She took a step. And then another.
“Ladies. Gentlemen,” her mother, the Countess of Blythe, was saying from below. Rose knew she did not imagine the way her mother lingered on the last word. “I would like to present to you, my daughter, Lady Rosalyn Hayes.”
Rose was precisely eleven steps from the bottom—counting because it seemed the only way to ease her anxiety, mask the pain that was threatening to show on her face—when the haze surrounding the guests seemed to clear.
Or, at least, the haze surrounding one guest seemed to clear.
The rest of her mother’s prepared speech was lost on her ears.
He was a tall gentleman, dressed in stark black and white. His dark hair, fashionably long, was brushed back, and never before had she seen blue eyes that more closely resembled the blue of the sky on the sunniest of days. She looked at the man with his straight nose and perfect lips and she found him handsome.
For a moment… Just before she stepped too soon and nearly missed the next stair. Rose gripped the railing more firmly as she lurched forward, stopping her fall just as it began, portraying her near-tumble as a mere stagger to the onlookers.
She hadn’t tripped over the hem of her dress or slipped on the step. She had simply forgotten how to walk.
Recognition flared immediately. Or, at least, that was what she admitted to herself. She had not just been considering his appearance and finding favor with it. She saw his attractiveness but, more than that, she saw him.
With recognition came fury and she had to quell it from rearing its ugly head at just that precise moment, for she had to place her foot carefully on the next step.
This was her debut, the first time Society laid its eyes on her, and while she had not been enjoying it per se, that did not mean that she wished it ruined all together. This night would set the precedent for which her reputation would be built upon. She could not afford a small stumble to turn into a fall or, worse, the unleashing of a wild temper she hadn’t known herself to possess.
As she took her next step she could feel her heart quickening and her hands growing slick inside her gloves.
He was here.
He was here.
A stable hand from Brighton Castle, seat of the Duke of Brighton, was here in her home. A servant dressed up as though he were a prince—or a duke—in a suit that must cost more than his yearly wages.
What was he doing?
It was all she could do not to let her jaw go slack and drop unbecomingly to her chest, for surely she did not have enough breath to manage a scream.
She did not allow her eyes to remain fastened upon Robert, the imposter, instead floating them over the sea of blurred faces standing before her, below her. She would recognize none of them in five minutes.
For the briefest moment Rose comforted herself, convinced that he wouldn’t recognize her. How could he? She hardly recognized him and women were the more observant half of the species. Besides, she looked nothing like she had on the previous two occasions upon which they met. She was practically an entirely different person with her hair elaborately dressed and her gown so magnificent.
No, he would not recognize her, she assured herself. But even as the words rattled around in her mind, his dark gaze settled on her, drew her eyes back to his and wouldn’t let them out of their sights. Those once vividly blue eyes turning to the color of an ice storm.
It was like all the air in the room evaporated and Rose felt the need to tug at the neckline of her dress, pull it down, rip off the constricting corset beneath, throw open a window and suck in the glorious air from which she was being deprived. Either that, or throw herself over the banister and onto the marble floor below, letting mortification be her fall.
She decided neither option was acceptable for a proper lady. Besides, there were only seven steps between her and the floor and that was hardly enough to twist an ankle, much less break a neck.
Straightening her shoulders further and raising her chin just a hair, she continued her descent, her eyes vanquishing Robert’s icy-hot stare, trying to ignore his presence entirely. Gone were the eyes filled with joy and laughter, concern, and something else—had it been longing? Passion?—replaced with hostile beads of what could only be described as contempt.
She wanted to focus the same eyes upon him.
She was to dine with a servant? How ridiculous.
Though, that wasn’t what had her troubled at all, wasn’t what caught her breath and made the world spin far too fast. It was a question—why was he here?—that anguished her.
The possibilities were endless, each of them floating around in her mind simultaneously, like a storm of their own.
Had her mother found out about Robert? Had Lord Brighton? Was she being punished, forced to take dinner with the man she loved while her future plunged towards the man she must marry?
It would be insufferable.
She was barely managing to hold it together without his presence. How would she contain her pain now, with him so near, so close and yet an eternity away?
She could not dwell on that. If she lost control of her emotions, all would be lost. This was her debut to half the ton, her impression upon these people would stick.
So she plastered on the demure smile of a respectable lady and continued her slow descent, all the while letting her pain and anxiety mold into a burning fury that rose out of her gut. Fury because how dare he look at her in that way! He should be grateful beyond compare to ever have been in her presence, let alone her house.
Contempt. Oh, she knew the feeling well. She was feeling rather contemptuous at the present, too. Even as she knew that it was misplaced.
Because it wasn’t simply contempt. It was fear, anxiety, and pain. She loved this man and could never have him. She loved this man and now he was being dangled before her as a punishment.
Hadn’t she been punished enough?
