by Anne Barton
“It should. A lady like you shouldn’t have to endure advances from the likes of me. Especially not on the cold floor of an old cottage.”
“I was not ‘enduring’ anything, and I love your cottage. I came here of my own accord. If I didn’t want to be here with you, I’d simply leave.”
“Actually, I think it is past time I walked you home.” He stood, unceremoniously brushed off his trousers, and extended a hand to her.
She allowed him to help her up so that she’d be able to look him in the eye. Well, more or less. She wasn’t about to be so easily dismissed. “I want to make sure that you understand exactly what just happened here.”
“I’m all too aware.” His eyes still flashed with the desire he was trying to ignore. “I think that you are the one who’s acting blindly.”
Drat, he did have a point. Passion was not exactly her area of expertise. However, she knew a few things. “You kissed me and I kissed you back. There was nothing unseemly or tawdry about it.” Was there?
“No, but that’s not the point. You deserve more respect, Rose. You should demand it.”
“I think you are mistaken. I didn’t feel disrespected just now.” But part of her wondered if she should have. Charles acted as though he’d done something to earn her ire. Perhaps she should be scandalized… but she just couldn’t summon anything approximating outrage. Did proper ladies normally eschew such behavior?
Her mother certainly had not. Rose had been shocked when, at the confused age of fifteen, she’d accidentally witnessed her mother’s intimate encounter with an earl and a maid. It had horrified her then, for she’d never before seen her prim mother with so much as a hair out of place. Though Rose now understood a bit more about passion, she couldn’t help but judge Mama harshly for betraying Papa and succumbing to her own wicked desires.
But an uncomfortable thought niggled at Rose. Maybe she was more like her mother than she wanted to admit. After all, she’d snuck out of the house, broken into a cottage, and kissed Charles with no small amount of abandon.
He eyed her thoughtfully as he scooped up her cloak from the floor and draped it around her shoulders. “Come. I’ll take you back to the house.”
She opened her mouth to inform him she didn’t require an escort, but he held up a palm. “I insist.”
Silently, they prepared to brave the wild winter night. She slipped her hood over her head while he swung his greatcoat around his shoulders and tugged on gloves. Wordlessly, they left the cozy comfort of the cottage and stepped into tundra-like conditions.
The wind whipped Rose’s skirts around her ankles, and Charles tried to shield her with his body.
During the short walk to the manor house, light snow swirled around them, floating more than falling. It would have been magical if Rose didn’t feel so… so… ashamed. When they were a few yards from the back door, she turned and faced him, wishing she could see more than the vague shadow of his features.
“Shall we meet at the folly tomorrow?”
Charles looked away. “I don’t think so.”
“The next day then?”
“Rose, it kills me to say this… but we can’t meet anymore.”
Her heart dropped. “Not at all? I was going to bring you some books, work with you on developing your reading skills.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he said formally. Too formally. Like he was a stranger and not the man who’d been passionately kissing her only minutes before. “But it’s not necessary.”
“I want to help,” she pleaded.
He shook his head, anguish written plainly on his handsome face. “I don’t think we should be alone together—at least not for a while.”
“But I only just found you.” Her eyes stung—from the wind and the pain and the unjustness of it all. “And your time in England is limited. Would you say good-bye so soon, even before you leave for America?”
He clasped her hands tightly between his. “You’re one of the wisest people I know. Surely you understand that I’m trying to do the honorable thing here.”
She sniffled, dash it all. “Yes.”
“If I should uncover some piece of information about your mother, I’ll get word to you somehow. Trust me.”
She did. More than he knew. And certainly more than he trusted himself.
With a slight nod, she withdrew her hands, picked up her skirts, and made her way to the door at the rear of the house. Though she felt Charles’s gaze on her back, she never turned around, never waved good night. It was her little protest, her way of showing that even as her heart was breaking, she had her pride.
He could say good-bye if he wished, but he couldn’t make her say it back.
Chapter Nine
Pedigree: (1) The documented lineage of a horse, especially a purebred. (2) A family tree, especially one showing an impressive ancestry, as in What he lacked in pedigree he made up for in character and substance.
Charles avoided the manor house the next morning and most of the afternoon. Rose’s kisses were seared on his lips, and worse, on his heart. The passion that constantly sparked between them was dangerous—as unpredictable as a brush fire. Someone had to stamp it out before it raged into a blaze that consumed them both, and it appeared as though the job would fall to him.
Pushing her away had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. She was all he’d ever desired, warm and willing in his arms. Last night, in the light of the fire, her blue eyes had simmered with a passion that matched his own. Every little moan, every hitch of her breath, betrayed her state of arousal. He’d wanted to make her his, completely.
But he couldn’t seduce her knowing full well that he’d soon set sail for America. He’d be the worst kind of cad. And yet, he’d been tempted—so very, very tempted. One more innocent brush of her palm over his chest, one more intoxicating taste of her tongue, would have pushed him over the edge and past the point of control.
And that was why he couldn’t continue meeting with her. He didn’t trust himself around her—not when they were alone. But he’d promised to help her locate her mother, and he wouldn’t renege on that.
