Silence settled between them. Aunt Prudence had already warned Rose of the risk her friendship with Paul posed to Rose’s reputation.
Paul Garvey, from a neighboring cottage, had little to recommend himself—at least in the eyes of society. He was decidedly poor, with no prospects for the future, and he had not yet grown into his height nor nose. “If only the young Mr. Garvey had looks, your association with the boy would not be so very unforgivable, but he has not a hair to recommend himself,” Prudence had said after catching them in the gardens one morning.
“Never you mind what my aunt says. Her influence does not extend to the fields, thankfully,” Rose said, lifting her eyes to meet the face of her friend. Paul was kind and good, and she considered those qualities far superior to rank or looks in matters of friendship.
He swept a hand through his disarray of curls. “No, thank goodness. I doubt she would approve of your rides, if she were to know the extent of them.”
“I suppose she would disapprove of anything I choose to do.” Rose clapped a hand over her mouth, and surprised laughter rolled from her lips. “I hadn’t meant to say such a thing. My aunt has her good qualities.”
Paul’s lips twisted into a pucker, and his eyes widened. “Good qualities? Please, enlighten me, Rose. I have yet to see her say a single praise of anything—the weather, a person, a dress or reticule. The woman seems content on disparaging every possible attempt in this world.”
“You are hardly around my aunt enough to know,” she said, wiping at the line of perspiration near her hairline. Rose endeavored to summon a defense for her aunt, but the effort was forced and uncommonly difficult. At last, a single thought formed. “She is a most hospitable hostess.”
Paul’s lips trembled, and he shook with his efforts to stay his laughter. “Rose, must you speak so well about everybody all the time? I imagine the effort proves quite tiring, particularly in the case of your aunt. Why can’t you say she is horrid and be done with it? Denying it, even to yourself, won’t make her any better.”
Her riding habit suddenly felt hot and suffocating—or perhaps it was his words. Rose blew a puff of air against her cheek, sending a stray curl from her eyes. “We shall have to agree to disagree. Now, will you tell me about your sister?”
Paul proceeded to share an account of his younger sister. Miss Lydia Garvey had been sponsored for a previous London season by a rich relative and had subsequently married a respectable gentleman from the north. Paul was eager to speak of his sister, her new home and happy situation.
Rose listened as best she could, but a nagging sensation crept into her stomach. Paul was generous in his assessment of Rose’s character; she was rather tempted to speak ill of her aunt. How could she not?
After her mother’s death, Aunt Prudence moved back to Grant Estate, assuming the role of mistress of the house and guardian over Rose. Since that fateful day, ten years ago, Rose’s life had transformed into one of regulations and restrictions, silence and sorrow. Gone were the endless days spent in the idle play of the gardens, soft chatter at the table of Mrs. Blackburn, stories on the lap of a maternal figure, and laughter across the long dining hall.
After the ride, Rose returned Honey to her stall and hurried to the house. Time had escaped her, as it often did on her outdoor excursions, and her grandfather would be awaiting her arrival. Prudence never visited her father more than necessary, unless there was something she wished to obtain from his presence.
Rose’s boots clacked against the marble entry. She handed her hat and gloves to the butler. “If my aunt should ask, I am just going up to my grandfather’s room now.”
Mr. Browning’s eyelids twitched, and he cleared his throat, glancing toward the drawing room. “It seems you’ve a letter that has just arrived from Andover.”
“Send it to my room. I will read the correspondence after I see to my grandfather.” She spun to the staircase, lifting a foot over the first stair. She stopped when the butler cleared his throat a second time. “What is it, Mr. Browning?”
His brows drew together in a furry line. “Your aunt wishes you to read the letter now, in the drawing room.”
“Oh.”
Rose took a timid step toward the open room, where her aunt awaited. Dread filled her chest. Her correspondences had only recently become a matter of discussion. Another freedom had been stolen, another private affair torn to pieces—all for the sake of propriety.
“Rose, do come in.” Aunt Prudence’s voice was rigid and emotionless.