Rose was once again focused on Robert’s eyes which would not release hers; so focused that she did not notice him moving from his place near the center of the throng of people, towards her mama at the base of the grand staircase. So when she stood on that second to last step and found herself practically eye to eye with him, she nearly tripped over herself. Luckily, she had more decorum than that, and quelled the surprise in her gut, not allowing it to make its way up her throat in a squeak of surprise.
“Rosalyn, you remember his Grace, Lord Robert Phillip Clarence, Duke of Brighton.”
Rose settled into a deep curtsy, struggling to keep her composure, struggling not to let the feeling of faintness wash over her, as Robert—Duke of Brighton, not servant—bowed properly, stiffly.
Of all the things that could have happened that evening, of everything that could have possibly gone wrong, how was it that the best outcome was simultaneously her worst nightmare?
The man she loved was standing before her, brushing his lips across her knuckles. He was handsome and rich. And he had lied to her.
She felt jested, which sent anger rioting through her, leaving her unable to control the flaring of her nostrils. There had never been one point in her life more infuriating than the one in which she found out that man she loved and the man she must marry were one in the same, and yet different in every way. Because Robert did not exist.
She felt her heart twist and crack. But it wasn’t due to the force of the corset. It was the result of losing someone she’d never had. She had fallen in love with Robert the stable hand in the worst way, completely and against her own wishes, and he was nothing more than a lie.
He had lied to her.
What kind of a gentleman did that?
Rose ignored the fact that she had done entirely the same thing, pretending to be a poor farmer’s daughter. That was irrelevant.
She had sworn to despise Lord Brighton for all eternity, and despise him she would.
*****
Robert’s fury was barely contained, his pride mortally wounded.
In the past days, he had
been taken for more of a fool than he had ever been.
Who did this girl think she was? What game was she playing at?
Whatever it was, it certainly was not working.
He had more of an excuse now than he ever had to leave and never return, to turn his back on this stupid arrangement.
Yet, he remained. He took her arm and walked her into dinner, he a formidable gentleman and she with an air of nobility surrounding her.
It was one thing to walk away from Lady Rosalyn, the heartless, self-important creation of his mind’s eye. But to find that the two woman—the lady of his rage and the pauper of his heart—were one in the same? Well, Robert simply didn’t know how to feel. So he felt nothing at all.
Except the fury.
They were seated beside each other, and yet they did not speak a word to each other throughout the meal. On his left was Lady Blythe, though she was no great distraction. At every turn she attempted to steer the conversation back around to her daughter, trying to draw the young lady into the conversation. But Rose—or Lady Rosalyn, or whatever he was supposed to call her—must have felt his rage pouring off of him like steam because all that she would offer was a genteel nod or a soft murmur of agreement in response, followed by immediate silence.
This was not the woman he had come to know. Rose had been poised, reserved in the time he had known her, and yes, a bit melancholy as well, but the lady seated beside him now was downright miserable. Even as the emotion did not play out on her face, it seemed to seep out of her pores.
Robert had no way to explain how he knew this, but it was almost as though her discontent with the situation equaled that of his. Which aggravated him even further, because what could she possibly have to be unhappy about? She was promised in marriage to a duke, and yet she had the nerve to complain?
His pride had already suffered one great blow that evening, his ego couldn’t take any further punches. So he showed no concern for her, or for the fact that she hardly touched her food throughout the seven course meal.
He himself ate, but took no pleasure in it. He couldn’t concentrate on the taste of the food, for while he was resolved to pay her no attention, and was outwardly succeeding in doing just that, she was all he could think about. Robert couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking, but did not venture to ask; though, he would not consider himself a coward for it.
Cowards ran away from a fight. He hadn’t run away.
Yet.
She was likely feeling embarrassed. And right she should. What had she been doing so far from her home, unchaperoned and dressed far below her station? It was not right for a lady. Just look at what had happened. She had nearly been killed. And then… Well, he wouldn’t think of what happened between them upon their second encounter.
What mattered was that the second encounter had happened.
He had thought her as the owner of his heart and now he wasn’t sure if she was deserving. She wasn’t just Rose, the daughter of a farmer, whom had stumbled upon his land and stolen his horse. She was a lady who was well-off and who had wandered there quite purposefully, had been at his house, had stolen from him and returned, and never once had she revealed herself for who she truly was.
It was sickening, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about her—run for the hills clutching a wounded heart or remain and discover if she could still be owner of it?
Robert stayed—through dinner, at the least—and that was as excruciating as it could have been. He had remained to drink port with the men—the liquid doing little to persuade him toward forgiveness, nor lending him the audacity to bolt—before joining the women in the hall where the rug had been rolled aside and the piano brought forth to make way for dancing in the open space.
Robert was in high demand, with a congregation of women flocking to him, desperate to each claim a dance as their own. He was far more than obliging than normal to meet their requests, as doing so meant that he could thwart the company of the woman who was plaguing his every thought. His first partner was Lady Blythe herself, but every partner thereafter was a blur as his thoughts were firmly affixed on another.
Everywhere she went his eyes followed. And he found that his were not the only pair.