Fortunately, Lady Yardley’s butler had mentioned yesterday that the ladies would be going to the Assembly Rooms for tea at four, which would give him a window of at least two hours in which to do a bit of investigating.
He waited until Lady Yardley’s coach rumbled down the drive, then set off toward the manor house. Rose’s footprints from the night before were etched in the snow along the path, and he trampled over them, dragging his boots to wipe out the evidence of her late night visit. He tried not to think about the sadness in her eyes when he’d pushed her away or the anguish in her voice when she’d said she’d only just found him.
Of course he didn’t want to stay away from her. Everything in him longed to claim her, to make her his, now and forever. But one of them had to be sensible. The sooner Rose accepted that she’d be better off without him, the sooner she could begin looking for a suitable husband—one who was rich and titled and intelligent. Someone who could give her everything she deserved without uprooting her to a distant and foreign land.
Swallowing the bitterness in his throat, he approached the front door and waited for Evans to admit him.
The butler opened the door with the haughty glare Charles had come to expect. Most of the staff accepted him as one of their own, grateful that he’d replaced the former steward whose corrupt dealings had threatened the entire estate, but Evans remained aloof and vaguely suspicious.
“Lady Yardley and her guests are out, Mr. Holland. I presume you’ve come to review the books?”
Charles glared back at the butler and angled his shoulders through the doorway. “Yes. I think I’ll work in the study.”
“Very good,” Evans said, in a tone suggesting the visit was anything but. “Would you like anything? Tea or refreshments?”
“No, thank you.” He didn’t want interruptions while he searched on Rose’s behalf. Readin
g random correspondence, without any context, would require his full attention. At least he’d have no trouble identifying the words Sherbourne and Huntford. Those were in his mental lexicon, imprinted on his memory. If he could explore freely for one hour, surely he’d turn up some scrap of information. Something that would be valuable to Rose.
He made his way to the study, which boasted a wall of built-in shelves, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive desk. The centerpiece of the room, the mahogany desk was designed to instill power in whomever sat behind it and to impress whomever sat in front of it. A small globe sat on one corner and a pristine blotting mat lay in the center.
He left the door open so as not to raise suspicion and immediately pulled three volumes of ledgers from a shelf behind the desk. He stacked two on the side of the desk and opened one so that if anyone entered the room it would look as though he were examining the books.
Then he sat in the chair and began exploring.
Though he couldn’t give Rose everything she wanted, he could do this one thing. For her.
The heated brick beneath Rose’s feet did nothing to warm the cold, hollow feeling inside her. After taking tea in the Upper Assembly Rooms, she, Lady Bonneville, and Lady Yardley were now in the coach, rolling toward the manor house. Snowflakes danced by the window like fairies celebrating the arrival of winter. Meanwhile, Rose mourned for summers past and the long, carefree days she’d spent with Charles. She’d taken those days for granted, never realizing what a gift they were—
Ouch. Lady Bonneville had poked her knee with her lorgnette, and now glared at her from her seat across the coach. “Ye gads, gel. You are not attending to this conversation in the least.”
“I believe she’s tired, Henrietta,” Lady Yardley said in a stage whisper. “Look at the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Perhaps we should wait and have this conversation at another time.”
Her curiosity piqued, Rose rubbed her knee and sat up straighter. “Forgive me, I was woolgathering. What is it?”
Lady Yardley cast a questioning look at Lady Bonneville, who nodded solemnly, sending a chill skittering down Rose’s spine.
“Henrietta and I have been discussing this… this… quest of yours to locate your mother.”
Lady Yardley had discussed Mama with the viscountess? Hope flared in Rose’s chest. “Do you have news for me?”
“Patience, my dear.” Lady Yardley’s words were kind, but there was a slight edge to her voice. “It is just this sort of overzealousness that gives me pause. However, Henrietta feels you are entitled to know what has become of your dear mother, so I will tell you.”
God bless Lady Bonneville. She might be a far cry from a fairy godmother, but in this instance, she’d certainly worked a little magic. Rose would have leaped across the coach and hugged her if she hadn’t known the viscountess would detest any show of affection.
“Please,” Rose said.
“Very well.” Lady Yardley raised a gloved hand and pointed her finger. “But first you must promise me that you will accept what I’m about to tell you with the grace and dignity befitting the sister of a duke.”
She would have promised anything in that moment. With a calmness that belied the churning of her belly, she said, “Of course. I promise.”
Lady Bonneville nodded approvingly. Not unkindly, she said, “I remember how close you were to your mother, Rose. You must understand that things can never be as they were before.”
Rose wanted to yell Why not? Instead she bowed her head demurely. “I understand.”
Lady Yardley cleared her throat. “I did, in fact, receive a very brief letter from your mother several months ago. I do not know her specific address, but she wrote that she was living in a villa in the French countryside. Apparently, she’s quite happy.”
Several seconds passed as Rose waited for more information. Surely, there was more. When none came, her questions rushed out. “Who is she living with? How long has she been there? Does she ever plan on returning to England?”
