"Please God, let Alice be asleep,” she whispered, hearing the echo of her pounding heart. She made it to her room, slipped inside and eased the door shut. Without pausing to remove her coat, she went to the wash pan and splashed frigid water onto her hot face.
Her chin tingled from the rough scrape of his whiskers. She folded her hands against her breasts. They felt hot and heavy where they had pressed so tightly against his chest.
She shouldn't have let him kiss her that way. She should have made it clear she wasn't going to allow such liberties. She should have told him she couldn't see him again.
Lord, but she wasn't a good girl around Chris Brown! What would Miss Howland think if she knew? She might throw her out, and if she did, she would probably fire her, too. Was a kiss worth the risk? A simple kiss ... but no, nothing simple about it.
Rosalyn shed her coat and dropped it across a chair, her cheeks still burning and her heart showing no signs of behaving. What did Chris Brown want from her? Was he thinking of seducing her, without noble intentions?
How in the world did a woman know the difference?
She had no one to ask. Callie was gone forever, her only confidant and friend. Callie would know how to advise her. Callie would tell her to stop seeing Chris Brown if she couldn't behave herself.
Rosalyn didn't like that idea at all, but she knew it would be the smartest thing to do. Stop seeing him, thinking of him, and forget he ever existed.
Good gracious, what if they had been somewhere less public? She shuddered to think how far things might have gone, because she was honest enough to admit she had completely lost her mind.
Rosalyn froze in the act of slipping out of her skirt, her eyes wide with shock as a disturbing thought occurred to her.
How many other women had lost their minds in Chris Brown's embrace?
With a sudden vicious motion, Rosalyn threw the dove gray skirt across the room, her chest heaving. Well, she wouldn't be on that list, if indeed there was one. She would behave herself if it killed her, and if that meant she wouldn't see Chris again, then so be it.
Confusion suddenly overwhelmed her. She burst into tears of shame and regret, and threw herself on the bed.
The shame was for herself, for letting forbidden pleasures cloud her normally good judgment.
The regret was not for what she had done, but for what she knew she must do.
* * * *
"Hell fire,” Christian growled, falling into a chair behind the desk. He surveyed the mess he'd deliberately made of the once-immaculate library. Obviously, his stepmother loved books—there were hundreds of them.
After tumbling every single one off the shelves in search of a secret safe, Christian finally came to the conclusion Callie Garret didn't have a safe. There wasn't a book untouched, or a dust-ball undisturbed in the entire house.
No safe, no jewels, and three days wasted.
He drummed his fingers on the desk—which he'd piled high with books—and admitted something he'd been denying for too long. “Rosalyn Mitchell stole the necklace."
There, he'd said the words aloud, his breath frosting in the frigid air as he exhaled. He glanced at the mess again and groaned. Because of his insane attraction to the lovely Miss Mitchell and his determined attempt to clear her, he would now have to hire a maid to clean up this disaster.
And hiring a servant meant a greater risk of being discovered. He wasn't yet ready for Rosalyn to know who he was. Not quite. Anytime he ventured here, he was careful not to light a lamp and always approached the house from the back entrance.
This way, if Rosalyn happened to be passing by to see if Christian Garret was in residence, she would believe the house empty—which it generally was. It was too blasted cold to stay here without a fire.
Christian grunted to himself. Not that she worried her pretty head about his arrival. Not Rosalyn Mitchell—who despised the blackguard stepson of Callie Garret based on her narrow-minded assumptions. Ha! She would faint from the shock if she heard the true story.
Closing his weary eyes, Christian allowed himself to think back on their last meeting. God, but she'd been so passionate, so warm and receptive. He wanted to make love to her in a soft, warm bed with candle-light and scented sheets. And why, he asked himself? Why was it so important he satisfy his lustful cravings for the scheming Miss Mitchell in proper surroundings?
Christian shook his head. He couldn't answer his own questions. Rosalyn Mitchell just ... brought out the gentleman in him, something he hadn't known existed. Oh, yes, outwardly he could play the role of the perfect gentleman, but inwardly, he scoffed at such nonsense.