Such moments of discomfort arose often, and Rose had learned to stifle all feelings—or at least the appearance of them. She clasped her hands together and stepped into the room.
Sunlight poured into the window, illuminating the drawing room. The sofas, upholstered in a pale blue, appeared the color of the sea from the warm light; the pastels of the wall hangings seemed to take on the brilliant shades of a flower patch. The woman sitting in the corner chair sat in stark contrast to the cheeriness of the room, though her physical beauty rivaled that of any scene.
“Aunt,” Rose said, curtsying.
“Your letter is on the table,” Prudence said, flicking a long fingernail in the direction of the side table. “I would have read it already if not for the indecency of doing so without your presence. I pride myself on such things. Do read it aloud, child.”
Rose swallowed. Was there nothing she could call her own? Her eyes fell to the signature at the bottom. “The letter is from my mother’s sister, Mrs. Amelia Rolland. She writes: Dearest Rose, I pray this letter finds you in good health. You may recall I attempted to pay a visit to you last fall, but you were gone away to Bath with your father’s sister. I was saddened to have missed you and had hoped we might receive a visit from you upon your return.”
The letter shook in her hands, and her eyes lifted to meet those of her aunt’s. “My Aunt Amelia came here?”
Prudence shrugged. “I hardly thought the detail important enough to convey. I will not allow you to travel to Andover, especially to your mother’s sister. She is a widow, a penniless and deprived woman. I would be shirking my duties if I were to allow you to go.”
Rose’s mother had not been high born; Prudence often spoke of the alliance as a disgrace, though anyone that knew Mrs. Lillian Grant had considered the baron fortunate. Rose steadied her hands at her temple. “Aunt Amelia is as deserving of my company as you and Grandfather.”
“Pardon?” Prudence shifted forward in her seat. Her thin lips curled. “Deserving of your company? Do you suppose your company a reward of some sort? Far from it. Now, carry on with the letter.”
Heat blistered in Rose’s cheeks. She blinked furiously. Her Aunt was impossibly pernicious. Her blatant disregard for others’ feelings grated against Rose like metal and rock. Rose closed her eyes, imagining the disappoint Aunt Amelia must have felt.
“The letter, child.”
Nineteen was hardly a child. Rose exhaled and lifted the paper once more. “As my oldest son, your cousin Oliver, has recently been rewarded a respectable position as head gardener for the Duke of Andover, we wish to invite you to come and stay at our cottage. In truth, we hope you will not refuse. Far too many years have passed since we have become reacquainted. Perhaps you have forgotten, but Lillian brought you to visit us on many occasions before her untimely death…”
How could she forget? Rose had run around the countryside with her three cousins—all of which were boys—climbing trees, riding horses, even sleeping beneath the stars. Rose’s mother had never seemed freer than when she was with her sister in the country. The fact that Rose had not returned to her aunt for so many years was a tragedy. Amelia used to live four hours away, but now, with Oliver’s appointment, she was only a mere hour away.
“The cottage is modest, but I have a room ever at the ready. Kindly send word of your coming, day or night, and we shall be happy to receive you. Warmest regards, Your Aunt Amelia.”
Rose folded the letter and pressed it to her
chest. Visiting Aunt Amelia would be quite the change from Prudence’s edicts. Amelia would not interfere with Rose’s correspondence, restrict her from keeping friendships with the likes of Paul Garvey, nor chide her for stepping outdoors without a bonnet.
Prudence clicked her tongue. “You must write her back at once and refuse.”
Rose gasped. “Grandfather would never deny me the right.” The words left her lips without a second thought. She fell back a step, shaking her head. “I only meant that I am nineteen, Aunt. I hardly need permission.”
Anger flitted across Prudence’s features. Her nose pinched. “You are of no age to make such decisions. Your grandfather might allow it, but he hardly cares about gossip and scandal and reputations. Such a choice would ruin your chances at a suitable match.”
