One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  “You do?” His forehead crinkled. “Why?”

  “Because you needn’t bow to others’ expectations of you. You can live your life the way you want to.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, he said, “That’s true.”

  “Please, don’t misunderstand. I know I’m awfully fortunate. Being born to a duke and duchess has given me every advantage. And I’m doubly blessed to have a brother, sister, and even a half sister whom I adore.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the mention of her half sister, Sophia. She’d forgotten he didn’t know about her. All the gossip rags had reported that the former Duke of Huntford had fathered a child with a bookshop clerk, but Charles wasn’t versed in the latest scandals, and Rose had no wish to steer their conversation off course. “I’ll have to tell you about Sophia another time. The point is, I’m extremely fortunate.”

  “But…  ?”

  “But now I must play the part I was born to.”

  Frowning, he asked, “Which means?”

  “I must enter the social whirl, marry well, and become a respectable member of society.” But perhaps not right away—not if she could help it. “I owe that to my family.”

  He pressed his lips together in a thin line. A muscle ticked along the left side of his jaw. She sensed he wanted to say something…  but he didn’t.

  “It won’t be a bad life,” she assured him. “I’m sure I shall be content.”

  “But that’s not the same thing as being happy.”

  “No, it is not.” Her words echoed in the silence that followed. She rubbed Ash beneath the chin, grateful for his camaraderie.

  At last, Charles said, “So you have decided to marry a wealthy, titled husband and live the life you were meant to.” She didn’t think she imagined the barely contained jealousy that seethed beneath his skin, but it was little consolation.

  She wanted to tell him that she’d change her mind in an instant if she could spend a lifetime with him. “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you’ve given up on the idea of finding your mother?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I’m more determined than ever. Just yesterday, Lady Yardley told me that Mama’s living in the French countryside, but she couldn’t be more specific than that.”

  “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

  “I’m thinking the latter. I’m almost certain that Lady Yardley knows more than she’s telling me, and I’m not going to be satisfied with half-truths. If I never learned what happened to Mama, I think I’d go quite mad. I must find her. Or at least learn what’s become of her.”

  Charles took a deep breath. “In that case”—he withdrew a paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it out—“this is for you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Filly: (1) A female horse under four years of age. (2) A spirited young woman, as in Young bucks prowled the ballroom in search of wide-eyed fillies.

  Rose stared at the paper in Charles’s hand. “What is it?”

  “A letter. From your mother.”

  Blood pounding in her ears, she pressed the folded sheet of parchment against her chest. “Where did you find it?”

  “In Lady Yardley’s library.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No. I only looked for the signature at the bottom, and when I saw her name I folded the letter and put it away until I could give it to you. I don’t know if it will answer any of your questions, but I thought you’d want to find out for yourself.”

  She cast him a grateful smile. “I do. I hope you didn’t put yourself or your position at risk in order to obtain the letter for me.”

  He glanced away, providing her answer. “It was the least I could do. I want you to have your answers, to be happy.”

  How easy he made it sound. “Where did you find it? Was this the only letter?”

  He hesitated briefly, then said, “There’s a small cabinet hidden behind the portrait above the fireplace where Lady Yardley keeps a pistol and valuables. Other letters were stashed there, but I only had time to grab the one.”

  Rose blinked. “Lady Yardley has a secret cubby?”

  “So it would seem. But promise me that you won’t try to access it. The less you are involved, the better.”

  She chafed at his words. “I disagree. This has to do with my mother, and I should be involved. Of all people, I thought you understood.”

  “I do. All I ask is that you give the letter to me when you’re finished with it. It should be fairly simple for me to slip into the library and return it to the cabinet before Lady Yardley realizes it’s missing.”

  “Very well.” But she was glad to know about the hiding spot. If the letter she held failed to shed light on Mama’s whereabouts, she could likely find others.

  As though he’d read her thoughts, Charles said, “If you need me to retrieve additional letters, I will.”

  “I wouldn’t ask that of you. You’ve risked enough already.”

  His eyes drifted downward, to the letter she still clutched to her breast. “Are you going to read it now?”

  “I don’t think so. I doubt my ability to remain composed.”

  “Do you think that it will contain bad news?”

  “Yes. And I fear that it will contain all good news. For if I discover that Mama is happy living her life without me—her daughter—then I shall be sadder than ever.”

  He frowned. “The letter is bound to bring you pain then, no matter what it says.”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you’re determined to read it.”

  “I must.”

  He folded her into his arms, instantly enveloping her in warmth and strength. She leaned into him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and when he brushed his lips across her forehead, her heart did a cartwheel.

  “I hope you get your answers, Rose.” Charles’s voice, low and gravely, washed over her like a healing rain. “But more than anything, I hope you realize that no matter what you learn about your mother, you deserve love. She may be able to give it…  she may not. But one thing I know for certain is that you deserve it. And more.”

