One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  There was a flutter of greetings. Claudia and Michael were unlikely ever to be close, but now they were at least civil to each other. Rosalind had become very fond of Michael, who was in some ways very like Stephen, and in others completely different.

  Her gaze went back to Stephen. He was the linchpin of the Kenyons, the head of the family both in terms of custom and natural authority. It was a tribute to the largeness of his spirit that he had even become friends with his illegitimate half brother, who now went by the name George Blackmer-Kenyon. The physician had followed Stephen’s advice and married his gentle widow. Rosalind had seen the two together, and knew the marriage would in time heal the wounds on Blackmer’s spirit.

  In a flurry of laughter and silk skirts, Catherine kissed Rosalind’s cheek, then settled into the chair on her left. She was also pregnant and expected to deliver several weeks after Rosalind. Clearly she and her husband had enjoyed a very satisfactory reunion after he joined her in London.

  The musicians in the orchestra pit went silent for a moment. Then they struck up a stirring triumphal march. Conversation died and all eyes turned to the stage.

  With a roll of drums, the curtain began to rise, revealing the grandeur of a royal palace. Rosalind leaned back in her chair and clasped Stephen’s hand. His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised her hand to press a kiss on her wrist. He murmured, “Let the magic begin.”

  She smiled into his eyes. “It already has, my love. It already has.”

  I believe as I did as a child, that life has

  meaning, direction and value;

  that no suffering is lost; that each drop

  of blood and every tear counts;

  and that the secret of the world is to be found in

  St. John’s “Veus Caritas est”—“God is love.”

  —FRANÇOIS MAURIAC

  Don’t miss

  THE LOST LORDS,

  the fabulous new series from Mary Jo Putney!

  It all starts with LOVING A LOST LORD…

  After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water he pulled himself from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive in the cold water for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to—perfection.

  The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamplight. Wondering if he’d drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those finely spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.

  “You’re safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was graceful. “Do you speak English?”

  He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y…yes.”

  “Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water since it had almost killed him. And it was humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn’t even drink without help.

  When he’d had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking against your dark complexion.”

  His eyes were green and the rest of him, dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.

  She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”

  He searched his mind, and came up with—nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be wrong. Panic surged through him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I…I don’t know.”

  Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You’ve endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I’m your wife, Mariah Clarke?”

  “My…my wife?” He stared, incredulous. How could he possibly forget being wed to a woman like this? But even though he didn’t remember their marriage, his fears diminished as he compulsively clenched her hand. “Then…I am a most fortunate man.”

  She smiled warmly. “Rest while I go for tea and broth. I’ve sent for someone who will know how to treat that blow to your head. With luck, she’ll be here soon. By tomorrow, you will likely remember everything about yourself.”

  He raised unsteady fingers to the ragged gash that ran down the left side of his skull. He had so many aches and bruises that he hadn’t noticed any in particular, but now that she mentioned it, his head throbbed like the very devil. “Tea would be…welcome.”

  “I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” she promised as she whisked away.

  He stared at the ceiling after she left. He had a wife. He hated that he remembered nothing about that vision of loveliness who had saved his life, nor about being married. It was easy to imagine kissing her, and a good deal more. But of actual memories he had none. It seemed damned unfair.

  He spent time during her absence searching his mind and memory and trying not to knot the sheets with nervous fingers. He recognized objects around him. Bed. Blanket. Fire. Pinkness in the sky outside. That would be…dawn. Oddly, a second set of words shadowed the first. Palang. Kambal. Aag. He was quite sure the words meant the same as the English ones that came to mind, so he probably knew a different language, though he had no idea what it might be.

  But he had no personal memories. Again he fought the rising fear. The emotion was a screaming, vulnerable awareness that he was alone and so helpless that he didn’t even know what might threaten him.

  Strangely, deep inside he sensed that this was not the first time he had been torn away from himself. Perhaps that was why his fear was so great. But he couldn’t remember anything about that other situation, whatever it might be.

  He had survived that earlier loss. This time he had a wife who told him he was safe. Surely she would look out for him until he was strong enough to look out for her.

  For now, he remembered the most basic fact of all: that he was male and Mariah Clarke was female.

  And don’t miss NEVER LESS THAN A LADY,

  coming next month from Zebra!

  “Mrs. Bancroft?” a light female voice called as the bells on the cottage door rang to indicate a visitor. “It’s me, Ellie Flynn.”

  “Good afternoon, Ellie.” Julia moved from the kitchen into her examining room, taking the young woman’s toddler into her arms. “How is Master Alfred feeling today?”

  “Much better, Mrs. Bancroft.” The woman smiled fondly at her red-headed son, who was reaching for Julia’s cat. “That horehound and honey tea you gave me helped his cough right smartly.”

  “The Duchess of Ashton’s cough remedy.” Julia looked the little boy over. He grinned back at her. “The name alone is halfway to being a cure.”

