As she turned and marched away, he bit his lip to quell the laughter determined to rise in his chest. If that laugh escaped, it would sound mad enough.
Christ above. He’d wondered at Mrs. Fitzhugh, sending him a governess with so little experience. Sending the woman alone to meet him in a part of town where the women who walked unaccompanied were generally members of quite another profession. But he’d tucked his concerns away behind the knowledge of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s sterling reputation. Behind his own selfish needs.
When he finally succeeded in swallowing the laugh once and for all, it turned into something more akin to a growl. He’d suspected Rosamund of not telling the entire truth. But this? This chance meeting with Mrs. Fitzhugh was proof of the extent to which he had been duped. As soon as he reached Merrion Square, he ought to summon the demon that had been prowling about the corners of his mind all day and dispel it. Dismiss her.
But hardly had he turned in the direction of home when he caught a glimpse of several pairs of ladies’ shoes in the window of the cobbler’s shop across the way. His mind was quick to conjure the memory of Rosamund’s delicate slipper, ruined beyond repair by a desperate journey.
Where had she come from if not Mrs. Fitzhugh’s agency? Why had she been at King’s Inns Quay? She’d said she was looking for him, hadn’t she? Certainly she’d said she was a governess…
Three days had made his memory of that evening no clearer. Was it possible he had assumed…? And she, fleeing something—no, someone—had let him?
People often misunderstood the law as a search for truth. But any barrister worth his salt knew that the truth was sometimes an inconvenience. Less likely to ensure justice than a story, carefully constructed and conveyed. A lie, as laypeople were wont to call it.
In a courtroom, one side put together the pieces of a broken vase in a way that made it look whole and appealing, all the while hoping it wouldn’t leak. The other side held it up to the light to reveal its cracks.
As the bustle of Grafton Street flowed around him, he stood, savoring the remembered taste of Rosamund’s lips, despite his best intentions, and trying to decide which side he was on.
Chapter 12
The morning after the kiss, Rosamund woke with a weight on her chest. Embarrassment at her wanton behavior like a hot stone pressing against her heart, like a—
Eileen stretched, lifting herself from Rosamund’s breastbone and lightly touching her paw to Rosamund’s chin.
No. No, she wasn’t embarrassed. She tested the thought as the kitten stretched, one soft paw chasing the smile that settled over her lips. Well, maybe a little embarrassed. But not sorry. Why should she be? Why shouldn’t she like Paris Burke? He was witty and passionate about his work and easy-going with his sisters and—
That unaccustomed spasm of defiance gave way almost immediately to a more familiar emotion: doubt. He used his wit and his work and his careless manner to hold himself apart from everyone. Had she really let herself imagine that he would let down his guard if she touched her lips to his? And why in heaven’s name did she care if he did? Anything might be hiding behind his handsome, sardonic mask.
Worse yet, perhaps nothing hid behind it. Maybe that was simply who he was.
A shaky breath left her. Eileen, who liked neither the movement of Rosamund’s chest beneath her nor the ruffling of her fur, jumped to the floor.
The fact of the matter was, Rosamund did care. For Daphne and Bell, who were bright and eager students—though surely she had learned more from them than the other way around. And for their brother, who intrigued her and challenged her and made her want to kiss him again.
He ought to dismiss her for her spectacular errors in judgment. But she didn’t think he would. Partly because he didn’t seem the sort who relished going to the trouble of dismissing servants. And partly because she suspected he liked having her there—and not just because it relieved him of caring for his sisters. Despite her inexperience, she felt certain his had not been the kiss of an indifferent man.
Freeing one hand from the tangle of sheets and blankets, she laid her palm softly against the cool plaster that divided her bedchamber from his. Perhaps at this very moment, he was on the other side of that wall thinking not of telling her to leave, but of asking her to stay. Perhaps he—
She snatched her hand away, shut her eyes, shook her head—but none of it stopped the next thought from forming. That cricket ball must have done more damage than she realized. Paris wasn’t planning a proposal after one foolish kiss. And she wasn’t free to accept him if he were. However eager Charles had been to marry her off, he would certainly object to any future for her that involved Merrion Square and an Irish barrister. So long as he was her guardian, she wasn’t free to choose.
