She was rolled over. Made to look into Andrew’s intense gaze.
“Then what distresses you?” he said.
She inhaled deeply. “Even though he didn’t abuse me in any way, the fact that he meant to…” Nausea hit the back of her throat, but Andrew’s steadiness urged her on. Gave her the strength to untangle the jumbled skeins of her thoughts and feelings.
“I remember how he cossetted me, called me his Little Flower. When I pleased him, he would buy me anything I wanted.” Her insides roiled. “So I tried to please him, to be his good girl, and for what? Some frock, some stupid doll. Remembering what I did,”—she swallowed against the rising bile—“disgusts me.”
Until that moment, she hadn’t realized just how much. How dirty and unclean the truth made her feel. Before Mama’s revelation, she’d just been a bastard—now she was a bastard who’d been bought to satisfy a lecher’s perversions. No wonder the ton rejected her. They’d sensed that she was damaged goods.
“You were just a girl. You didn’t know Coyner’s true intentions. It was only natural that you should want to gain your guardian’s approval.”
“But the fact that I was willing to sing him a song to get a music box, dance for him for a new pair of slippers,” she said bitterly, “that makes me no better than a…”
She trailed off, suddenly realizing what she’d been about to say. And to whom.
“Whore?” Andrew’s tone was free of inflection.
“That was thoughtless of me,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
Despite her tumultuous state, questions deluged her. She’d been curious about his past, of course, but she’d never felt quite right asking about it. The truth was they’d spent most of the time focusing on her troubles. Andrew’s primary concern was always her welfare and, as a consequence, she realized, he talked very little about his own.
He was so in command of himself, so self-possessed that it seemed he had no need to confide in another. Nonetheless, she wanted to know him. To give him the same attention and care he’d shown her, even if he didn’t need it.
“You’re not sorry that you… sold your, um, services for money?”
“I used my body and my mind to survive,” he said flatly. “There’s no shame in that.”
As she looked up at his stark, beautiful face, her throat clenched. He was right, of course. His self-acceptance, his ability to see past what others might think of him, humbled her. Heightened her desire to understand this strong, tender, and complex man who was her lover.
“No, there isn’t,” she agreed. “But how did you end up in that trade?”
He studied her a moment before answering. “One could say I carried on the family tradition. Although my mother was an actress, her talent lay more in the bedchamber than on the boards. She began a career as a courtesan, and I was the result of it.”
Recalling what her mama had said about Andrew’s parentage, she said tentatively, “Is it true that you have royal blood?” At his startled look, she mumbled, “Mama told me.”
“Ah. The old rumors.” His lips twisted. “Yes, it’s possible. My mother was the Prince Regent’s mistress for a brief time, but neither of them were the faithful sort. By the time she realized she was with child, Prinny had already lost interest in her. So she was left pregnant and without resources to care for herself or her unborn bastard.”
“How dreadful,” Rosie whispered.
“My mother nearly died bringing me into the world, but somehow she survived. She continued selling her wares to support the two of us. By the time I was eight, drink had taken over her life,”—a muscle shifted in his cheek—“and, one by one, she lost her money, beauty, and health.”
His emotionless recounting of his childhood chilled Rosie—made her want to gather him in her arms and hold him tight. Something in his expression warned her not to.
Swallowing, she said, “You were so young. How did you survive?”
“I had quick and sticky fingers, so I got us by. When I turned fourteen, my mother introduced me to a bawd who catered to female clientele.”
Rosie couldn’t stop herself from recoiling. “Your mother sold you into prostitution?”
“She didn’t sell me. It was my choice.” A banked fire flared in his eyes. “I wanted to put food on our table, to have a roof over our heads, and fucking was an easier way to do it than thieving or running with cutthroats.”
“But you were only fourteen!”
Incredibly, his broad shoulders flexed in a shrug. “I was large for my age. The bawd taught me the essentials of pleasing a woman, and anything she left out, I figured out quickly on my own. Don’t make my life into a Cheltenham Tragedy. The last thing I want or need is your pity.”
