel like a king.

  It had been only a matter of time before he’d wanted more than friendship. Her beauty was ethereal and earthly at the same time. Lips he was sure had never been kissed taunted him with their ripe fullness. Hair the color of a perfect sunset begged to be touched. He’d desired her with every fiber of his being. And she’d desired him, too.

  But he would never have been content with a part of her. Or a few passionate kisses. He wanted all of her—and it was the very thing that drove him to make something more of himself.

  Now she was here, even more beautiful than he’d remembered. And the chasm between them seemed wider than ever.

  So he’d decided to spend the bitterly cold afternoon inspecting the garden and noting items to discuss with the head gardener. He strode over pebbled paths, welcoming the brisk breeze that stung his face and the little clouds that appeared when he exhaled.

  Winter was a fine time to see to the garden’s structural elements. With the branches stripped of their green finery, imperfections in the architecture stood out. The trellis required painting and some of the border stones along a path needed replacing. As he walked down a narrow pathway, one of the large flat slabs of slate beneath his boots wobbled. He crouched to inspect it more closely.

  Some of the dirt under one corner of the stone had shifted—either from erosion or a burrowing creature. A hazard such as this was best dealt with immediately, before someone tripped on the stone and took a tumble into the rosebushes. He hadn’t brought a shovel or any other tools, but this wasn’t a difficult job.

  He gripped the edges of the rock and grunted as he hoisted it aside, then exhaled as it thudded on the grass. The soil where the rock had been was compacted—except for one spot where a small animal had dug out a home. Charles frowned. He loved animals more than he did most people, but this creature was going to have to relocate. He’d probably have to come back with a shovel to get the ground completely firm and level, but for now, he stood and dug the heel of his boot into the ground to push dirt into the hole.

  “You’re a difficult man to find.”

  Startled, Charles turned to see Rose standing on the walkway. She wore a long, midnight-blue hooded cloak trimmed in snow-white fur, but her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink from the cold. Tendrils of her fiery hair peeked out from beneath her hood, instantly adding color and life to the dreary garden.

  “It’s rare that anyone comes looking for me.” He brushed off his gloves and stood. “Least of all a beautiful young woman. How can I be of service?”

  She raised her chin. “I think you know.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Is this about last night?”

  “What have you done with it?” she asked.

  “With what?”

  She opened her mouth, then looked away as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Are you referring to the paper that you attempted to take from Lady Yardley’s desk last night?”

  “Where is it?” Her eyes flicked to the loose dirt beneath his foot. “Surely you didn’t…”

  “What, bury it?” he asked incredulously. “No. I don’t even know what that paper was or why you wanted it.”

  “Please don’t pretend with me, Charles. I’m sure that you feel allegiance to Lady Yardley, and—”

  “I’m not pretending. I’m willing to help, but first I need to understand.”

  She shook her head and the loose, strawberry spirals around her face fluttered gracefully. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss it.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He looked down at the stone and the dirt, doing his best to appear uninterested.

  “It’s complicated, and…”

  “You�
�re not sure if you can trust me?”

  She shrugged guiltily. “It’s been a long time. Much has changed.”

  He nodded and waved her toward a bench a few yards farther down the garden path. “Come.”

  She followed him, and just as she was about to sit on the cold stone, he stopped her, took off his greatcoat, and folded it before laying it on the bench.

  Her face clouded with worry. “You’ll freeze.”

  “No, I won’t. Unless this conversation takes all night,” he teased. “Then I might.”

  She shivered a little as she sat on the bench, and he checked the urge to rub her fingers between his palms.

  “Here,” she said, spreading the edge of his greatcoat out beside her, “you sit, too.”

  “I can see that you’re upset, Rose,” he began. “And I—”

  “It was a letter from my mother,” she blurted. “I need to read it.” The anguish in her voice caused him pain, as real as if he’d slammed his fist into a brick.

