by Anne Barton
She choked out the obvious question. “What are you doing at Lady Yardley’s?”
“I could ask the same of you.” The words, formal and clipped, didn’t fit with the Charles she knew.
She raised her chin and matched her tone to his. “I’m acting as a companion to Lady Bonneville, and we’re guests of the countess.”
“You’re a companion?” He raised a brow, skeptical.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Once, she would have willingly explained everything to him. For even before she’d regained her voice, she’d shared her whole being with him—she’d been as honest and open as it was possible for her to be. But now, his question irritated her. It presumed too much—a connection, a trust, a bond.
“I don’t see that it’s any concern of yours.”
“Forgive me.” But the look he leveled at her belied his apology. It said, Fine. We can play it that way if you’d like.
Fighting the urge to shiver, she folded the letter behind her back. She felt for the drawer, slipped the note through the crack, and slid the drawer shut. “You’re no longer a stable master.” It was an idiotic thing to say, but she had to say something—anything—to fill the vast and unnatural gulf between them.
“No.” His stiff smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“And I think it’s safe to presume,” she stated saucily, “that you’re not Lady Yardley’s companion.”
“I am not.” This time, his smile was genuine.
Dangerous, that. She gripped the edge of the desk behind her to keep her knees from wobbling.
He took one step toward her. “I’m her steward.”
Ah, he’d been too busy moving up in the world to reply to her letters. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to better his station in life—that had always been his dream. Perhaps he wanted no reminders of the days he’d spent mucking out stables. But those days happened to be the ones she most treasured.
“Congratulations are in order then.”
“I’m grateful to Lady Yardley for giving me the opportunity.” He took another step toward Rose. “And I am in her debt.”
The show of loyalty to his employer stung—especially since he seemed to have forgotten the sultry summer days and the confidences they’d shared. “I’ve no doubt you’ve proven yourself worthy.”
He strode closer, till only an arm’s length separated them. His clothes might have been more refined, but the man beneath them was not. He looked like he’d be more at ease chopping wood and hammering nails outdoors than reviewing ledgers and attending to correspondence in a study. The merest shadow of a beard covered the lower half of his masculine face, but his lips, soft and full, captured her attention. She’d imagined kissing him so many times that she could almost convince herself she had.
“I need to ask you again,” he said evenly. “What are you doing in here?”
“We had tea here earlier. I left something behind.”
“In Lady Yardley’s desk?” he asked doubtfully.
Drat. She’d rather hoped he hadn’t seen her rummaging through the drawer. “No, of course not. I, ah, simply noticed that the drawer was open and thought I’d close it.” Heat crept up her face—the curse of being a redhead. Even the tops of her ears burned.
“I see.” His cool, assessing gaze raked over her. “Did you find it?”
“Pardon?” Her mouth went dry. Had he seen her holding the letter?
“The item you left behind.”
She laughed a bit too loudly. “No. That is, perhaps it’s in my room after all.”
He nodded—as though he didn’t believe a word she said.
“In fact, I’m sure I left it there. I feel quite foolish for coming here to search for it. I don’t suppose we could pretend that I didn’t?”
Rose held her breath as she awaited his response. Asking him to overlook her snooping was like asking him to put her before his employer, Lady Yardley. He’d always been very dedicated to his job, the most conscientious of workers, and yet, there was a time when Charles would have put her ahead of anyone. She wouldn’t have even had to ask. But that was years ago, and he wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same.
He inclined his head politely. Distantly. Like they were barely acquainted. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lady Rose.” With that, he stepped aside and glanced at the door, dismissing her. He might be willing to forget about this incident, but he wasn’t about to leave her to her own devices in Lady Yardley’s drawing room.
She thought of the letter with her mother’s handwriting, still sitting in the desk drawer. It could hold all the answers Rose was seeking. Who knew when she’d have another chance to peek at the letter, or whether it would still be there when she did? Surely that was the reason her feet refused to move.
The stark physical change in Charles made her realize just how young he’d been the summer that she’d met him. Back then, she’d thought him terribly mature and experienced, but the truth was he’d been little more than a boy himself. She should never have placed so much hope in him. She should have known they’d grow apart—that he’d leave, just as Mama had. Papa, too. No, it wasn’t Charles’s fault that she’d been so naïve. She always expected too much from people… and was inevitably disappointed.
“You should leave now.” His voice was deeper but still achingly familiar.