The steely edge in his voice told her that he meant it.
Then another thought hit her. “Was this bawd Kitty Barnes?”
“No, I met her a year later.”
By the way his eyes shuttered, she could tell that he wouldn’t say more about it. And a part of her didn’t want to know. Wanted to keep that ugliness buried where it belonged.
“What happened to your mama?” she ventured.
“She died when I was sixteen.”
“Did you forgive her?”
“For what?”
“Um, for all of it?” She blinked at him. “Turning to drink. Depending on you to take care of her.” Forcing you to make a choice no child should have to make. “Weren’t you angry at her?”
“None of it was her fault,” came his startling reply. “She was a victim of her circumstance, and she did the best she could with what she had. She taught me to do the same. So, no, I wasn’t angry at her. I loved her.”
Listening to his matter-of-fact accounting, Rosie felt a shift inside her. An undertow of understanding that challenged her perceptions. For so long, she’d raged at being a victim: of her birth, of Draven, of Coyner… even of the ton. Life had been unfair to her—yet how much worse had things been for Andrew?
Despite that, he didn’t rail at fate. He didn’t wallow in self-pity. He didn’t act out in reckless desperation.
No, he had loved and taken care of the mama who’d failed him. He’d defied all odds to become one of the most successful businessmen in all of London. And he’d gone to extraordinary lengths to protect Rosie.
Her throat swelled. She needed time to sort the chaotic thoughts in her head, the lessons to be gleaned by new insights. But she did know one thing.
She smoothed a bronze lock from his forehead. “You’re a strong man, Andrew Corbett—and a good one. I’m so lucky that you’re my lover.”
His gaze heated. “I’m the lucky one, sweetheart.”
“Thank you for tonight.” She smiled tremulously at him. “For trusting me with the truth and being honest with me. For teaching me to be honest with myself.”
He responded with a kiss. One simmering with passion and deep undercurrents of emotion. By the time he raised his head, she was panting for him.
“Again?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the slope of her cheekbone.
Her pussy fluttered. As did her heart. How she craved this man.
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You’re going to kill me, you know.”
“Can you think of a better way to greet the hereafter?” With great daring, she ran her hands over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, down the marble-hard ridges of his backside and was rewarded by the fierce rise of his erection against her thigh.
“By all means,” he said huskily, “let us find le petit mort together.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie awoke the next morning to find herself alone. After the decadent night of lovemaking, Andrew had escorted her home in the wee hours, carried her to her bedchamber, and tucked her into bed. She had immediately fallen into a deep sleep and wasn’t sure if he’d stayed. Rolling over to see if she could sniff out his deliciou
s scent on the sheets, she saw a note and box on the pillow next to hers. Sitting up, she unfolded the paper.
Sunshine (the note read),
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. In lieu, I’ve left you a small memento. I hope you will think of me, as my thoughts will undoubtedly be of you. Until tonight. —A.
Dreamily, Rosie pressed the letter to her bosom. Andrew made her feel like the most special lady in all the world. She picked up the blue velvet box, wondering what he’d gotten her this time. She smiled to herself. Thus far, his unconventional gifts had included gingerbread and a pistol; what would he surprise her with now?
She lifted the lid—and her breath lodged in her throat. Goodness.
The necklace was the most exquisite she’d ever seen. Cast in white gold, it took the shape of flowing vines and delicate leaves, all of it encrusted with brilliant diamonds. The centerpiece was a cluster of blooming flowers, their shape unmistakably those of primroses. Three large diamonds, over a carat each, were suspended from the blossoms like sparkling dewdrops.
When her lover had a mind to give a gift, he truly gave a gift. She ran a fingertip over the stunning piece; she couldn’t wait for her period of mourning to be over so that she could wear it.
As much as she wanted to stay in bed and gawk over the necklace, she had a busy day ahead of her. She glanced at the bedside clock—and gave a little shriek. Heavens, she only had two hours to get ready for the meeting with Lady Charlotte! She hurtled out of bed, ringing for Odette.