Matchmaking was hardly Prudence’s strength. Rose had been presented with four possible suitors—all handpicked by her aunt, none of which Rose felt the slightest affections toward. Her aunt’s idea of suitable seemed to include four qualities—fortune, silence, an eagerness to produce an heir, and overactive sweat glands.
Prudence lifted to a stand and shook a hand in the direction of the letter. “You will write to Amelia and refuse, or I shall write to her myself.”
“No.” Rose dropped her chin to her chest and sighed. “I will do so, after my reading with Grandfather.”
Her aunt studied Rose for a long moment. Her lips curled into an unexpected sneer, and she placed a hand against her niece’s arm. “Very well. I shall invite Mr. Higgins to call upon you tomorrow afternoon. Now, that is my idea of a match.”
Rose recoiled from her aunt. Mr. Higgins was kind, but he was closer in age to her grandfather than that of a prospective husband. She could not, and would not, allow the man to entertain the idea of marriage. Some things could not be ruled, no matter how much her aunt wished it. Her heart was nonnegotiable. “Then I am free to attend your father?”
“Yes.” Prudence scowled, pulling the fan from her wrist. She wafted it and wandered to the window. “I expect my father would wish to see you. He is getting rather confused in his old age, preferring the company of strange young ladies instead to that of his own daughter.”
Rose turned without another word. She had far more important things to do than listen to her aunt berate her.
Chapter 3
Light blinked between the trees, casting shadows against the broken path. The edge of Grant Estate bordered along the Duke of Andover’s lands, lands that were leased for agriculture purposes by tenants. The duke’s properties were extensive, and the road to Andover was filled with fields and farms—all proof of the duke’s fortune. But for all his property and the mere hour-proximity to her home, Rose had never met the man.
She had heard stories; her grandfather had made an off-handed remark once about Prudence’s youth, alluding to her aunt’s pursuit of the duke.
She reached a gap in the trees, and sunlight bore against her face. Rose closed her eyes, allowing the warmth to spread over her entire body. She pulled back her bonnet, and soft ringlets flicked across her cheek. Across the fence, somewhere past the sprawling acres and tree-lined path, Aunt Amelia lived in a cottage near the grand duke.
Rose’s stomach grumbled. Her bite of toast and tea that morning was hardly enough to sustain her. She would have to turn back soon enough.
The wrath of Prudence was a certainty. Not only had Rose fled the house at first light, but she had not returned in time for Mr. Higgins’s appointment. In truth, Rose contemplated returning at all. Running away from home was out of the question, but she often fantasized of doing so.
Now that her aunt Amelia lived so close, perhaps Rose might find an escape there… She sighed and shook her head. Amelia’s invitation to visit was hardly a permanent offer. Further, Rose barely remembered her aunt and cousins.
Grant Estate held Rose’s dearest memories, and some of the dearest people, but the shadow her aunt cast had grown darker, heavier. What once had been mere irritation and annoyance had grown into unbearable dominion.
Something had to be done…but what? Visiting her Aunt Amelia had been overruled by Prudence. Rose let out an exasperated sigh and rested against the fence. The branches overhead swayed in the wind; Rose felt much the same, swaying with her aunt’s every dictate. The orders and disapproval had begun at an early age—slowly at first, but then with increasing frequency until now… Prudence claimed complete and utter control over Rose.
No mirrors, no reading by candlelight, no venturing into town without her aunt as chaperone, no participating in the musicales or public readings, no calls on other young ladies, no London season—the list was exhaustive. Worse, the reasoning behind the rules made little, if any, sense.
Yet, a cage had been built—and in part by Rose’s compliance.
A lamb bleated from across the fence, and Rose held out her hand. The lamb was far from the rest of the flock. “Come little one, where is your mother? She must be worried.”
Rose stepped up the bottom rung of the fence and jumped, landing squarely in a slosh of mud. Sludge reached her ankles and dirtied the hem of her pink afternoon dress.
