by Anne Barton
Damn. He wobbled and leaned against the wall in his best drunk but not yet annihilated impression. “Forgive me. I was looking for a spot of brandy.”
“And did you find one?”
“No, but maybe that’s for the best.”
“Nonsense.” She walked across the room, opened a cabinet beneath a bookshelf, and pulled out a decanter and two stacked glasses. She set them on a table and plopped onto a settee, a cloud of green silk billowing around her. “Come, sit and pour.” She patted the cushion beside her, and though sorely tempted to dash from the room, he knew he could not.
Instead he sauntered over, sat, and splashed a finger of brandy into each glass. Handing one to her, he raised his in a toast. “To your ball, Lady Yardley—a smashing success, by all accounts.”
She took a sip of brandy, eyeing him seductively over the rim of her glass. “Is it truly, Charles? A success, that is?”
“I’m hardly an expert, but it seems so to me. Your ballroom is bursting at the seams with fine ladies and gentlemen. Everyone’s dancing and enjoying themselves. What else could you possibly need to consider the ball a success?”
“Funny you should ask.” She threw back the rest of her drink and set the glass on the table with a clunk. “For one, I should like you to stop calling me Lady Yardley. It makes me sound so very… old.”
“I must respectfully disagree.”
“That’s the problem with you, Charles.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re always so respectful.” She scooted closer to him on the settee, draping an arm over the back as though making herself comfortable for a long, cozy chat. Which was the very last thing he wanted.
“You’re a lady and my employer,” he said, because she seemed to need reminding. “Of course you have my respect.”
“You asked me what I required to consider the ball a success.”
Yes. And he had a feeling he was about to regret that question. “Speaking of the ball, shouldn’t we return to your guests?”
Waving off the suggestion, she continued, “It would be an unqualified success if only”—she removed an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his jacket—“you would kiss me.”
Damn. He placed his glass on the table—an excuse to inch away from her. “You don’t mean that. I wouldn’t dream of taking such a liberty.”
“You and your damned sense of honor.” She pouted.
“Allow me to escort you back to the ballroom.” He started to stand, but the yank she gave his arm was so unexpected that he fell toward her. She grasped his lapels and leaned back on the settee, pulling him with her.
He managed to brace his arms on either side of her so that their bodies didn’t collide, but his face was a mere inch from hers.
“I’ve watched you working—thatching roofs, breaking stallions, even moving boulders. There’s something so very attractive about a man who’s good with his hands. I bet you know how to take care of a woman.”
Holy hell. “Actually—”
Before he could finish his sentence, she grabbed a fistful of hair on either side of his head, pulled him toward her, and planted her lips on his mouth.
Rose danced the next set with Lord Avery, a nice young gentleman who had clammy hands and a tendency to blush each time she attempted to start a conversation. She sympathized with him—it was rare she encountered someone even shyer than she was. As they circled the dance floor, she tried not to crane her neck looking for a pair of broad shoulders angling through the crowd. As soon as he was able, Charles would return and let her know if he’d had any success in the library.
It was so nice to have someone to depend on besides her family. Olivia and Owen were very good to her, as were Belle and Daphne. But they were her relatives and saw her as a girl who needed protection and coddling.
Charles was different. He was more like a partner, someone she could share her worries and dreams with. Someone whom she could count on.
When the music ended, Lord Avery seemed both disappointed and relieved. “I hope I didn’t trample your feet too badly,” he said.
“Not at all,” she assured him. “I enjoyed our dance—and your company.”
The compliment caused his cheeks to turn bright pink, and he was still attempting to regain his composure as he escorted her to Lady Bonneville.
Rose was expecting the viscountess to chide her for not attracting a more seasoned dance partner, but she hardly seemed to notice Lord Avery. In fact, she looked a little pale.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Rose asked. “If you’re tired, I’d be happy to take you to your room.”
Lady Bonneville shot her an affronted look. “You’re certainly eager to cart me off, aren’t you?”
“Hardly. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
“It’s too warm in here. Someone should open a door.”
Rose blinked. “But it’s frightful outside. The snow hasn’t stopped. Shall I fetch your fan for you?”
“Yes, the Chinese silk with the bright blue tassel. Audrey will know where it is.”
“Very well. I shall return shortly.”
“If you hurry, you should be able to make it back in time to dance the next set.”
Rose nodded obediently but decided to make the errand last as long as possible. She hadn’t ever danced so much in one night. Her feet ached and her head throbbed, but she suspected a few minutes away from bustle of the ballroom would work wonders.
She exited through a side door, slipped into a corridor, and tried to get her bearings in this unfamiliar part of the house. The sitting room was at one end of the hallway, she was fairly certain, and from there she could easily navigate her way to the stairs and the corridor where their bedchambers were located. Her sense of direction was appallingly bad, however, and if getting lost meant she had a longer respite from dancing, she’d gladly lose her way.
Turning right, she glided down the elegant hallway, savoring the relative silence and the dim light from the sconces on the walls. With every step she took, the cacophony of music, laughter, and conversation in the ballroom grew more distant. It seemed that all the staff and activity were focused on that part of the manor house, leaving the rest blissfully deserted.