“Good mornin’, Miss Rosamund,” Molly sang out as she backed into the room carrying hot water and fresh linens. Eileen shot between her legs and through the open door. “Never tell me you had that creature in here with you last night?”
“She was an excellent companion and protector, Molly.”
Molly spun, training her sharp eyes on Rosamund. “An’ just what is it you need protectin’ from?”
At the memory of the kitten climbing over Paris’s shoulder, Rosamund only smiled, ignoring the question. “Is Mr. Burke up?”
After another searching look, the maid moved to fill the washbasin. “I’ve not seen him yet this morning. But his room’s empty.”
“Oh.” The note of disappointment in her voice earned her a puzzled, backward glance from Molly as she left.
Quickly, Rosamund washed, dressed, and went down to the kitchen, where she met the girls and they all ate breakfast together. Eileen was already there, too, greedily lapping milk from a chipped saucer Cook had placed on the floor. Half an hour later, with the kitten curled contentedly on a pile of rags near the hearth, Rosamund ushered Daphne and Bell up to the schoolroom. Still no sign of their brother, though she noted in passing that the drawing room door was shut.
The girls slid into their seats as she walked to the window and looked out. “We’ll begin with geography, girls,” she said briskly, spinning to face them. Surely the wide world contained sufficient distraction from the question of what would happen when she saw Paris again.
Several hours later, Molly opened the door to the schoolroom. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I—”
She broke off, eyes wide, forcing Rosamund to make an honest assessment of the mess the girls had made with their papier-mâché topographical map of North and South America, which covered the surface area of both desks. Bell was wrist deep in pulp, working on raising the Andes to disproportionate heights. Daphne looked comparatively neat, although the smears and speckles on her face suggested she might have employed her chin in carving out Hudson Bay. Rosamund carefully wiped the starchy paste from the ends of the hairpin she’d been using to trace the path of the Amazon and tucked it back into her loose chignon.
“I, er…” Molly continued. “I’m sorry to disturb your, uh, lesson, Miss Gorse, but Mr. Paris sent word that I was to pack his things for him, and all the bags are up here.”
“Is he—is Mr. Burke leaving, Molly?” Rosamund could not give a name to the catch in her chest. Whatever resolution she had imagined, it had not been this one.
Daphne slapped her palm onto the board, wiping out a goodly portion of the eastern seaboard of the newly-minted United States of America and splattering her pinafore in the process. “I knew it. I knew he’d go back to his rented rooms once he found us a governess.”
Rosamund’s first instinct was to contradict her, but she bit the words back. How ironic that she should find herself leaping to the defense of a man whose own sister was so quick to assume the worst.
Molly, however, came down on Rosamund’s side. “Now, Miss Daphne,” the housemaid said in a surprisingly reassuring voice. “T’isn’t that at all, at all. He went out earl
y this morning for a meetin’, then along come a note saying he’s got to speak with someone about a case and guessed he might be gone overnight. Two days, at most.”
Daphne looked unpersuaded. “Everyone leaves us.”
Bell crossed her arms protectively over her chest, smearing her dress with would-be mountaintops. Tears welled in her eyes. “At least the others told us they were going.”
“I won’t leave you,” Rosamund promised rashly. Not even if she should—for her own good. She was letting her wild imagination get the best of her again, making excuses for a man who didn’t exist. Daphne and Bellis knew the real Paris. Angry. Selfish. Neglectful.
“That is,” she corrected gently when Bell rushed to her side and wrapped her arms, coated in laundry starch paste, around Rosamund’s waist, “when it comes time for me to leave, I will be sure to say goodbye.”
As many as two days would pass before those words would have to be spoken. Perhaps between now and Paris’s return, he would have forgotten about the kiss. After all, from his perspective, it might have been utterly forgettable.
And perhaps she—no. She had no hoping of forgetting. But she could use the time to figure out what do to about the fact that she wanted much more from him than mere legal advice.