She was only a woman and a thieving woman, at that. Best he remember this, or he'd end up looking like a fool.
And Christian Garret was nobody's fool.
* * * *
"This is—ouch—the last—ouch—wedding!” Rosalyn gripped the bed post as Hillary tightened the corset. “Must you squeeze me to death, Hillary?"
Hillary grunted and yanked the strings tighter. “What's the sense in wearing a corset if it's not tight?"
"My question is, what's the sense in wearing the darn thing anyway?” Rosalyn puffed. When Hillary finally let go, Rosalyn straightened, feeling as if her lungs would never expand enough to draw a decent breath. Before she could complain, Wynette stepped forward and tried to smother her with yards of cream satin.
Fighting her way through to the neck of the gown, Rosalyn grabbed the material and yanked it down. “I will not attend another wedding!"
"You're beginning to sound like a parrot, Rosy,” Hillary chided. “Hold still and let me button this up."
Wynette circled her, tucking and pulling. “Hillary's mother is a wonder with the needle. You'll do Miss Howland proud."
Rosalyn slanted a suspicious glance at the buxom woman, who refused to look at her. She knew the reason Wynette brought Miss Howland into this. “Miss Howland does not expect me to attend every wedding I'm invited to, Wynette, and you know it.” Rosalyn moved away from their fussing hands and stood before the mirror. “Besides, I don't feel right going without an escort."
Chris Brown would make a handsome escort, but she hadn't heard from him since Saturday night. It seemed there would be no need for her to exert her willpower against his charms.
She smoothed the rich satin material at her waist. Of course his absence bothered her, but she reminded herself over and over that it was for the best. He was trouble, didn't she know that? Her reputation was at stake here, and Chris Brown would do nothing but compromise it, leaving her to pick up the pieces.
Rosalyn frowned at her reflection. Perhaps she was too tall, too round. Perhaps he couldn't stand the sight of her gap-toothed smile. Perhaps he didn't enjoy the feel of that space—Oh, drats! Rosalyn tried to sigh and couldn't.
With a falsely bright smile, she turned to face the trio of women crowding her bedroom. Her gaze settled on Alice, who remained mysteriously silent. Rosalyn suspected she was afraid she'd spill the beans about Chris Brown if she opened her mouth.
Good girl.
"Well? Do I pass inspection?” Unbidden came the thought: Would she pass Mr. Brown's inspection? An image of his hot, roving eyes brought a burst of heat to her face. Hopefully, the girls would mistake her rosy coloring for excitement.
When she met Alice's sparkling, knowing gaze, Rosalyn knew there was at least one who suspected the truth.
"You look elegant."
"Ravishing."
"Beautiful."
The three women clapped their hands as if they had created Rosalyn from a lump of clay. Rosalyn grinned, determined to forget about Chris Brown and try to enjoy the outing. What choice did she have? And she knew, deep down, that Miss Howland was pleased with her work. Rosalyn had turned out to be a walking advertisement for the company, a mascot nobody anticipated.
"Shouldn't you girls be getting back to work? I think lunch hour is over."
Rosalyn's purposeful nudging generated squeals of alarm. The room be
gan to empty with amazing speed, but when Alice made to pass her, Rosalyn gripped her elbow and held her back.
With the other's out of ear shot, Rosalyn asked, “Alice—do you think I'm too fat?"
Alice flicked a puzzled glance over her trim waist in the shimmering cream satin. She shook her head, a half-smile crooking her lips. “No, you're not fat. Why do you ask?"
Rosalyn ignored her question. “Too tall?"
Again Alice shook her head. “Why—"
"How about this gap between my two front teeth? Is it that horrible to look at?"
Alice laughed. When she noticed that Rosalyn didn't join her, she sobered. “He hasn't been back to see you, has he?"
"Who—"
"That's what these questions are all about, right?” Before Rosalyn could protest, Alice patted her shoulder. “Don't worry Rosy, you're beautiful—any man would think so—and your Mr. Brown will be back."
"I don't want—"
"Maybe he had to leave town on an emergency or something."
Rosalyn wished she could draw a deep breath. It would take a big one to interrupt Alice once she got going. She tried again. “What I'm trying to tell you is I don't care if I never see him again. Fact is, I have already decided not to see him."