Thanks to her maid’s efficiency, she was suitably groomed by the time Emma came to pick her up. Her hair was parted in the middle, curls upswept, a few left to frame her face. She’d worn a stylish black taffeta with a V-shaped neckline, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and full skirts.
Rosie and her entourage soon arrived at the dowager’s house, a modest abode on the fringes of Mayfair. She waited patiently as her sisters negotiated with their husbands. The men wanted to escort them inside; the ladies said a male presence would hamper the interview (Rosie had to agree). Finally, after whispered back-and-forth negotiations, the men agreed to wait outside on one condition: if their wives didn’t emerge in an hour, they would personally go in and carry them out.
“Let’s hurry,” Emma muttered, casting a backward glance at her large spouse, who stood next to the carriage with his arms crossed, his pale green gaze tracking her every move. “I wouldn’t put it past His Grace to carry out his troglodytic threat.”
Her sisters looked back at their looming husbands, and all of them hastened to the front door.
Once inside, they were ushered by an ancient butler into a sitting room. The space was dated, the dark and faded brocade fashionable several decades ago. Flanked by the Misses Fossey, the dowager countess came over to greet them. In the background, Mrs. James rose but kept her distance.
Introductions and greetings were exchanged.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.” The dowager waved them toward the seating area. “And do call me Charlotte: we are family after all. Indeed, the girls and I had planned to call upon you, Lady Daltry,”—she cast a flustered glance at Rosie—“but we did not wish to intrude upon your privacy.”
Looking into Lady Charlotte’s plump, pleasant features, framed by silver curls and a lace cap, Rosie could not imagine that this mother hen would want to harm her.
So she smiled and said, “You are welcome to visit any time, Lady Charlotte. And please call me Rosie.”
“Rosie, then.” Clearly relieved, Lady Charlotte smiled back at her.
“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Miss Sybil ventured shyly from beside her aunt.
“And you as well,” Rosie said warmly.
Sybil flushed to the roots of her dull blonde hair. Rosie thought the girl could be pretty if she chose more flattering clothes (the loose-fitting grey gown did nothing for the other’s figure) and a more stylish coiffure than the scraped-back topknot. As Rosie was wondering how she might subtly dispense some fashion advice, Sybil’s younger sister pushed forward.
“May I say how much I adore your ensemble, Rosie?” Miss Eloisa gushed. “Your widow’s weeds put the most fashionable gowns to shame. The work of Madame Rousseau, I believe?”
“Why, yes, it is.” Although Rosie was surprised by the turnabout in Miss Eloisa’s manner, she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Madame is a favorite of mine as well.” Eloisa linked arms with her, drawing her toward the sitting area. “You must sit by me for I’m certain we have so much in common to discuss.”
The countess and Miss Sybil followed behind, as did Emma and the clan.
When everyone was settled and tea had been poured, Mrs. James spoke up.
“As charming as this is,” she said—truly, she’d be an attractive woman if not for her sneer, as unsightly as a mustache would be on her face—“I’d prefer we get to the point. Why was I summoned here today?”
“Now, Antonia, you were not summoned,” Lady Charlotte said hastily. “The duchess merely wrote that she hoped to meet with all the ladies in our family during her visit today.”
“I don’t have your appetite for niceties,” Mrs. James retorted. “I call a spade a spade.”
“I, too, prefer directness,” Emma said. “The truth is, we are here on an urgent matter.”
“Oh?” Lady Charlotte’s forehead pleated beneath her frilly lace cap.
“A week ago, someone tried to murder Rosie.”
At Emma’s declaration, Rosie observed the reactions of her new relatives. Papa had warned Mr. Theale and Mr. James not to speak of the matter for their own good, and apparently the men had taken his caution to heart. The ladies appeared shocked by the news. The dowager and Miss Eloisa gasped, Miss Sybil’s hand flew to her mouth, and Mrs. James’ face drained of color.
