by Anne Barton
Anxiously awaiting your reply,
Lily
The letter fluttered from Rose’s hand to the velvet quilt on her bed. Mama was in trouble, trapped in a horrible sort of place.
She trembled at the thought of her sophisticated, privileged mother locked away in a ghastly place like a prison or an asylum for the insane. It was too terrible to imagine. Although Rose hadn’t seen her mother in six years, the news that she was alone and in need made her almost physically ill.
And yet a part of the letter sparked hope, for Mama hadn’t forgotten about her, Olivia, and Owen after all. She’d wanted to spare them something—but what?
Rose picked up the letter and skimmed it once more. The date revealed Mama had written it three weeks ago, shortly before Rose had arrived in Bath. The note bore no address, provided no clue as to where it had come from.
One thing was certain: it didn’t sound like Mama was frolicking in the French countryside. Lady Yardley had lied… but why?
Perhaps she was simply honoring Mama’s request to keep her circumstances secret, especially from her children.
But Rose couldn’t help thinking that Lady Yardley had her own interests at heart. Rose’s chest tightened, simmering with anger. Clearly, Lady Yardley had ignored Mama’s first—and perhaps second—plea for help.
Rose jumped off the bed and paced, bemoaning the late hour and the great distance from London. Olivia was still on her honeymoon in Egypt, due back in a couple of weeks. Rose longed to talk with her about her discovery. Even Owen, stubborn as he was, would likely feel her urgency, the need to do something—and fast. He said he’d never forgive Mama, but things had changed. He had a daughter of his own. Surely he’d want her to know her grandmamma.
It was true Mama had never been the model of a loving mother, but she’d had her moments. She’d pushed them on the swing hanging from the big oak tree in the field. And she’d laughed good-naturedly as she taught a scowling ten-year-old Owen how to dance a reel.
Of course, there’d also been dark times, when she locked herself in her room for days on end. She wasn’t the perfect mother, but she was the only one they had. That was reason enough to help her.
Unfortunately, Rose now knew enough to be worried but not enough to solve anything. Most vexingly, she still didn’t know where to begin to look for Mama.
She wanted to run to the library, locate the cubby behind the painting, and search for more of Mama’s letters. Immediately. It seemed the only way to discover the entire truth. But Charles had asked her not to attempt it, and she wouldn’t do anything that would make trouble for him if she could avoid it.
She’d been in the dark about her mother for years, and one more day was not likely to make a difference in Mama’s fate. A good night’s sleep would clear Rose’s head and let her determine the next steps.
In the meantime, the need to confide in someone—namely, Charles—was strong. Rose considered hanging a handkerchief out of her window, but even if he could see it in the dark of night, it was too late for her to leave the house. No, she’d signal him tomorrow and meet him at the folly at dusk.
Charles had been thinking about Rose ever since saying farewell to her the night before. Giving her the letter had been the right thing—he was sure of it—but he hated that the news was also bound to bring her pain.
The wounds of her childhood appeared healed on the outside, but he feared that her mother’s hastily scrawled words could rip open those wounds, exposing the hurt that lay beneath. Still, she didn’t want to be shielded from the truth. And he respected that. She’d emerged from the heartache of her youth stronger and wiser.
No one who met her today would dream that only a few years ago she was mute and painfully shy. True, she was still a bit reserved and might never be as outgoing as her sister, Olivia, but then, few people were.
Of course, there was another reason she’d occupied his thoughts all morning—her request that they share a night of passion.
One night, before he left for distant shores and she resigned herself to a lifetime of fulfilling others’ expectations. Here, it was harder to know what was right. And damned difficult to be objective in the face of such temptation.
From the moment he’d first seen her here in Bath—nicking a letter from Lady Yardley’s desk drawer—he’d been attracted to her. Hell, he’d been attracted to her long before that. Fantasies of her filled his dreams at night and his thoughts during the day. Knowing that she wanted him, too… well, it was too much to hope for.
She’d said that it was to be one night. A good-bye.
That’s how it had to be, but his chest still ached at the thought of leaving her.
The best thing to do was to keep busy. He ventured out into the cold, crisp morning, and prepared to ride into Bath to conduct some estate business at the bank. After mounting his horse, however, he decided to take the long way around Yardley Manor, just to glance at Rose’s window and check for the handkerchief.
As he rounded a corner of the house, sunlight lent a golden glow to its limestone walls. His gaze scanned rows of windows before settling on the pair that belonged to Rose’s bedchamber. Squinting against the glare, he spotted it. Beneath the sash of one of her windows, a small white square fluttered like a trapped dove.
Damn. The letter must have contained upsetting news, and he didn’t want to wait until dusk, the appointed time, to know that she was all right. He stared at the window, searching for some sign that she was in the room. If she could give him a little wave, just to indicate she wasn’t completely distraught, he’d feel much—
“Why, good morning, Mr. Holland.”
Startled, Charles turned to find Lady Yardley atop her mare, looking elegant in her green riding habit and black velvet cloak. A wide-brimmed bonnet shaded her face from the sun.
