Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Mind yourself, he commanded. Be the man you should have been.

  “I think you are rather hard on yourself, Harry.”

  Harry shook his head, but he could not take his eyes away from hers. “You say that only because you do not fully understand the man I have been.”

  She pursed her lips slightly, disarmingly so. “Maybe I know more than you think.”

  Her words surprised him, but the intent behind them captured him as surely as a net. She was suggesting that she didn’t care about his past—could that be true? Against all the commitments he’d made to himself, he moved his hand to reach for hers.

  What is one more conquest? a voice said in his head. A familiar voice. One he had listened to far too often in the past, and one he could not afford to entertain now. He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon it. The gesture could be interpreted any number of ways.

  She caught her breath. He felt his own heartbeat in his ears.

  “Thank you for a perfectly perfect evening,” he said.

  Their hands remained joined, and she stared at them for a few seconds. Then she looked into his eyes and stepped toward the head of the bed, leaning down until their faces were mere inches from one another.

  Dear Heavens, had she any idea what she was doing to him? He breathed her in, feeling the fog moving into his mind, the longing and yearning as strong as his need for drink ever was. The intoxicating scent of roses did him no favors.

  “Might I request one thing that would truly perfect it for me?” she asked in a throaty whisper.

  He swallowed. “W-what would that be?”

  The glint in her eye ignited him, and before he could remind himself of his changed ways, his hand was behind her neck, though she needed no guidance to bring her lips to his.

  Sabrina did not have a great deal of kissing experience, but even in her ignorance, she knew Harry was accomplished in the art. His lips against hers were soft, the kiss sweet and slow to start. When she pressed for more, however, he did not hesitate to answer. The intensity of the moment enveloped her, cutting off all thoughts of the past and the future and keeping all of her senses acutely focused on the taste of his mouth. The smell of his skin. The sound of a low moan from deep in his throat that made her shudder in response.

  Her hand went to his scruffy cheek, while his arm went around her back and pulled her closer. He led and she followed, kissing him as she had never kissed a man before and feeling the sensation of it pulling her under.

  Warning bells went off somewhere in her mind: she was alone with Harry, in his bedchamber. This was ruination and immorality and . . . so help her, she wanted to be wanted. To be the sole focus of his attention.

  He pushed his hands into her hair, and she ran her hands down his back, under the neckline of his nightshirt. Oh good gracious, he wore only a nightshirt!

  And then his face pulled back from hers. She met his eye, smiled, and leaned in for more, but he took hold of her arms and held her away from him. She tried to catch her breath, still gripping the collar of his nightshirt in her hand.

  “Sabrina,” he said, breathless—breathless because of her. A sense of power moved through her that had nothing to do with commanding a dinner party or leading an auxiliary discussion. Had her name ever sounded so sensual?

  “Harry,” she said in an equally telling tone and leaned toward him again. There was something so right about this, something she’d been looking for and never found. He moved toward her and met her lips—again—and everything began to fade—again—and then he pulled away. Again.

  “I can’t,” he said, and the regret in his voice pricked her heart. “We can’t do this, Sabrina. It isn’t right.”

  The reprimand, no matter how kindly stated, made her feel instantly foolish, and she let go of his nightshirt and stood up straight. The smell of him still surrounded her like mist.

  “I could not stand to be the subject of your regret in the morning.”

  Humiliation rose up like a volcano, flushing her face as she stared at him. The embarrassment cracked enough to let in something even more unwelcome.

  What is wrong with me? Why am I so undesirable?

  She turned away from him, blinking back the childish tears that had come on suddenly.

  “Sabrina,” he said, “you deserve better than a man like me.”

  She walked toward the door, mortified and aching. How could she have forgotten who he was? Who she was?

  “Stay,” he called after her. “Let’s talk about this. Let me explain why—”

  There was a knock at the door, freezing Sabrina halfway between the bed and the door.

  The door opened, and Therese entered with a tray holding Harry’s glass of warm milk. When she saw Sabrina, she startled, then looked concerned in a way that made Sabrina feel even more the fool. Her mussed hair likely told too much.

  “I shall take care of this, Therese, thank you.”

  “I was going to check Mr. Stillman’s leg. It was swollen after dinner.”

  “It is much improved,” Sabrina lied, her smile growing brittle on her face. Anger at herself buried the other emotions threatening to break her apart, and she invited the fury. “That will be all, Therese. You can assess Mr. Stillman’s leg in the morning.”

  Therese glanced past Sabrina’s shoulder to Harry. He must have nodded or something because the woman’s face relaxed slightly before she gave Sabrina a quick nod. “Very well. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Sabrina and Harry said in unison.

  The door closed, and Sabrina turned back to the bed, or, rather, to the nightstand, where she placed the tray. She could feel Harry’s eyes on her but did not meet them.

  “I do not need you to explain anything to me, Mr. Stillman. You have made yourself quite clear.”