  “Your mother? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I didn’t have time to read it before…”

  “Before I walked into the drawing room and found you?” he offered.

  She nodded. “But I recognized her handwriting at once.”

  “Why are you so desperate to have it?” If she had resorted to rummaging through other people’s desks, she was desperate indeed.

  “I hoped that it might…” Her voice trailed off, thin and forlorn. “It doesn’t matter. I can see that I was wrong to think you’d taken it.” She stood, signaling that their conversation was over.

  “Wait. Why would you assume that I’d take it? I was trying to protect you last night—don’t you remember?”

  She turned away as though searching the pale gray sky for answers. “Perhaps. But you were also trying to protect yourself and your position.”

  She had a point. But it stung that she’d jumped to the worst conclusion about him. “Our friendship still means something.”

  As she whirled to face him, her hood fell back, unleashing a riot of auburn curls. Unshed tears shone in her eyes. “How dare you speak to me of friendship?”

  He swallowed and rose slowly, the same way he’d face a beautiful but untamed horse. “We were friends.”

  She shook her head. “I once thought so. But you left Huntford Manor without so much as a word. And the letters I wrote to you afterward…  all of them went unanswered.” Her lip trembled.

  Jesus.

  “Rose, I’m sorry.” He’d told himself it was for the best. That she’d forget about him a few days after he was gone and that she’d be better off in the long run.

  Right now, however, a tear trickled down her cheek, making him feel like the worst kind of scoundrel. He felt inside his jacket for a handkerchief and offered it to her wordlessly. She took it and dabbed at her face, looking at him expectantly. She wanted an explanation for his behavior, and he supposed she deserved one.

  But what could he say?

  Certainly not the truth—that despite years of trying, he hadn’t managed to learn to read and write properly. That after endless hours spent staring at books, he still labored to make sense of the simplest of sentences.

  No. He couldn’t reveal the truth, especially not to Rose. Better she think him a heartless bastard than the hopeless idiot that he was. He clenched his fists, wishing he could punch something. Hard.

  Rose sniffled and her teeth chattered. “I should return to the house.”

  “Yes, you’re half frozen.” He moved closer and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. “Go sit by the fire and have some tea.”

  “Please, don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make kind gestures and say nice things. Don’t pretend that you care when you don’t.”

  His control snapped like a dry twig. He reached for her hands and pulled her closer, forcing her to face him. “Listen to me, Rose. I may not be the most faithful of correspondents. I may not be the most skilled conversationalist. But I will tell you this: I don’t have to pretend when it comes to caring about you. Some things come naturally, and caring for you…  well, that’s one of them. If you want to know the truth, it wounds me to think that you would doubt that.”

  “You have an odd way of showing it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the manor house. “I really should go.”

  “Meet me later.” The words were out of his mouth before he had the chance to realize what he was asking. But he had to see her again and try to explain.

  For the space of several heartbeats, she looked into his eyes, then nodded. “Where are your quarters?” she asked. “Do you live in the manor house?”

  “No, I’m staying in a cottage on the other side of the duck pond.” He pointed in the general direction. “But we can’t meet there.” The idea was preposterous. Surely she understood the grave risk to her reputation.

  “Then where?”

  “There’s a folly by the pond—a miniature replica of a Greek rotunda. It’s covered and affords some privacy. Can you meet me there at this time tomorrow afternoon?”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’ll be there.”

  “You must take precautions to ensure no one knows where you’re going,” he warned. “If we’re seen together, you’ll be ruined.”

  “I’m not ashamed to know you.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” he chided. “You’re no longer a girl. If we’re discovered alone together, you’ll be shunned from polite society for the rest of your days.”

  She shrugged and gave a hollow laugh. “There are worse fates.”

  Damn it.

  He squeezed her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Don’t say that—not even in jest. Do you think I’d be able to live with myself if your good name was destroyed on my account? Because I wouldn’t.”