“Good morning,” he replied, with a smoothness that belied the prickling sensation between his shoulder blades.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she cooed. “I confess I’m delighted that our paths have happened to cross once again.”
Charles smiled, hoping to distract her from following the direction of his gaze. If Lady Yardley happened to glance up and see the handkerchief hanging out of Rose’s bedchamber window, she could easily jump to the wrong conclusion.
Or, worse, the right one.
Waving in the general direction of town, he said, “I’m on my way to visit Mr. Davies at the bank. Are there any other errands you’d like me to see to while I’m there?”
She smiled, a cat contemplating a bowl of milk. “How very kind of you to offer. I cannot think of anything at the moment, but there is something I should like to ask you.”
He swallowed guiltily. What if she knew that he’d discovered her secret cabinet—and taken something? Or maybe she could tell that the sketches of him in the library had been disturbed. Keeping his voice even-keeled and nonchalant, he responded, “Of course.”
“This may seem like an odd question.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“You must withhold judgment until I ask it.”
He arched a brow. “Very well.”
Her cheeks, already flushed from the brisk breeze, turned pinker. “I’m sure you’re aware that Lady Bonneville and I are hosting a ball tomorrow night.”
He would have to have been living in a cave not to notice the flurry of preparations of late. “I’m certain it shall be the event of the season.”
This earned him another—even brighter—smile. “I appreciate your confidence and… would like to extend an invitation to you.”
He blinked. “Pardon me?”
“To the ball. I’d like you to come. As a guest.”
Attend the ball? Oh, hell no.
“It’s very kind of you to invite me, but I don’t think it would be proper. I’m just a steward, after all.”
Her horse danced in place, as eager to escape this awkward encounter as he. Lady Yardley shrugged off Charles’s concern. “It’s not a
s formal as a London ball. Wear your finest jacket. You’ll blend in well enough.”
With dukes and earls? Not likely. “I’d planned to rise early the following morning. I have much to do.”
Clearly exasperated, she huffed. “You’re always working so hard. Take the day off.”
“I’d rather not,” he said. “I enjoy my work.”
“And you are very good at it. In fact, I am in your debt. Say you’ll attend. It’s a chance for you to mingle with important people. If you were wise, you’d take advantage of the opportunity.”
“I…” The very idea of a ball made his cravat feel tighter. “I… will think about it.”
“Very well. I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision.” She adjusted her skirts so they cascaded down the side of the mare like a green velvet waterfall. “Be sure to save me a dance, Mr. Holland.” With that, she gave the horse a kick and rode off.
Charles arrived at the folly early, and the half hour before dusk seemed an eternity. When at last Rose hurried up the path, his heart leaped in his chest. There was a determination in her eyes that he’d begun to see more and more of late. He took it as a sign that she would not be pushed around by life anymore, that she would take control of her fate.
The minute she walked into the folly, he clasped her hands between his. “How are you? Did you learn anything?”
“A bit. Mama is in trouble, but I don’t know what sort.”
“Where is she?”
Rose shook her head sadly. “I don’t know that, either. In the letter she asked for Lady Yardley’s help. But she must have provided details in a previous note. I need to find that letter. The urgency of her plea suggests time is of the essence.”
“The note I gave you—it gives no clues?”
She reached into the pocket of her cloak and produced the piece of parchment. “Here, you may read it for yourself.”
How simple she made it sound—and it should have been. Not for him though.
The moment she realized what she’d said, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “How thoughtless of me. I’m sorry, Charles.”
“Don’t be.” He was actually gratified to know that she’d forgotten. That she didn’t think of him as a caveman.
Recovering quickly, she hooked a hand around his elbow and led him to the bench. “Let’s sit for a minute so I can catch my breath. Then we’ll read the letter together and try to determine Mama’s predicament. It’s entirely possible I missed something in my frantic state.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Rose held the letter between them, a slender index finger trailing beneath each word as she read it. The handwriting, a tangle of loops and humps, seemed to taunt him, so he closed his eyes and focused on the clear, lilting sound of her voice.
Upon reaching the closing, she sighed and folded the note. “What do you make of it?”
He thought her mother was in prison, an asylum, or worse. She’d probably already reached the same conclusions and didn’t need him to give voice to them. Speculation along those lines was certainly not going to make her feel better. “I think we need to retrieve another letter.”
She nodded. “I was sorely tempted to sneak into the library last night and look behind the portrait for the secret cubby, but I told myself that one night was unlikely to make a difference. I hope I wasn’t mistaken.”
“You were wise to wait. It will be easier for me.”
“I didn’t ask you here because I wanted you to steal another letter on my behalf.”
He quirked his mouth in a half-smile. “Then why did you ask me here?”
Her blue eyes sparkled, melting something inside him. “Because you’re my friend. You understand, and I trust your advice.”
“Very well. My advice is that you let me retrieve another letter for you.”
“You don’t think I can manage it?” Huffing, she crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side. “How difficult can it be?”
“Retrieving the letter is not difficult,” he reasoned, “if you’re tall enough to reach the hiding spot. I think you’d need a stool.”