The absurdity of the moment brought unexpected laughter. Muddied boots were the least of her concerns. Aunt Prudence posed a much more glaring problem. Something would have to be done if Rose was to ever escape her aunt’s control, but for now, Rose returned her attention to the lamb. She coaxed it to the rest of the flock, patting it on the head and lifting it over divots and ledges. The duke’s fields seemed remarkably untouched by time.
At last, the lamb bleated its gratitude and returned to its mother.
Rose smiled, but a pang of sadness coursed through her heart. Her mother was lost for a lifetime, but there was nothing she more desperately longed for. Longing for love was nothing new, but the dawning realization of the extent of that desire was new. She would not settle for Mr. Higgins or any other suitor her aunt threw in her direction.
Her aunt could not abide the London air, as evidenced by their short trip a few years previous. A season in London was out of the question. Rose would have to find another way to direct her efforts. Perhaps a visit to the Lockhart manor. Rebecca would be glad to have Rose, and such a visit might give Rose a chance to become better acquainted with the daughters.
“Yes, that is just the thing…” She flinched, suddenly aware she was not alone. Her attention snapped toward the movement below.
A middle-aged man stood near the quagmire at the bottom of the hill. He was watching her, a question looming in his light eyes.
She inhaled sharply. “Pardon me, sir. Your lamb was lost, and I took it upon myself to return it to the flock. Please forgive me for trespassing.”
“My lamb?” He dipped his chin, and the edges of his lips tugged. “Think nothing of it, but it is the shepherd that owes you gratitude.”
“You are not…?” Her stomach twisted. The man’s fashionable attire should have been enough clue; he was no shepherd. Her glance fell to his golden-stitched cuffs and the ring on his left finger. “Forgive me—”
“There is nothing to forgive. You have rescued my tenant’s lamb. I daresay, this field should be leveled. The mire nearly trapped me, as evidenced by my mucked boots. I imagine animals might fall to the same fate.”
Assuredness radiated from his stance and expression. Rose nearly choked on her words. “Your tenant?”
He bowed despite the ridiculousness of his situation. “The Duke of Andover, Miss—”
“Miss Rose Grant,” she replied, dipping into a low curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Please, do stand. Our meeting has done away with formality, and you have rescued my tenant’s lamb.”
She straightened. Of all times to meet the grand duke. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment. She knew not where to look—and her hands? She placed them at her side, then clasped them together in an awkward attempt to appear at ease.
He tapped a gloved finger against his chin. “Grant…a relative of the
Honorable Josiah Grant?”
Rose nodded tentatively. “Josiah is my grandfather, Your Grace.”
“Is he?” A smiled brightened the duke’s features. “I do believe I have met your parents, Augustus Grant and Lillian Parson. I am ashamed I did not recognize your looks sooner—your likeness is remarkable.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “You knew them?”
He removed his hat, revealing a large mop of graying hair. “Yes, particularly well. In those days, I attended some of the same parties as your father, danced with the same partners…vied for one particular woman’s attention.”
Rose’s grandfather had never mentioned as much. A blush overtook her entire face. What was there to say in such a situation? Polite responses played across her mind, but a familiar nagging pulled at her. “I find it strange to meet those of my parents’ former acquaintance.”
“Oh?” he asked, stepping even closer. “And why is that?”
She shook her head, inwardly chiding herself for speaking so freely. “The same blood that flowed through my father and mother flows through me, Your Grace, but I know nothing of my father—not by experience anyway, and my mother died when I was a child. But you…I suspect from your smile that you know a great deal about them both.”
“Your suspicions are correct. I did know them both well, Miss Grant, and I am sorry for your loss.”
She dropped her gaze. The field was a mixture of grasses and flowers, rocks and ridges, shrubbery and sloshes of mud. In nature, variance was to be admired. But in life? Rose had often wished for the life of those around her—life with parents, a sister or brother, even a house pet. Dwelling on such details never ended with anything other than heartache, and so Rose pushed away the thoughts—as she always did when they came—and returned her attention to the duke. “Thank you, Your Grace. What brings you to our village this morning? I have never chanced upon you in this field before, and I take this walk often.”
The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1) Page 2