“Goodness,” Lady Charlotte whispered. “You are unharmed, I hope?”
Having rehearsed the story with her papa, Rosie knew what to say. “I was fortunate that my driver chased off the attacker.”
“How brave you are!” Miss Eloisa’s sapphire eyes were unblinkingly wide. “I’m certain I wouldn’t have half your composure under such circumstances.”
“She wouldn’t need the composure if she’d practiced more caution.” Recovering from her shock, Mrs. James said with cold hauteur, “A lady has no business traipsing about at night. She’s lucky the groom chased the shooter away.”
“Hold up.” This came from Violet, whose tawny gaze had honed in upon Mrs. James’ face. “How did you know this happened at night? No one has mentioned when the attack occurred.”
Tell-tale red appeared on Mrs. James’ sharp cheekbones. “I… I just assumed… that is, don’t most attacks happen in the evening?”
“And how did you know I was shot at?” Rosie said. “I didn’t specify the method of attack.”
Mrs. James’ tongue touched her upper lip. “I just thought that cutthroats used firearms…”
“I find the accuracy of your assumptions fascinating,” Emma said.
Drawing herself up, Mrs. James glared at the room at large. “Are you accusing me of trying to harm Lady Daltry?”
“No, ma’am,” Thea said in her gentle yet resolute way, “but in order to protect Rosie, we must talk to all those who would benefit from her death.”
“Well, I never.” Mrs. James shot up, the jet beads on her bodice quivering. “I refuse to stay and be subjected to these insults!”
“We are merely discussing facts.” Emma’s eyes had a shrewd gleam. “If you know about the attack from another source—for instance, your stepson, who my brother has also interviewed—then you need only say so. While my brother asked Mr. James to keep the details private, it wouldn’t be a crime if your stepson shared them with you.”
“Why would Alastair share a private matter with me?” Mrs. James’ gaze shifted left and right. “As I said, my assumptions were guesses, nothing more. I had nothing to do with the attack on Lady Daltry. Good day.”
She swept out, leaving the room in silence.
“Well, that was awkward.” Miss Eloisa tittered. “The lady doth protest, as they say. You don’t suppose Aunt Antonia is involved in any way?”
“Hush, Eloisa,” Lady Charlotte said, a handkerchief knotted in her hands. “Now is not the time for your wit. This is a serious matter, and we must put our heads together to help Rosie.”
“But, Aunt Charlotte… aren’t we suspects too?” Miss Sybil said timorously.
“Oh, dear.” The dowager’s gaze went to Rosie. “I suppose you are right.”
Rosie didn’t want to lose the newly won goodwill. Besides, now that the ladies had warmed toward her, she thought they were rather nice. And they were her new relations, after all.
She glanced at Em, who lifted her chin slightly as if to say, We’ll follow your lead.
Rosie made her decision. “We mean no insult, Lady Charlotte. We’re merely trying to get to the bottom of this situation.”
“I quite understand,” the dowager said. “And I wish to help.”
“In that case, can you think of anything that might point us to a particular suspect?”
Lady Charlotte clenched her handkerchief, her expression torn.
“I’ll say it since no one else will. Peter has the most to gain,” Eloisa declared. “He’s forever short of funds, and now with the estate on his hands, he’s sunk unless he gets the inheritance.”
“That’s unfair,” Sybil protested. “Peter is no murderer. He’s a kind and gentle man.”
“You’re far too charitable.” Snorting, Eloisa turned to Rosie. “Peter has cried on all of our shoulders, and Sybil’s the only one who feels sorry for him. Then again, she’s a soft touch for hopeless cases.”
Her older sister flushed. “I am not.”
“All your life, you’ve collected strays. Remember our old butler? You were forever making those herbal poultices for his bad leg.” Eloisa rolled her eyes. “Then there’s your spinster friend Miss What’s-Her-Name, who constantly summons you to her deathbed. Peter is more of the same.”
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 23