The ladies all looked upon Rose with equal parts awe and jealousy, as the beauty of all in attendance combined did nothing to compare with hers. Likewise, the eyes of every male in attendance did nothing but follow her. And when their eyes were not following her, it was only because they were literally following at her heels, trailing behind her like a row of ducks, each more eager than the last to gain her attentions.
They looked like a group of besotted fools.
Robert would not be so easily brought under her spell. Except, he feared, he already had been. Rich or poor this woman was simply remarkable.
She was a jewel, beauty of the first water like none that the ton had seen in decades. If ever.
It wasn’t that London ballrooms were filled with trolls. Far from it. There were always the few each year who outshone everyone else with their obvious beauty. Just, that is to say, that in comparison with her, said ballrooms were filled with just that—trolls.
Rose was perfect. From her height, to her hair, to the smoothness of her skin and her elegant grace. And then there was the whole matter of her lips, which, Robert knew, were every bit as desirable as they looked.
Everything about her simply struck a chord. With everyone.
He wouldn’t think on that. They could dote on her all they wished, but in the end she would be his. Albeit, Robert was not yet entirely certain that he wanted her to be his at all.
The group of men surrounding Lady Rosalyn continued to grow. But their attentions were in vain. It was clear by Lady Rosalyn’s manner, even from the distance that Robert made sure to keep between them—a space large enough to separate them by no less than half the assemblage. Still, they flocked to her like moths to a flame, while Robert’s admirers shrank hopelessly, leaving him alone along the wall like a wallflower, glowering at her and her group of idiots.
It wasn’t that she was outright hostile, or contentious at all. But neither was there any emotion indicating that she enjoyed their advances. Her expression remained entirely impassive, her eyes resigned, and her words spoken few and far between. All that aside, it was half past the hour of ten o’clock and still not a single gentleman in her presence had been able to convince Lady Rosalyn—Rose—to dance. If nothing else, that alone should have been proof enough of her aversion toward them.
But they were blinded to her indifference just as Robert had been blinded by her when she was dressed in no more than an ill-fitting, thread-bare frock.
He really was trying not to notice her, but such attempts were futile. She may not have joined in on the dancing, but she was, nevertheless, the center of attention. More than a few misses were left standing awkwardly to the side, awaiting someone to ask them for a dance, while Rose had more than anyone’s due share of admirers.
It was slightly infuriating that she so refused to dance. It was almost downright rude, a slap in the face. But none of the other gentlemen seemed to mind her apathy, and so neither, Robert told himself, did he.
Except, that he did.
Because here she had everything a young lady could want—money, beauty, eligible gentlemen fawning over her—and she didn’t appreciate it. It was almost too much to bear.
One could call him a hypocrite for feeling such, as he disliked his lot even more than she did hers. But they would be entirely wrong to do so because his discontent was entirely justifiable due to the fact that his situation was entirely different.
He wasn’t sure how, exactly, it was different. Just that his pride demanded that it was.
He thought he knew her, understood her. Wasn’t that what love was? The complete understanding of another person? True, he had only known her a very, very short period of time, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was…
Well, th
e point was…
Well, hell, he didn’t know exactly what the point was. Just that he felt he had—rather stupidly, if you asked his opinion—gone and fallen in love with this girl, only to find out that he had been deceived. And now the fact that he believed himself in love with her didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had lied, and Robert didn’t much appreciate that.
He didn’t appreciate that at all.
He was in love with her and yet he couldn’t pretend to know her at all. He didn’t know her. He had met her under far different circumstances, false pretenses. This was not the girl he had met. That girl was prim and proper to be sure; she was resigned and a bit unhappy, but there had been something about her that was charming, that made him fall hopelessly in love.
Where was that now? Where was that feeling? Nothing about her expression or the way she held herself differed much from the girl he had met, and yet she was entirely different, colder.
Did the clothes so change a person? Or was it merely his new perception of her that changed her in his eyes? Because this lady, Lady Rosalyn Hayes, did not stir any heartfelt longings in him. She was beautiful by the skin at the deepest, surely, while Rose had been beautiful to the core.
Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.
Or perhaps it was just his perception.
It was one thing for a girl like that to be married off to a farmer—that would be a most dreadful fate indeed—but she wasn’t marrying a farmer. And she wasn’t a girl. She was a lady and she was to marry a duke. Him. What did she have to complain about?
Robert crossed his arms over his chest, openly glaring at her across the hall.
Already he had danced with over a dozen young misses, trying to give them the attention they lacked because the brains of all the other gentleman present seemed to have been lost on Lady Rosalyn. However, he couldn’t escape her company forever, and it wasn’t as though keeping away from her was solving any of his problems—it was doing nothing other than making his temper grow.
The young lady seated at the piano began to play a new number and Robert felt the tightness in his muscles relaxing slightly as a handful of Rose’s admirers relinquished her presence to escort other, more willing young ladies in the dance.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 18