  Sniffling, Rose folded the letter and tucked it deep into the pocket of her cloak. “You say that, and I believe that you mean it.”

  He pulled back to look at her face, his expression slightly offended. “Of course I do.”

  “Then why do I feel so alone?” So pathetically unwanted.

  “Because some mothers—and fathers—just don’t have the right instincts. I’ve seen it dozens of times with animals.” Ash flicked his tail, right on cue. “It’s not fair, but that’s the way of the nature. Don’t let your parents’ failings define you.”

  He was right.

  In that very moment, with Charles’s arms securely around her, she made a silent vow. If any failings were going to define her, they were going to be her own. And if she failed, she planned to do so spectacularly.

  No time like the present.

  “When I mentioned earlier that I’d decided to begin the search for a suitable husband I left out an important detail.”

  Charles’s raised brow was one part curiosity, two parts suspicion. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not quite ready to shackle myself to a man in a loveless marriage.”

  “It certainly doesn’t sound appealing when you put it like that.”

  “No. That’s why I’ve decided that before I marry I shall experience pleasure.”

  Charles nearly choked. “Pleasure?”

  “Yes. Passion, physical love, coupling—”

  He held up a hand. “No need to elaborate.”

  “Does this make you uncomfortable? Because I’d rather hoped—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  She blinked innocently. “What? That I hoped you would be my guide?”

  “Jesus. We’re not talking about a bloody tour, here.”

  “That’s precisely why I need someone whom I trust and…”

  “And?”

  �
��And someone who makes my heart beat fast with every touch.”

  Charles swallowed. “Rose.”

  Soberly, she took his hand and tugged off his glove. Then she guided his hand beneath her cloak and placed it on the left side of her chest. His warm, calloused palm skimmed the swell of her breast, sending delicious tremors through her. “You see? No other man has this effect on me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Perhaps the idea of me seeking an introduction to pleasure seems rash to you.”

  “You could say that.”

  “But it makes perfect sense. I don’t think I’ve imagined the unique attraction between us…  have I?”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “God, no.”

  “Excellent. Then you won’t find the task terribly unappealing or taxing?”

  “On the contrary. Loving you could never be a hardship.” He slid his hand down, cupping her breast and grazing her nipple with his thumb. “That’s the problem, you see. I think I might like this task…  too much.”

  Desire and delight swirled in her belly. “Oh,” she said breathlessly, “this is proving to be an excellent first lesson.”

  With a low growl, he hauled her against him. “Here’s the second.”

  His kiss was raw and wild, designed to deter her current reckless course of action.

  It didn’t.

  Everything Charles did thrilled her. He had one hand on her nape, tugging on the curls dangling there. He let his other hand roam beneath her cloak, over her breasts, hips, and between her thighs. When he pulled her onto his lap, she had to resist the very unladylike urge to straddle him. The evidence of his desire pressed against her bottom and she had a second improper urge to strip off his clothes, which she also managed to resist.

  But only barely.

  She adored seeing Charles so passionate, so out of control. Nothing about his kiss was expected. He explored her mouth with abandon, his tongue tangling with hers. The light stubble on his upper lip and jaw abraded her skin, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. Every nerve ending in her body felt intensely alive, making her wonder if she’d been in a trance for the first twenty-one years of her life.

  The feeling was too magical to ignore, too rare to suppress. Even her genteel upbringing and years of cautionary tales were no match for the thrill of being in his arms. She had to experience more of passion, and she couldn’t imagine being intimate with anyone but Charles.

  The best part was that he seemed similarly affected by their kiss. He held her like he wanted her for himself, like he never wanted to let her go.

  Which would have been perfectly acceptable to her.

  She poured all the happiness and heartbreak of the past week into her kisses. He needed to know that she would never shy away from him. That she was stronger than the girl he remembered. That she was a woman with desires of her own. She speared her hands through his hair and wriggled her bottom against his erection, loving the tortured groan it earned her.

  “You’re going to be the death of me, you know.” But he didn’t sound as though he minded.

  “Then you’ll help me?” She gazed into his beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes, willing him to say yes.

  “I should say no.”

  “But you won’t?”

  “I think we should wait and see how you feel in a week or so.”

  “A week?” It may as well have been a lifetime. “I’m not going to change my mind about this.”

  “Then a few days won’t make a difference.”

  “Our time together is finite. I’ll be here with Lady Bonneville for only another fortnight. You’ll likely be on a ship bound for America before we meet again. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “That is true.”

  “So why would you delay?”

  “It’s easy to be carried away in a moment. But memories last. Actions have consequences.”

  She shook her head, confused by his platitudes. “What are you saying?”

  “Our lives are leading us down different paths, and we can’t change that, even though we might like to. Years from now—hell, days from now—I don’t want you to think back on me as a regret.”

  Solemnly, she took his face between her palms. “I could never.” Frowning, she added, “But perhaps you have doubts.”