  He reached out to touch her arm, and she stepped quickly away, keeping her eyes on the floor. How could she have let down her guard? And with him of all people? She knew better. She was better. She needed to get out of this room before she lost all dignity.

  Her hand was on the knob when she heard his voice from behind her.

  “Good night, Sabrina. I am sorry that such a wonderful evening ended poorly. I pray you will forgive me.”

  He would go to London in the morning and not come back. He would be out of her house. Out of her life. And then she would do everything she possibly could to help herself forget how he had looked when he waited for her at the bottom of the stairs tonight.

  What it had felt like to talk with him over dinner at a table she’d sat alone at for so many dinners over the years.

  How it had felt to be touched.

  What she would not allow herself to forget, however, was how it had felt to be rejected. That feeling was one she would hold close—one more brick in the wall she would keep around her heart that obviously could not be trusted to act in wisdom or prudence.

  Therese was in her office going over the daily book when Sabrina found her the next morning. “What time is Mr. Stillman removing to London?” she asked, trying not to let her words sound clipped.

  Therese looked so closely at her that Sabrina feared there were signs of her late-night tears, even though she’d inspected her reflection in her looking glass and deemed it acceptable. The woman would not ask, however, and Sabrina would not explain.

  “Steven will have the carriage ready at eleven thirty. Mr. Stillman’s appointment is at two o’clock.”

  Sabrina gave a sharp nod. “Very good. I shall be calling on Mrs. Clemson this morning and will likely not return before he leaves. It is a pleasant enough walk so I will not need the carriage.” She lifted the letter she’d written to Harry and slid it across the desk toward Therese. “I’ve included my farewell here. If you would be so kind as to give it to him when he is prepared to leave.”

  “Would you not rather give it to him yourself?”

  “No,” she said coolly. “This is mostly well-wishes toward a full recovery and acknowledgment of his dedication
toward improvement.”

  It had occurred to her that morning that his rejection could have been because of his commitment to pursue a more noble life. Allowing him honorable motivations brought small comfort to her jagged humiliation. She wondered why she was not yet used to rejection after so many years of it. She had not been enough as a daughter, a wife, or a mother either.

  Yet Harry had done her a favor; she would have woken up today with unfathomable regret had he not pushed her away. Her shame now served as the very blade she’d needed to cut through the draw she’d felt toward him.

  She was finished with Harry Stillman.

  Therese watched her closely, but Sabrina pretended not to notice. She pushed the letter closer to Therese, who finally picked it up.

  Sabrina forced a smile. “Well then, I shall be off. After my return, I shall be finalizing my schedule and hope to have a written version for you by this evening.” Sabrina put on her gloves—pink to match the pelisse she had chosen, hoping the cheery color would invite a brighter mood than she felt.

  “Very good, ma’am,” Therese said, rising to her feet. She glanced at the letter in her hands. “Are you sure you would not like to give this to Mr. Stillman yourself?” she asked again. “He looks forward to your time together like a child awaiting sweets. I believe he will be very disappointed not to say goodbye. You remember he will be going on to his uncle’s house upon the completion of his appointment?”

  “I am well aware of his arrangements,” she said with enough ice in her tone to make her teeth hurt. “It is time for all of us to move on with our lives—Mr. Stillman most of all. Good day, Therese. I shall see you this evening, if not before.”

  “Oh, Sabrina,” Therese said, dropping the pretense of formality as sympathy filled her eyes. “What happened between the two of you last night?”

  Sabrina took a step back, half turning toward the door as she shored up her resolve to put last night and Mr. Stillman behind her.

  “I understand the staff’s curiosity about Mr. Stillman and myself,” she said pointedly. “The situation is highly unusual and certainly fodder for speculation belowstairs, but I have done only what any other Christian woman would do for a man in need. I will be grateful to have equanimity restored to this household for the short time before I leave. I would ask that you help me in setting to rest any inappropriate speculation that has taken place. Thank you.”

  She turned on her heel and took the back entrance off the kitchen rather than the front door for fear she might cross paths with Harry. She passed both Maria and Constance en route and ignored their curious gazes. She could only imagine the conversations that had taken place with the staff after her late-night chess games and that silly dinner last night. Did they know she’d gone to see him last night with her hair—and her moral compass—free of constraints? Her throat burned.

  She walked along the carriage lane that wound to the front of the house, down the short drive, and, when she reached the street, turned toward the village. There was a walking path that ran parallel to the road, and she tried to manage her pace so it would not appear she was fleeing the scene, even though that was exactly what she was doing.

  As Rose Haven disappeared behind her, she hoped Therese would take her words to heart and never speak of last night, or Harry Stillman, ever again. Would that she’d kept better boundaries so as not to give the staff so much fantasy to indulge in. Would that she’d kept her own fantasy from distracting her from reality.

  She was an independent woman. She did not need a man, and she should not have let herself want Harry for any reason. She would learn from this and strengthen her character so she would not look beyond the mark again.