  The tea was a recipe she’d learned from her friend Mariah, who hadn’t been a duchess then. Mariah had been raised by a grandmother who was a village healer, not unlike Julia, but more knowledgeable about herbs. Julia had learned a few simple remedies from the midwife who had trained her, but Mariah knew many more, and her recipes had been a good addition to Julia’s store of treatments.

  She handed the little boy back to his mother. “He’s flourishing. You’re doing a fine job raising him, Ellie.”

  “I couldn’t have don
e it without your help. When he was born, I hardly knew which end was which!” Ellie, also redheaded and no more than nineteen, shyly offered a worn canvas bag. “I’ve some nice fresh eggs for you, if you’d like them.”

  “Lovely! I’ve been wanting an egg with my tea.” Julia accepted the bag and moved to the kitchen of her cottage, removing the eggs from their straw packing so she could return the bag. She never turned away a mother or child in need, so while many of her patients couldn’t afford to pay in cash, Julia and her household ate well.

  After Mrs. Flynn and her little boy left, Julia sat at her desk and wrote notes about patients she’d seen that day. Whiskers, her tabby cat, snoozed beside her. After finishing her notes, Julia sat back and petted the cat as she surveyed her kingdom.

  Rose Cottage had two reception rooms at the front of the house. She used this one as an office for treating patients and storing remedies. The other front chamber was her sitting room. Kitchen, pantry, and a bedroom ran across the back of the cottage. A slant-roofed but spacious second bedroom was up the narrow stairs.

  Behind the cottage was a stable for her placid pony, and a garden that produced herbs and vegetables. The flowers in front of the cottage were there simply because she believed that everyone needed flowers.

  Rose Cottage was not what she’d been raised to live in, but that life had turned out very badly. This life was so much better. She had her own home, friends, and she provided a vital service for this remote community. With no physicians nearby, she had become more than a midwife. She set bones and treated wounds and minor illnesses. Some claimed she was better than the doctors in Carlisle. Certainly she was cheaper.

  Though her trip to London several months earlier as Mariah’s chaperone had left her restless, she was mostly content in Hartley. She would never have a child of her own, but she had many children in her life as well as the respect of the community. She took pride in the fact that she’d built this life for herself with her own hard work.

  The front door opened and a young woman bustled in, a toddler on one hip and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Julia smiled at the other two members of her household. “You’re back early, Jenny. How are Mrs. Wolf and Annie?”

  Jenny Watson beamed. “Happy and healthy. Since I delivered Annie myself, whenever I see her I’m as proud as if I’d invented babies.”

  Julia laughed. “I know the feeling. Helping a baby into the world is a joy.”

  Jenny reached into her bag. “Mr. Wolf sent along a nice bit of bacon.”

  “That will go well with Ellie Flynn’s eggs.”

  “I’ll fix us our tea then.” Jenny headed into the kitchen and set her daughter in a cradle by the hearth. Molly, fourteen months old, yawned hugely and curled up for a nap.

  Julia watched the child fondly. Jenny was not the first desperate pregnant girl who had shown up on Julia’s doorstep, but she was the only one to become part of the household. Jenny had married a man against her family’s wishes. Her family had turned their backs when he abandoned her, saying that she’d made her bed and must lie in it.

  Near starvation, Jenny had offered to work as Julia’s servant for no wages, only food and a roof over her head. The girl had proved to be clever and a hard worker, and after Molly’s birth, she became Julia’s apprentice. She was well on her way to becoming a fine midwife, and she and her child had become Julia’s family.

  Jenny had just called, “Our tea is ready!” when the string of bells that hung on the front door jangled.

  Julia made a face. “I wish I had a shilling for every time I’ve been interrupted during a meal!”

  She stood—then froze with horror at the sight of the three men who entered her home. Two were strangers, but the burly, scar-faced leader, was familiar. Joseph Crockett, the vilest man she’d ever known, had found her.

  “Well, well, well. So Lady Julia really is alive,” he said menacingly as he pulled a glittering knife from a sheath under his coat. “That can be fixed.”

  Whiskers hissed and dashed into the kitchen while Julia backed away from him, numb with panic.

  After years of quiet hiding, she was a dead woman.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARY JO PUTNEY is a graduate of Syracuse University with degrees in eighteenth-century literature and industrial design. She has won numerous prizes for her writing, including four consecutive Golden Leaf awards for Best Historical Romance and two Romance Writers of America RITA Awards. She is also the recipient of several Romantic Times awards, including a Career Achievement Award for Regency Historical Romance. She lives in Baltimore with her nearest and dearest, both two- and four-footed, and can’t believe how lucky she is to be a full-time writer.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1997 by Mary Jo Putney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-1812-4

  One Perfect Rose was previously published by Ballantine Books in July 1997.