* * * *
By the morning of the third day, the weight on Rosamund’s chest was far heavier than a kitten. Colder and harder too. A solid lump of dread. Why had he stayed away so long?
Last night, Daphne and Bell had begged to stay up late and await their brother’s arrival. Rosamund had read to them from The Botanic Garden for more than an hour, in part because she knew her listeners would hardly hear a word. When at last she had insisted upon bed, she’d left Eileen with them, an even better distraction than a book. She herself had sat up in the drawing room until the longcase clock struck one. Still, Paris had not returned.
Nor had he sent any message informing them of a delay. Molly did her best to behave as if all was as it should be, but the girls were clearly worried. Rosamund was too, though she dared not admit it—not even to herself.
At least the day had had the decency to dawn fair. “Excellent weather for safe traveling,” Rosamund said aloud as she rose, repeating the words to Molly when she brought the water, and again to the girls over breakfast.
Rosamund feared that skepticism was soon to become the permanent expression of Daphne’s face. “He’s not coming back,” the girl declared. “Not to stay. You’ll see. He’s back in those miserable rooms near Henrietta Street without a care for us.”
She’d said as much on each of the previous days. Then, Molly had corrected her. Today, the maid said nothing.
Bell, wide-eyed, offered an even less consoling option. “Perhaps he’s hurt and can’t come home.”
Rosamund realized that, despite her own anxiety as to the cause of his prolonged absence, it was down to her to distract them all. “Come, come, girls. No moping. I propose we spend today in the drawing room.”
Daphne shifted from skeptical to petulant. “Doing what?”
She thought for a moment. “Sketching. The light is good, and we can use the botanical prints in your father’s study for our models. When we’ve had our fill of that, we’ll practice on the spinet. And if you’re very diligent scholars,” she said, taking Bell by the hand, “we’ll have dancing when we’re through.”
“I like that idea, Miss Gorse,” Bell said. “Except for practicing the spinet.”
Rosamund only smiled and directed her toward the stairs, and the girls trooped out with minimal grumbling. Molly motioned for Rosamund to hang back. “You don’t suppose—?”
“No, Molly. I don’t,” she said, hoping to convince herself. “Either his work has delayed him, or the condition of the roads. Don’t you recall how it rained the day before yesterday?”
“Speakin’ of his work, I think he’s come to like the drawing room undisturbed.”
“All part of my secret plan. He’ll sense that his domain has been invaded and come charging home to restore peace and order.”
Molly laughed but shook her head. “Mr. Paris never showed any sign o’ bein’ fey, Miss Rosamund. Why, for all that black hair, he’s only got half a drop of Irish blood in ’im.”
“Well, we’ll just have to hope it’s enough.”
At midday, a sharp rap on the door to the street rattled Rosamund, who had managed to keep the girls absorbed by their sketches. “My brother isn’t likely to knock at his own front door, Miss Gorse,” Bell pointed out.
“No. No, of course not.”
“Unless,” Daphne suggested while sharpening her pencil, “he’s lost his key.”
So they all sat in hopeful alertness, waiting for his tread on the stairs. And they all sagged with disappointment when Molly appeared in the doorway with a paper-wrapped parcel. “For you, miss. The boy said he come from Mrs. Teague’s.”
“Oh, the dress,” cried Daphne, brighter than she had been all day.
Bell jumped up and down. “Try it on!”
To distract them, and to give herself something to do, Rosamund obliged. In her chamber she changed out of the dress she’d borrowed from the wardrobe—her own muslin had borne the brunt of the papier-mâché paste—into the new smoke blue wool. It fit well; Mrs. Teague knew her craft. When she peered into the looking glass, she could see how the blue of the dress deepened the blue of her eyes, just as she’d imagined. Paris’s favorite color.
But would he ever see it?
Plastering a smile on her face, she went back down to the drawing room, where she was greeted with Molly’s vigorous nod of approval, Bell’s squeal, and Daphne’s brusque, “It’ll do.”
“Such a fine gown calls for dancing, don’t you think, Miss Gorse?” Bell asked.