Portraits of austere-looking gentlemen lined the hallway, and she suddenly recalled where she was—the wing of the house where Lady Yardley’s study and library were located.
The library.
She halted, the heels of her slippers suddenly glued to the floor. The library door was only a few yards away.
Charles could be in there now, searching the hidden cabinet.
She shouldn’t go in. She’d only startle him or distract him from the task at hand.
But how she’d love a few stolen moments, alone, with him.
The pull was strong, almost irresistible. And she had to admit to being curious about the cabinet. How she’d love a peek at it.
She walked up to the door and paused, her hand on the knob. She pressed an ear to the thick oak panels but heard nothing save her own rapid breaths. A quick glance inside couldn’t hurt. If Charles was absorbed in his task, she’d simply retreat and leave him to it. But maybe he could use her help, an extra set of eyes to scan the notes.
Holding her breath, she eased the door open.
Her gaze flew to the far wall where the portrait hung. Charles wasn’t there. Disappointment washed over her, but she shoved it aside. There could be any number of explanations. Perhaps he’d already found a letter and had left the room. She should hurry to retrieve Lady Bonneville’s fan and return to the ballroom in case he was there looking for her.
She took a step back, about to close the door, when a movement on the settee caught her attention. Though the room was mostly dark, she would have recognized Charles’s wavy, collar-length hair anywhere. And those shoulders… they could only be his. He appeared to be kneeling on the sofa.
Odd. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. Only the groan that echoed through the room
wasn’t his. It was distinctly female. And the woman wasn’t in pain.
Dear God. All the air rushed from her lungs and she swayed on her feet. Clutching the door frame for support, she backed up, then slammed the door.
As fast as her feet would carry her, she ran. The corridor sped by in a blur of wallpaper and portraits. She passed the study, sprinted by the sitting room, and stumbled her way up the stairs toward her bedchamber.
Charles had been kissing someone. Heatedly. And Rose knew who.
She burst into her room, closed the door, and locked it.
Her stomach in knots, she staggered to the chamber pot and retched.
It was just like before—that night six years ago, when she’d discovered Mama in bed with the greasy earl. And the maid.
Why did the people she loved the most always betray her?
And why did she have such a knack for witnessing their hurtful behavior firsthand?
She stalked to the escritoire beneath the window and snatched up the cut-glass vase holding a few festive sprigs of holly. Water sloshed out of the top as she faced the opposite wall and drew back her arm, anticipating the oh-so-satisfying crash of glass against plaster.
As anger boiled over, her eyes burned and her hands trembled. She had the primal need to destroy something, and she would. No matter that the vase wasn’t hers or that the noise could draw the attention of the staff.
She was weary of being good—of containing her emotions and avoiding unseemly behavior. For once, she wanted to make a scene.
Chest heaving with determination, she adjusted her grip. The traitorous vase slipped through her fingers and landed on the plush carpet with a soft thud that mocked her rage.
She sank to the floor, next to the soggy spot on the carpet and the prickly holly and the uncooperative vase, where she was forced to confront the truth.
She wasn’t angry, so much as heartbroken.
She wasn’t tired of being good, so much as tired of being gullible.
She’d thought Charles was different, but he wasn’t.
And in spite of his offer to help her, he didn’t owe her anything. She should never have relied on him, believed in him, fallen for—
Ridiculousness. That’s what it was. She stood, brushed out her skirts, and smoothed her hair. She kicked the vase, and it rolled across the floor, stopping just before the wall, vexingly intact.
Who cared? She didn’t need to smash vases or howl in misery. Those were the actions of a woman whose world was crumbling around her. And she didn’t want anyone—especially Charles—to think that her world was crumbling, even if it was.
No. What she needed was to show him absolute, bone-chilling indifference.
She went to the washbasin and splashed cool water on her face. Her reflection didn’t show a fraction of the hurt inside her—that was good. If her eyes were too bright and her cheeks too flushed, no one was likely to notice.
She would fetch Lady Bonneville’s fan and return to the ballroom. And if Charles and Lady Yardley should have the gall to rejoin the festivities, they wouldn’t have an inkling that they’d almost made her forget what she’d survived… and who she’d become.
Chapter Fifteen
Stud: (1) A stallion intended for breeding. (2) An especially attractive, virile man.
Even before the library door slammed, Charles had been trying to untangle himself from Lady Yardley’s grasping hands. It took him longer than he would have liked to pry her fingers from his hair and shove himself off the settee—and her—only because he didn’t want to physically hurt her. “No,” he said, simply but firmly. “I’m sure you realize it is a bad idea, for many reasons.”
With a little cry, she sprang to her feet. “I disagree.” Pouting, she grasped one side of his jacket, snaked a hand inside his waistcoat, and unabashedly stroked his chest.
“Lady Yardley,” he said sternly, “I am trying to be a gentleman, and I must ask you to stop.”