  He turned his head, pressing his lips to her wrist. “Understand this, Rose. If you and I were to make love, it would be imprinted on my heart and soul as the best day of my godforsaken life. But you have more at stake, more to lose. That’s why I want you to have time to think about it.”

  She couldn’t say exactly why, but it felt as though he were slipping through her fingers. Panic, her familiar foe, rose in her chest.

  But then he brushed her cheek with his thumb, soothing her with his touch and his words. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I promise.”

  Rose smiled, appreciating his attempt to calm her. And she believed him. The problem was, people always left her. Eventually.

  Reluctantly she slid off his lap and stood before him. “Three days.”

  Chuckling, he said, “You have mastered the art of persuasion. Very well—I’ll meet you at the folly at sunset, three days hence.” He stood and slipped her hood over her head. “If you should need anything before then, just send word.”

  “How?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Hang a handkerchief outside the window of your bedchamber if you want me to meet you here. I’ll come at dusk.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Have you done this before?”

  “Never.” But he shot her a wicked grin. “Return to the house and read your mother’s letter. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  She pressed her hand over the pocket that held the letter. “Thank you for finding it.”

  “Remember what I said, earlier. Her failures are not yours. Nor are they a reflection of you.” With a tenderness that made her ache, he kissed her cheek. “I shall see you in three days.”

  Just knowing that she had their meeting to look forward to eased some of the apprehension she felt about reading the letter. She knelt to pet Ash, then walked back toward the house. After a few steps she spun around. “I almost forgot to ask. Did you see the sketches?”

  “Yes. One of them, anyhow. You were right—it was of me.”

  Rose tried not to gloat, but “you were right” had to be three of the sweetest words in the English language. “And do you know who drew them?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” he said. “And I wish it were anyone but her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Even with Mama’s unread letter waiting for her upstairs, Rose found herself swept up in the excitement of planning. She’d decided to read the note after everyone retired for the evening, in case it contained news that was upsetting—or worse, no news at all.

  After dinner, Rose, Lady Bonneville, and Lady Yardley discussed the details of the impending ball. Extra staff had been hired, the menu had been set, and an orchestra had been secured for the evening.

  “How many guests are we expecting, Diana?” Lady Bonneville squinted at the paper in front of her face.

  “Eighty.” Turning to Rose, she continued, “Including several eligible, titled gentlemen. Some of them are rich as well,” Lady Yardley assured her. “However, wealth is not an absolute requirement, is it? Your brother will no doubt provide an excellent dowry.”

  “He is very generous,” Rose agreed, wishing Lady Yardley wasn’t so intent on finding her a husband at the ball.

  Yes, Rose had resolved to find a husband, but perhaps this was best accomplished once she returned to London. As long as she was in Bath, she’d naturally be inclined to compare any prospects to Charles—and she was certain no other man would measure up in her eyes.

  Perhaps she’d delay her husband search for a bit and spend the evening of the ball at the viscountess’s side, fetching drinks and listening to her colorful narrations of the evening’s events.

  As
though Lady Bonneville had been privy to Rose’s thoughts, she raised her lorgnette and glared through it. “I shall not consider the evening a success unless Rose dances every set.”

  “I shall do my—”

  “I do not ask much, my dear,” she said dramatically. “With striking looks such as yours, a full dance card is easily accomplished. See that you manage it.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Satisfied at last, Lady Bonneville yawned. “I’d forgotten how exhausting hosting a ball could be.”

  “Shall I help you to your room?” Rose asked.

  “Yes, and you should retire soon as well. Your face is drawn, and too thin. You should eat a scone or two.”

  Rose held out an arm for her. “I shall, in the morning.”

  Lady Bonneville grunted as she grasped Rose’s elbow, then bid a good evening to Lady Yardley. A few moments later, the viscountess was in Audrey’s capable hands, and Rose was in her bedchamber. Alone. Holding Mama’s letter.

  She turned it over a few times, noting the elegant stationery and careful, even fold in the center. Mama had always believed in keeping up appearances.

  Rose took a deep breath and opened the letter.

  Dear Diana,

  Though I confess I had hoped to receive your reply by now, I do not blame you in the least for being slow to respond. Perhaps what I have asked is too great an imposition, but we are the closest of friends—or at least we once were. I pray you will find it in your heart to visit me so that I may convey a few personal items to you. In the event that I never leave this awful place, at least I’ll have some peace of mind knowing that you’ll deliver my effects into the hands of my children.

  You know I would never ask for your help if I wasn’t quite desperate. Even in my pitiful state, however, I have a modicum of pride. So if you should choose to ignore this letter, I shall neither beg for assistance nor bother you again.

  I am acutely aware that the sad situation in which I find myself is of my own making. Whatever you decide, I beg you to keep my plight a secret. I wish to spare my children further shame and pain, and selfishly, I want them to remember me as a young and beautiful duchess—and not the disgrace that I’ve since become.