She shot him a sweet—and completely insincere—smile. “Stools are hardly in short supply. If I’m not mistaken, the library has three.”
Good point. “I suppose the tricky part is not being caught. Or, if you are, being able to talk your way out of it. You’re not very good at lying.”
“Neither are you.”
“How do you know?” he teased.
“I can read every emotion on your face,” she said quite seriously.
“Very well. What am I thinking right now?”
He was thinking about the night they’d agreed to spend together, and that he cared for her a lot more than he ought to, more than he had a right to. That he was probably going to have his heart broken.
But he couldn’t very well let her know that. So he let his gaze drift over her lips, the hollow at the base of her throat, and the swells of her breasts before meeting her eyes once more. He shot her a wicked smile and heard her breath hitch.
“Tell me,” he encouraged her. “What am I thinking? Here. I’ll even give you a hint.” He laced his fingers through hers and pressed a kiss to the back of her gloved hand.
Her lips parted. “I think you must be thinking the same thing I am.”
“Which is?” What he’d give to hear her say it. That she desired him. That she wanted his body pressed to hers, with nothing between them.
She blushed prettily but did not look away. “That the attraction we feel toward each other is powerful, almost frightening in its intensity.”
“You are very good.”
“I believe I warned you.” She shot him a sultry smile that heated his blood. “As for retrieving another letter, it will be easier for me. You don’t spend nearly as much time in the house, and I have more opportunities to be in the library alone than you do.”
“True…” But he didn’t like the idea. If Rose was caught, Lady Yardley was not likely to be very forgiving. Indeed, she seemed a bitter sort of person, inclined to be irrationally resentful of anyone younger and more beautiful than she. Rose was correct, however. It would appear suspicious if he started spending more time at the house…
Unless.
“Actually,” he said. “I’ll have the perfect opportunity tomorrow night.”
“You will? When?”
“During Lady Yardley’s ball. She’s invited me. I’d planned to decline, but…” But for Rose, he’d do anything.
She blinked. “You’ll be at the ball? How wonderful, but…”
“Odd?” he suggested. “I couldn’t agree more. However, it works to our advantage.”
She gazed thoughtfully at the ground, where broken bits of leaves swirled at her feet. “Lady Yardley drew the sketches. She’s in love with you.”
Love wasn’t the right word. She didn’t want him so much as she wanted a tumble in the sheets. “I wouldn’t hazard to guess the nature of her feelings, but I do think it’s likely the sketches are hers.”
“That complicates things.” Rose frowned.
“Not really. I’m only going to put in an appearance at the ball,” he said. “Once everyone is caught up in the music, dancing, and conversation, I’ll slip out of the ballroom and into the library. It should be an easy matter to retrieve another letter. Then I can return to the party and give it to you without anyone being aware.”
She nodded. “That could work. If all goes well, I’ll know what happened to Mama by tomorrow night.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’ll have your answers.”
In the waning light, she looked impossibly lovely—as ethereal and as intricate as a snowflake. She looked up at him then, her blue eyes full of trepidation. “There’s one more thing I need to ask you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Saddle: (1) A seat placed on a horse’s back to help a person ride astride. (2) To impose a responsibility or burden, as in The viscountess had no wish to be saddled with a cro
tchety, old husband, vastly preferring beaus of the younger, more spirited variety.
Rose shivered, less from the cold than from apprehension. She didn’t have a right to ask Charles such a personal question, and yet, she had to know.
As though he’d read her jumbled thoughts, he said, “You can ask me anything.”
Swallowing the knot in her throat, she said, “Do you care for her—for Lady Yardley?”
His brow furrowed. “What? No!”
He seemed sincere, but perhaps he hadn’t yet admitted the truth of his feelings to himself. “If you did, I would not judge either of you,” she said. “I realize there are reasons you might want to keep a relationship with her secret—”
“Rose. There is no relationship.”
“But she would clearly like one.”
He looked up at the domed ceiling of the folly where painted-on stars had faded on the weathered stone. “I suppose so.”
“If there’s a chance that something could blossom between you, I don’t want to interfere. You deserve happiness.”
He stood abruptly, anger rolling off him. “Lady Yardley is my employer, and that’s all she’ll ever be. Besides, you already know my future is not here.”
Rose sprang to her feet. “Yes, but love—when it happens—has a strange way of changing people’s plans. Look at Olivia. She never dreamed she’d go on an expedition to Egypt, but she did. For James.”
“I’m not changing my plans,” he said firmly. “For anyone.”
His meaning couldn’t have been clearer. She’d known this, and yet the crippling sort of pain that his declaration had exacted suggested that some naïve part of her had held out hope that—
Foolishness.
“I understand,” she said.
He clasped her shoulders and looked at her earnestly. “Do you? It may sound selfish, and I suppose it is. But I’m also thinking of you.”
“How so?”
He shook his head as though words eluded him. At last he said, “You’re a gently bred young lady. You need a husband who fits into your world.”
“No. Don’t presume to tell me what I am or what I need.” She slid her arms around his neck and leaned in to him.