Lady Yardley raised an elegant brow. “Remember—grace and dignity.”
Rose checked the impulse to throttle her. “I am grateful for this news and beyond relieved to hear that Mama is well. I’d just like to know a bit more about her situation.”
“I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I know.”
“But you must have some idea of whom she’s staying with. Did she mention any names at all? Or perhaps give a hint of the village or town she’s in?”
“No and no,” Lady Yardley said smoothly. She turned to the viscountess. “I do hope this wasn’t a mistake.”
“It wasn’t,” Rose protested. “I have a right to know what’s become of my mother. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking questions… especially if they lead to the truth.”
“The truth is often unkind,” Lady Bonneville said softly. “You are not a child. You’ve heard the rumors about your mother. Her scandalous behavior has made her—and anyone who would dare associate with her—a pariah. She made her bed, so to speak. I know this is difficult, but it is time for you to let go of the past.”
Difficult? It was nigh impossible.
Closing her eyes, Rose whispered. “I’m not sure I can let go.”
Lady Bonneville leaned forward and patted her knee. “Diana has shared all that she knows. We must leave it at that.”
Rose nodded. What choice did she have? In as gracious a tone as she could muster, she addressed Lady Yardley. “Thank you for telling me about the letter. Just knowing that Mama’s alive and well is a comfort and a weight off my shoulders.”
“I should imagine it is.” Lady Yardley smiled a bit too sweetly.
Rose turned again toward the small window. As she watched the sun sink in the sky, she tried to picture Mama living in a villa. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her in a beautiful house complete with elegant furnishings and stunning views of the lush countryside. Such a place would be the perfect backdrop for Mama’s beauty and charm. But who was she with? And how could she be content to live there so distant from her children—even if they were grown?
As though privy to her thoughts, Lady Bonneville said, “You will never have all of your questions answered, Rose. That, unfortunately, is a fact of life. But at least you know more than you did this morning, and the news is heartening. I do hope that you will begin to think of your future.”
Ah, yes. That had been Rose’s plan all along, hadn’t it? To discover what happened to her mother so that she could make her peace with it and move on. Why, then, did she still feel so unsettled?
The viscountess stared as though she were seeing through Rose, to her very center. She barely resisted the urge to squirm.
At last, Lady Bonneville said, “Your future shall be happy. I’m almost never wrong about these things, you know.”
Rose rallied a smile for the viscountess’s sake. “Yes, your record is impressive.” She’d been credited with predicting several great matches, including the one between Anabelle’s sister, Daphne, and her handsome war hero, Ben. But Rose wasn’t like Daphne, beautiful and determined. She wasn’t like Olivia either, passionate and headstrong.
She was the quiet one, content as long as she could be near her family. Until recently, spinsterhood had seemed a perfectly acceptable option. But now that she’d tasted passion with Charles, she yearned for more—companionship, pleasure, love.
“Time is of the essence,” Lady Yardley warned. “With each season that passes, the field of suitable, prospective husbands narrows. You would be wise to devise a strategy and employ it at once.”
“Strategy?”
Lady Yardley sighed as though she found the depths of Rose’s naïveté thoroughly dismaying. “Too many young ladies rely on fate to deliver them into the arms of the proper husband. A romantic notion”—Lady Bonneville snorted, indicating her agreement—“but a foolish one. You must give fate some assistance. Take matters into your own hands… with Lord Stanton, for instance.”
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br /> Rose glanced out the window, hoping to see evergreens lining the drive that would signal they were close to the manor house. They couldn’t be more than a few minutes away, and she desperately wished this conversation would cease. But now that Lady Yardley had begun to impart helpful advice, she did not seem inclined to stop.
“He is a fine, proper sort of gentleman. You couldn’t do much better than him, dear.”
Rose noticed Lady Bonneville rolled her eyes slightly at the declaration. Rose couldn’t help thinking that she could do better than him. Not in the way that Lady Yardley thought—richer, more respected, or in possession of a better title. Only that there was someone better for her—if only Charles were open to the possibility.
But after last night, Rose had to accept that he was not.
He wanted to avoid her, keeping matters between them uncomplicated. He wanted to keep a razor-sharp focus on his dream of sailing to America and becoming a wealthy, respected landowner.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—begrudge him his dream.
Even if she longed for the young man who’d been happy lying in the fields and looking up at the sky… with her.
“Lord Stanton will attend our ball three days hence,” Lady Yardley rambled on. “He’s already quite smitten with you. With a modicum of encouragement, you could have him courting you by the final dance and proposing before Christmas. Imagine how delighted your sister and brother would be to hear the happy news.” As if it were all but accomplished. But Lady Yardley was correct—Olivia and Owen would be thrilled to learn she was happily engaged.
They only wanted what was best for her… and Rose wanted to please them. Perhaps it was time for her to take the advice everyone was giving her, to try to fit the mold for once, and embrace the opportunities she’d been given. It was time to find a husband.
She took a deep, heartening breath and resolved to let go of the hurt and longing of her past. Attempting a bright smile, she said, “It seems we have a bit of strategizing to do in the next three days.”