With a frustrated growl, she yanked his jacket open, popping off a button. “I don’t think you understand. I’m willing to do anything you want. Anything,” she added meaningfully. “It’s been so long since I’ve…”
She broke into pitiful sobs then, clinging to his cravat, shirt, and waistcoat as she slid down his body, crumpling into a heap at his feet.
He considered leaving her there, not because he was a heartless bastard, but because it might well be his best chance at escape. However, a deeply ingrained sense of honor would not permit him to walk away from a woman sobbing on the floor.
“Allow me to help you.” He leaned down and offered his hand.
As she sniffled and reached up, the duchess’s letter fell out of his pocket and landed on Lady Yardley’s lap.
Damn. He swooped down to scoop it up, but she grabbed it out of his fingers.
“What’s this?” As she turned the note over, her eyes narrowed and her brows knit in suspicion. She hoisted herself to her feet and stood toe to toe with him, all traces of the pitiful, devastated woman gone. “Where did you get this?”
There was no use lying. “I think you know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I took it from the cabinet behind your late husband’s portrait.”
“You did it for Lady Rose, didn’t you?”
He stood there, stone-faced, unwilling to implicate Rose.
“Your silence is answer enough. She’s been badgering me for information about her dear Mama. Of course you’re doing it for her—the beautiful, young damsel in distress.” Her face twisted in an ugly sneer. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to win her heart. Surely you’re not that naïve. She has manipulated you into doing her bidding, has she not?”
His jaw clenched. “I acted on my own.”
She snorted. “And for what? A chaste kiss on the terrace? Once she has what she wants, she’ll toss you aside like last year’s gown. She would never risk her future for someone like you.”
“Someone like me,” he repeated, his fists clenching involuntarily. “What, precisely, does that mean?”
“You needn’t become agitated. I think you know what I mean.”
He threw her words back at her. “I want to hear you say it.”
Lifting her chin, she said, “Very well. Lady Rose will never settle for a poor, untitled man born to two uneducated servants. She may flirt with you. Indeed, I’m sure she enjoys the attentions of a strapping young buck like yourself. But that doesn’t mean she cares for you. The minute she has the information she wants, she’ll wash her hands of you. Forever.” Her nostrils flared and she placed a hand on her hip, challenging him to deny the truth of her claims.
He closed his eyes for the space of three heartbeats, suppressing his anger and summoning his control. “You have no right to besmirch my parents—whom you know nothing about—or Lady Rose,” he said slowly. “I’m tendering my resignation.” He moved toward the door, but she leaped into his path, placing a palm squarely on his chest.
“Don’t be so hasty,” she said. “You still want the letter, don’t you?”
He did. He’d promised Rose that he’d help her, and she deserved to know what had become of her mother. “Yes.”
“Well then, I think there’s a way we can both get what we want.”
“I’m listening.”
Coyly, she folded the letter lengthwise, swept it along the edge of his jaw, and then slid it into the front of her gown, deep into the crevice between her breasts.
“It’s yours for the taking.” She slid the small puffed sleeves of her gown off her shoulders and arched her back. “All of it.”
He stood still as a statue as he contemplated her offer. He had enough money saved for passage to America, and he could earn a little more working for a few weeks on the docks. This job had served its purpose. Now he could walk away.
If it weren’t for Rose.
More than anything, he wanted to give her the answers she sought.
So he unceremoniously grab
bed the neckline of Lady Yardley’s low-cut gown, pulled it forward, and reached down into her chemise till he felt the letter between his fingers. With one swift move, he freed it from the sweaty depths of her cleavage and held it high, above her grasping reach.
“That’s not fair,” she protested. “We had a bargain, and now you must deliver.”
“I promised you nothing.”
Her gaze turned icy. “I want you gone by morning, Mr. Holland.”
“At last, a request I’m happy to oblige.”
She gaped at him as he stalked past, leaving her uncharacteristically speechless and unquestionably alone.
Upon reaching the corridor, he walked in the direction of the ballroom. Lady Yardley would likely be on his heels, and he had to give the letter to Rose before he returned to the cottage and packed his things.
He imagined the shock and utter dismay on her beautiful face when he told her the news that he was leaving and that they’d likely never see each other again.
With the ballroom door just a few paces away, he came to a dead stop. He couldn’t bear to say good-bye in such a public venue, didn’t trust himself to keep his composure. And what if Lady Yardley chased him in there, creating even more of a scene and humiliating Rose further?
Though he longed to see her one last time, he couldn’t risk it. So he strode past the entrance, down a parallel corridor, and up a staircase that led to the wing of the house where the bedchambers were located. He’d never been in that section of the house, but he knew the layout, and he’d seen Rose’s room from the outside.
With the boldness of a man who has absolutely nothing to lose, he stalked directly to her door and bent to slide the note under. But he couldn’t resist a peek inside, just to be certain he’d chosen the right door. That’s what he told himself. The truth was he couldn’t resist the chance to feel close to her, just briefly, before he left.
He swung open the unlocked door and took in the room. When he spotted the glass vase toppled on the floor and two small cuttings of holly littered on the carpet, his gut clenched. What if Rose had been involved in some sort of struggle?