  She took a deep breath of the country air and let it out, slowing the pace that had become almost a march as it kept time with her angry and racing thoughts. When she returned to Rose Haven, Harry would be gone. Healing would begin.

  One day soon, she would set sail for Naples and not return until spring.

  One day, last night’s poor judgment would be the smallest hitch in an otherwise straight path.

  One day, the memory of his rejection would not hurt her the way it did now.

  Dear Mr. Stillman,

  I send my encouragement and well-wishes as you leave for your uncle’s home to begin your fresh start. You have realized remarkable insights about yourself these last weeks, and I hope that you see your potential and will make the most of the opportunities ahead of you. It has been a pleasure to be a part of this journey, and I hope that you continue to recover well.

  In support of the changes ahead, I hope you will accept the enclosed fifty pounds as a foundation you can build upon for the future. In regard to repayment, I hope that one day you will see someone who needs a helping hand and repay this gift in kind. Improvement in this life depends upon the individual, and I wish you the very best as you begin anew as a better man, capable and worthy of your place in the world.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Sabrina

  Harry held the fifty-pound note, wishing his circumstances allowed him to leave it behind. Lady Sabrina was a remarkable woman, a point she proved over and over again. He did not deserve her, let alone her money. However, fifty pounds would make a substantial difference in this transition, and he had nothing else. He refolded the letter and slid it, with the money, into the inside pocket of his coat.

  Obviously, she was not coming to say goodbye, and he wished for the hundredth time that he could replay last night differently. If he’d claimed himself too tired after just one chapter, or if he’d stopped her before she’d kissed him . . .

  Yet if he’d done that, there would have been no kiss, and he could not wish that away. A kiss had never been more than pleasure until Sabrina’s. He’d never felt the flush of being wanted the way she’d wanted him, been aware the way he’d been aware of her, or felt that the physical was an expression of the feelings he held inside.

  He’d also never had the presence of mind to know better than to continue, and yet that had come with a cost. Though not as heavy as the price would have been if he hadn’t stopped. It was perhaps the first time he understood that sacrifice was giving up something good and immediate for something better and long-term. Or that sacrifice could feel like such a pit in one’s stomach.

  He patted the letter in his pocket. Lady Sabrina had never written him before, but there was something familiar about this letter. Perhaps it was nothing more than the words in her letter sharing similar sentiments to those she had expressed over the weeks he had come to know her. Except he wasn’t sure he’d come to know her all that much. Her character, surely, and her temper and passion and shrewd mind, but there were so many things she kept hidden from him. That he’d never earned her trust enough for her to show him the whole of her felt like a great loss on his part.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Joshua entered the room. “Your trunk is loaded, sir.”

  Harry picked up his crutches from where they rested against the side of his chair and settled them beneath his arms. He swung forward with practiced motions and followed the footman to the stairs, where Joshua took hold of his right arm and Harry used the crutch on the left side to hobble his way down, careful to keep his right leg lifted enough to not catch on a stair.

  Therese waited near the door, and when he reached her, she looked at him with tears in her eyes. She had cared for him these last weeks, yes, but she also cared about him. That he could earn that sort of consideration without manipulating it gave him hope he could build different relationships now that he was sober and aware of how important people could be to one another.

  Therese stepped forward and put her hands on either side of his face. The intimacy surprised him.

  “May I give you some advice upon our parting company, Mr. Stillman?”

  “Prop my foot for the drive and take things easy?”

  She smiled, the skin around her eyes crinkling. She held his gaze, then whispered, “Do not give up.”

&nb
sp; Therese did not know where he had come from and where he wanted to be, but he took her advice to heart as though she did. He would not give up his sobriety. He would not give up on rising to his potential. That he had this chance at all was because of Lady Sabrina and the people she had chosen to surround herself with. He would follow her example and make a life as close to this one as he could.

  “I won’t.”

  Therese continued, “On Sabrina.”

  Her name washed through him, and he felt a lump in his throat at the thought that he would not see her again. Therese saw something between them? She knew what he felt for the woman who had saved him in so many ways?

  If only those things were enough.

  He replied in a whisper. “It is not like that, Therese.”

  She lowered her hands. “It could be.”

  He shook his head. “She deserves much more than I could give her.”

  “She deserves a man to love her.”

  If that were all she needed, perhaps there would be a chance. But she needed a man who was her equal or at least not so far below her place. She needed someone she could trust, and though Harry was determined to be better, he had only a dishonorable past to show as evidence, which was no evidence at all.

  “Then she should find a man who has earned the boon of a woman such as herself.”

  “I think you are that man.”

  He took a breath and let it out with a sigh. “I wish that were true, Therese, but it is not. She saved me, and I shall never forget that.” He kissed Therese on the cheek. “Thank you so much for your ministrations to me. I shall always remember the kindness I received in this house.”