Alice tipped her head, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Then why all the questions?"
Squirming, Rosalyn hedged, “Well, I just wanted to know, that's all. I do represent the company, you know."
"Oh."
Thankfully, Miss Howland appeared in the open doorway, putting an end to their conversation. With a last, sympathetic pat on her shoulder, Alice hurried from the room, and Rosalyn put on her brightest smile for her employer. It wasn't Miss Howland's fault people insisted she attend their weddings.
And it wasn't Miss Howland's fault Chris Brown thought her too fat, too tall, or too grotesque because of that silly, aggravating gap in her teeth.
Miss Howland glided into the room and took Rosalyn's hands, expressing her admiration. “You look beautiful, Rosalyn. The girls did a magnificent job, didn't they? Your dress is lovely."
Rosalyn smiled ruefully. “It's Hillary's dress."
"Well, we'll just have to give you a dress allowance, won't we? After all, you're representing the company."
"That's not necessary,” Rosalyn demurred. Secretly, she thought it a wonderful idea. “I don't plan to attend another wedding—"
"Oh, my dear, you must!” A frown overshadowed Miss Howland's smile. “How can you tell them no after being responsible for bringing them together in the first place? They call you Cupid, you know..."
Unfortunately, Rosalyn did know.
"I'll have my seamstress start on your gowns right away.” Esther put a musing finger to her lips. “Red, I think. Maybe dark pink and white. Valentine colors. Of course, people will frown at an unmarried woman wearing red, but you don't strike me as the type to let it bother you. With your dark hair and eye coloring, red would look striking on you and we already know pink suits you."
Rosalyn felt her eyes widen in shock. Miss Howland, daring her to fly in the face of convention? Not the Miss Howland she knew! Of course, now that she thought about it, there was the time when her employer went to New York ... alone. A few tongues wagged over that one, but Miss Howland had brushed it off as nonsense.
Rosalyn learned this tale from Wynette and Hillary, who heard it from another woman who worked for Miss Howland way back at the beginning of her career. Looking at the elegant woman before her now, Rosalyn found it difficult to believe anyone would say a word against her or dare to criticize her proper lifestyle. She was one of Worcester's most respected citizens.
"I've brought you something to wear with the dress."
Rosalyn blinked and looked down at Miss Howland's hands, her lips parting as she gazed upon the beautiful pearl necklace. “For me? Oh, no, I couldn't! You see, I might lose—"
But Miss Howland shook her head. “You won't lose it. Here—look—see?” She pointed a well-manicured nail at the clasp. “It's special made and very stout. I want you to look your best, so please let me put it on."
Rosalyn didn't know what to say. If she continued to protest, then she might hurt Miss Howland's feelings. With an inward shrug, she turned so her employer could fasten the pearls around her neck. The heavy weight felt cool against her neck.
Turning to look in the mirror, Rosalyn adjusted the string, her anxious gaze meeting Esther's. “They are absolutely lovely.” After a brief hesitation, she plowed onward. “Are they—are they very valuable?"
Esther Howland smiled serenely. “Yes, they are.” Before Rosalyn could protest, she held up a sustaining hand. “They came over on the May Flower with my great-grandfather, John Howland. He gave them to my great-grandmother when they married."
"Oh.” Rosalyn gulped, her fingers tightening on the pearls. Maybe if she held them the entire time ... “Miss Howland, I'm grateful, really I am, but—"
"Don't, dear. Don't say no. I want you to wear them and I trust you completely. Any friend of Callie Garret is a friend of mine.” The older woman, poised and elegant in a conservative dark gray gown that matched the shade of her hair, moved to the door. She turned and smiled at Rosalyn. “I'll be with Father the rest of the afternoon. After that, I've got to meet a shipment of paper lace arriving on the evening train. You can return the pearls tomorrow."
Rosalyn stared at the empty doorway, tempted to take the necklace off and hide it in a safe place. She probably wouldn't see Miss Howland for the rest of the day so the good woman wouldn't know ... Oh, drats. Drats, drats, drats! The pearls were beautiful, but the May Flower?