  A storm of emotion swirled in her eyes and their breath mingled in the small white clouds between them.

  “I’ll be careful,” she promised. “But I must go now.”

  Slowly, he released her.

  “Until tomorrow.” With that, she glided away, her cloak billowing behind her in the breeze.

  Chapter Four

  Rose sneezed into her handkerchief as delicately as possible. Lady Bonneville raised her lorgnette, her horrified expression suggesting that she feared her young companion had contracted the plague.

  “It’s a good thing we’re here,” the viscountess muttered. She sipped from her glass and grimaced at the taste of the Pump Room’s warm mineral waters. “You require the curative waters more than I do. Drink up.”

  Rose did as she was instructed. Actually, she only pretended to drink, but Lady Bonneville was mollified nevertheless.

  It was Rose’s first time in the Pump Room, and though she’d heard much about it, she was still surprised by the number of people milling about the large, elegant chamber and the cacophony of conversation and the music from the orchestra. The warm waters flowed from a fountain at one end of the room, where a pumper handed glasses to guests.

  Light poured through the tall windows, creating sunny patches on the floor. Ash, the cat who frequented the stables at Huntford Manor, would have loved to claim one of the spots as his own. Of course, Ash made her think of Charles and the day they’d helped the kitten make its entrance into the world. She shook off the thought, resolving to have a pleasant and productive morning. Later, she would meet Charles.

  Rose offered the viscountess her arm as they strolled around the perimeter of the room. Lady Bonneville was not so feeble that she required assistance with walking, but she found it rather convenient to have someone—namely, Rose—on hand to listen to the insightful, if occasionally biting, remarks she made.

  Lady Yardley, who’d accompanied them as well, greeted several acquaintances and friends. She seemed to know everyone and was gracious to all she met—just as Mama had been. And that encouraged Rose to try a new tack in her search for her mother’s whereabouts. />
  Rather than attempt to look for the missing letter, perhaps she’d simply ask Lady Yardley what she knew about Mama. Maybe her hostess would produce the letter and let Rose read it, as well as any others that existed. But she didn’t dare ask in front of Lady Bonneville, who clearly intimidated their hostess—and most mere mortals.

  Lady Yardley approached, eyes alight with mischief. “Henrietta,” she said breathlessly, “you must allow me to introduce Rose to a young gentleman.”

  “Must I?” Lady Bonneville asked incredulously. “And who is this gentleman? Don’t you think I should meet him as well?”

  “Of course. I shall introduce you both. However, you mentioned that Rose should have an opportunity to mingle with people her age, and Lord Stanton seems an ideal candidate.” She winked conspiratorially at Rose, who felt a vague sense of alarm at the word candidate. Candidate for what, precisely? She’d thought Lady Bonneville was her ally in avoiding the matchmaking efforts of well-meaning family and friends—but the calculating gleam in her sharp eyes made Rose shudder involuntarily.

  “Aha. It’s just as I suspected,” the viscountess announced to Rose. “You’re taking a chill.”

  “Not at all. I—”

  Lady Bonneville released Rose’s arm and took the precaution of moving a few steps away. “Go with Diana to meet Lord Stanton. Do try to refrain from sneezing on him, dear, as it tends to make a horrid first impression. Afterward, you may report back to me. I shall be sitting on the side of the room opposite the orchestra, for obvious reasons. I trust Audrey has seen to my footstool?”

  “She has. Allow me to escort you to it.”

  “No need.” She shooed Rose in the direction of Lady Yardley, who seized her wrist, apparently undaunted by threat of disease. “Lord Stanton is the son of the Marquess Holdsworth. I think you’ll find him quite charming. Handsome, too. He accompanied his mother here today.” As they approached a dark-haired gentleman and an older woman, Lady Yardley gushed, “Ah, here we are.”

  Rose resisted the urge to cringe, for she felt rather like a stuffed partridge on a platter just before the footman prepared to remove the cover.