Hurt, and determined that he should not see it, Rose lifted her chin. “I was just about to return to my room to dress for dinner.”
“I think that would be best.”
She should have simply nodded and taken her leave. But that one simple statement, uttered with such frosty detachment, wounded her to the core.
She was tired of being dismissed, deserted, and forgotten. Years might have passed, but the ache in her chest was a permanent, palpable thing. Mama was missing; Papa was dead. And now Charles was here, in the flesh, exposing all the hurt and grief once again.
She couldn’t walk away.
“Why do you want me to leave, Charles? Does it make you uncomfortable that the girl who once visited you in the stables has made an appearance in your new life?”
“No.” His brows, several shades darker than his golden hair, drew together. It was a glimpse of the old Charles—the one who would sooner die than hurt her, the one who looked at her with undisguised longing. “I heard some of the staff in the hallway. I didn’t think you’d want to be discovered here. With me.”
Well, that did make sense… but wait. As of this moment, she was through with giving people the benefit of the doubt. Especially the ones who’d let her down.
“If you are truly concerned for my reputation,” she said, “why don’t you leave? It’s what a gentleman would do.”
She regretted the words the moment she’d uttered them. She’d only meant to point out that his behavior was less than gallant, not to belittle his station or to wound his pride.
Throwing off the mask of polite behavior, he leaned toward her and curled his mouth into a wicked smile. “You should know, Rose, that I’m no gentleman.”
His breath was a caress on her neck, his words a heady elixir. This was the closest he’d ever come to flirting with her. And she had to admit… she liked it. So much so, that she almost forgot he had caught her brazenly riffling through the contents of his employer’s desk drawer.
But the suspicion in his beautiful brown eyes told her that he hadn’t forgotten.
“What were you really doing in here?” His whispered question invited her confidences and promised understanding.
But this was not the Charles she’d known before—predictable, solid, and safe. As his heavy-lidded gaze drifted over her, her pulse leaped in her throat, confirming her thoughts. There was nothing safe about him.
“Excuse me. I must go.” Just as she started to sweep past him, footsteps sounded in the hall. Charles grasped her upper arm, pulled her away from the desk, and almost carried her to the shadowed area between the large open door and a bo
okcase. He pressed her back against the shelves and held a calloused finger to her lips.
Rose’s whole body tingled.
It sounded as though a maid had entered the drawing room and was lighting a few lamps. She proceeded to plump the pillows on the chairs and settees, timing each thump of the velvet pillows to the beat of the waltz she was humming.
Meanwhile, Charles stood very close, his torso a mere inch from Rose’s. It was too dark to see his face—to see anything, really—but somehow she felt the intensity of his gaze upon her, heating her skin. The air fairly crackled around them. And his finger still rested on her lips.
It was funny how one little transgression led to another. Her heart pounded in her chest from fear, desire, and delight at her own daring. No one—not even her dear sister, Olivia—would believe that the always obedient and demure Rose was hiding in the shadows of Lady Yardley’s drawing room. With a man. The same virile, breathtakingly handsome man whom she’d once believed she loved. The man she’d never been quite able to forget.
Charles felt as though he’d stumbled into a strange dream. He shouldn’t be hiding behind a door with Rose or touching her mouth. And he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of all the wicked things he’d like to do to her.
Seeing her, after so many years, was a punch to the gut. The flimsy lies he’d told himself—it was a youthful infatuation, you’ll forget her in time—didn’t begin to hold up now that she was in his arms. Her creamy skin, fine features, and slender frame would drive any man to distraction, but for him, the pull was greater. He knew that her delicate beauty hid deep wisdom and quiet strength. He knew Rose.
And the truth was that he’d never stopped wanting her.
He peered around the edge of the door. The maid knelt before the fireplace, adding a few sticks of kindling to the grate. She was probably preparing the room for a before-dinner gathering.
Somehow, he had to make sure Rose escaped from the room unseen—or at least unseen with him.
The maid’s back was to the door. He could whisk Rose out of the room in two seconds and the servant would be none the wiser.
“Follow my lead,” he whispered.
Slowly—reluctantly—he let his finger drop and placed his hands on Rose’s slender shoulders.
She nodded. At least she wasn’t resisting him. He slipped an arm behind her and prepared to guide her around the door and out of Lady Yardley’s drawing room. He checked once more to ensure the maid was still tending the fire, but she’d moved. She was wiping her hands on her apron as she walked directly toward the doorway—and Rose and him.