Unable to shake her nervous reaction to the pearls, Rosalyn slipped her gloves on, snatched her reticule off the secretary by the door, and made her way downstairs. Stopping at the coat rack, she removed a black, heavy wool shawl and draped it around her shoulders. It was cold outside, cold and gloomy, but she didn't think her pink coat would fit over the wide skirts of the gown.
When she opened the door and came face to face with a strange man, she sucked in a sharp gasp of frigid air. Spots danced before her eyes. She forced herself to breathe evenly, slowly, until her lungs filled once again. Hillary would never lace her corset again, she vowed silently.
"I'm looking for Miss Howland?"
The gentleman—maybe a few years older than herself—looked as nervous as she felt. Rosalyn frowned at the clock in the hall, then focused on the man again. She had exactly twenty minutes to get to the church, but she knew Miss Howland wouldn't want to be interrupted. “Miss Howland's not receiving callers at the moment. May I help you?"
He twisted his hat around and around between his fingers. Cheeks—red from the cold—grew redder still. Rosalyn felt a twinge of sympathy, sensing the man was extremely agitated about something.
"Well, you see—that is—"
"Won't you step inside? We can talk in the parlor.” A cold gust of wind snaked its way through the door even as she spoke. She noticed a carriage waiting out front, the driver bundled against the bitter cold. The sight of the conveyance gave her an idea.
"Thank you, but I don't mean to keep you—you look as if you were about to leave."
"I was.” When he looked even guiltier, Rosalyn relented. “But I've got a moment more. Is that your carriage out front?"
"Yes. A hired carriage."
"Well ... then I'll make you a deal."
The man stopped in the doorway to the parlor, and Rosalyn smiled at his alarmed expression.
"A d-deal?"
"I'll help you if you'll give me a ride to the West England church.” There, that would solve the problem of getting to the church on time, since she intended to walk the couple of blocks rather than waste precious money on a cab.
With obvious relief, the man agreed. He took a seat on the sofa, while Rosalyn remained standing to keep the wrinkles from her gown. When he started to stand again, she waved him back down. “Please, sit. I hate formalities, and I think it's
ridiculous for a man to have to stand just because a woman chooses to stand.” He promptly sat again and continued to maul his hat.
"I'm here because I'm desperate, Miss...?"
"Rosalyn Mitchell. I work for Miss Howland delivering valentines and such."
"Mark Newman.” Suddenly he popped up from the chair, his eyes going wide. “You're—you're the one they call Cupid, aren't you?"
Stifling a groan, Rosalyn nodded in resignation. “Yes, that's what they call me. Now, what can I help you with?"
Mark began pacing the parlor. “Her name's Tammy. You see, there's this other man—he's a professor at the Seminary—"
Rosalyn cleared her throat and stared pointedly at the clock. “Mr. Newman...” she chided gently.
"I'm sorry.” He stopped pacing and took a deep breath.
Rosalyn wished she could do the same.
"She's thinking of marrying this—this other man and I've just got to change her mind! I want her to marry me."
Those tears were real, Rosalyn realized with a jolt of surprise. Her heart softened instantly. “Why don't we stop at the shop and pick out the best valentine Miss Howland has to offer, and I'll write you the perfect proposal to go inside. After I get this wedding over with, I'll deliver the valentine and wait for an answer."
Mark grabbed her hand and began kissing it in earnest. Rosalyn prudently pulled out of his grasp before he saturated her glove.
"How can I ever thank you?"
Here I go again, Rosalyn thought. “By not inviting me to the wedding,” she said with a grin.
"Oh.” Mark Newman blinked in confusion. “Not invite ... oh, now I understand. You're on your way to one of those weddings now, am I right?"
Rosalyn nodded.
"Well, then, I promise not to invite you to ours. Although, I can't speak for Tammy—"
"Let's go,” Rosalyn grabbed his arm and rushed him through the door and into the carriage before he could finish his statement. She didn't want to hear another word about weddings.
"To The New England Valentine Factory on Main, then to the West England Church on Elizabeth Avenue,” Rosalyn called to the driver.
My Valentine Page 6