It wasn’t fine, of course. It was perfectly plain. Nothing to grace a ballroom. Nothing compared to the dress she’d ruined with a long walk through wet grass, a ride in a farmer’s cart, the mud and muck of the streets of Dublin, and two handfuls of pulp suitable for map-making.
Rosamund twirled. “Of course.”
At first she played the spinet while the two girls took turns dancing in rollicking steps with Molly, and then with one another when the housemaid declared she had work to do. After several songs, she invited Daphne to sit down at the instrument and was pleasantly surprised by her musical skill. If Paris returned she would suggest that harp lessons might be in order after all. When Paris returned. To the strains of the same Irish tune he had played just a few nights ago, Rosamund taught Bell the chassé and the allemande.
The dancing lesson was also interrupted by the sound of the doorknocker. Once more they listened as Molly made her way to the door. An exchange of words, muffled by distance. Then Molly again appeared in the doorway. “Two packages for you this time, Miss Gorse.”
Baffled, she allowed each of the girls to untie the strings of a box, unfold the paper, and open it. “Ah,” exclaimed Bell, peering into her sister’s box. “A bonnet, of course.” Then she tipped up the box she had opened to display its contents. “And shoes.”
“But when did you find time to shop for them?” Daphne wanted to know.
“I, uh… I sent Molly.” Pray God the maid would play along, for she too must know that Rosamund could not have bought them. “With very specific instructions.”
The items could only have been chosen for her by Paris. And only after that night… He had asked about her purchases over dinner. They’d kissed. Then, the next morning, he’d disappeared. But before leaving town, he must have gone to Grafton Street and ordered these items to be delivered to her. Why?
“Och, aye,” Molly said, sounding slightly startled. “And didn’t I do well, Miss Rosamund?” Her sharp eyes took in every detail of the dainty bonnet as Rosamund traced a fingertip along the unblemished sole of one shoe.
“You did, Molly. You did indee
d.”
The arrival of these items required another fashion show. The shoes fit almost perfectly—how on earth had he managed that? The hat was trimmed with pink roses and blue ribbon a shade lighter than her dress. Almost the color of her eyes. It was difficult not to conclude that he’d chosen it specifically with her in mind.
The hat’s shape made it necessary to rearrange her hair. As she took it down and prepared to pin it up again, Bell gasped. “Your bruise, miss. It’s almost gone.”
Automatically, the fingertips of her right hand went to her temple. Had she really been here as long as that? “Why, I’d almost forgotten about it,” she murmured, though of course, she hadn’t. She was still dwelling too often on the feel of Paris’s arm about her waist as he’d helped her up the stairs afterward, the look of concern in his dark eyes as he’d examined the injury.
Once the bonnet was in place, Bell tied an uneven bow beneath Rosamund’s left ear, and the others both admired it. When she reached up to remove the hat again, Daphne shook her head. “Oh, please, Miss Gorse. It’s so pretty. Won’t you leave it on for just a little longer?”
The clock behind her cleared its throat and prepared to strike four. At the sound, she jumped and worry flitted into the girls’ eyes. The better part of another day gone and still no sign of Paris.
“You must fancy a cup of tea, miss,” said Molly. “Come, girls. You can help me put together a tray. Perhaps Cook will have baked something special…if that kitten hasn’t been after causin’ too much trouble downstairs.”
Over the tops of their heads, Rosamund mouthed her thanks to Molly. Molly only shook her head.
When the rumble of footsteps on the staircase had dissipated, the house returned to awful silence. Rosamund plucked out a few notes on the spinet, but it was too dear a reminder of Paris’s half-hearted attempt to play the instrument. So instead she returned to the table to put the pencils in their cases. Absently, she shuffled through the girls’ sketches. Not bad. Not terribly good, either, though Bell showed some promise. Perhaps she took after her sister Erica, whose drawings, she’d been told, lined the walls. Rosamund scanned the framed pictures and realized that what she had at first imagined to be the difference between amateur and professional work was simply a gradual increase in the young woman’s skill. Some, carefully inked and tinted with watercolors, might have come from the pages of the book Paris had given her to help her sleep.
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