He hauled her lithe body against his and pressed her against the wall of bookshelves, trying to make their entwined bodies as small as possible. Her sharp intake of breath reminded him she wasn’t accustomed to being manhandled, and he supposed he should be grateful she hadn’t slapped him across the face—not yet, at any rate.
The maid’s humming grew louder as she approached the door, but then her singing and her footsteps halted suddenly, as though she were pausing to listen. Perhaps she was simply giving the room one last check… or maybe she’d sensed something was not as it should be. Charles watched her shadow glide toward Lady Yardley’s desk and listened as she moved something—probably the small portrait that sat on top of it.
Charles didn’t breathe, didn’t flinch. Rose was a statue in his arms—a very beautiful, warm, soft statue.
At last, the maid hurried out of the room, humming once more as she walked down the corridor.
And still, neither he nor Rose moved. Her dress was silky beneath his arm, and the faint scent of summer wildflowers filled his head.
“The maid’s gone,” he said. A statement so obvious and mundane should have broken the odd spell that had settled over them in their hiding spot. It didn’t.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “That was frightfully close.” And still she didn’t pull away.
“Rose,” he began, uncertain of what he wanted to say and even more uncertain of what he should say. He couldn’t believe she was there. He’d glimpsed her auburn hair as he’d walked by the drawing room earlier, and it had stopped him dead in his tracks. That distinct, fiery shade could have been only hers.
Having Rose here at Lady Yardley’s was everything he’d hoped for and everything he’d feared. He’d liked and admired her from the first day he’d met her. And then came the summer he’d begun to look at her differently—the summer he’d started to fantasize about kissing her. Which he definitely could not do. Not then, not now.
“It’s good to see you, Charles,” she whispered. “I should have said that before.”
“I’m sorry if I—”
“There’s no need to apologize—for anything.”
But there was. He really should explain why he’d left Huntford Manor without a word and why he hadn’t replied to dozens of her letters. The problem was that all the explanations in the world couldn’t change the truth.
“I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He let her go and instantly felt a strange sense of loss.
She walked out of the shadows and smoothed her skirts. “You didn’t. I’m stronger than I used to be.” Her smile said she wasn’t talking just about physical strength.
“That’s good.”
She stood there as though she expected him to say more. If he were nineteen again, he might invite her on a picnic or ask her if she’d like to meet him at the stables and feed apples to the horses. But he wasn’t the same lad. And she sure as hell wasn’t the same girl.
After a year of working on the docks and another assisting the steward of a gentleman he’d met in a pub, he was finally on his way to achieving his dream. He couldn’t let this beauty distract him from his goals, no matter how much she tempted him. And he couldn’t let her riffle through his employer’s personal papers either.
“I must go and dress for dinner.” She headed toward the door, paused, and turned to look at him. “Thank you for understanding.”
“But I don’t.” He didn’t understand why she had become Lady Bonneville’s companion or what she’d been doing looking in Lady Yardley’s desk. He most definitely didn’t understand what had just transpired between them.
“Then I thank you for your discretion.”
With that, she glided into the hallway and out of sight. Charles stood there stunned. The desk drawer beckoned, tempting him to look at its contents and discover Rose’s secrets. However, that would have amounted to a betrayal of her… and Lady Yardley. Besides, he had no legitimate reason to be near the desk—or even in the drawing room.
No good could come of pursuing answers where Rose was concerned. They had grown apart over the last few years, and that was as it should be. If all went according to plan, he’d be heading to America within the year—far from England’s civilized shores and far from Rose’s knowing gaze.
Chapter Three
Snort: (1) The loud sound a horse makes by forcing air through its nostrils. (2) The unladylike noise a viscountess makes when surrounded by idiots.
You look positively wretched this morning.” Lady Bonneville nibbled delicately on the corner of her toast as she eyed Rose from across Lady Yardley’s breakfast table. “Your face is pale and your eyes are puffy. Was your mattress as hard as mine? I might as well have been slumbering on sarsen stone. Be a dear and pass the jam.”
“Oh.” Lady Yardley coughed and touched a hand to her throat, like her last bite of ham had gone down the wrong pipe. “I shall have Mrs. Seymour look into it at once.”
“Please do not trouble yourself,” Rose said quickly. “Our rooms are lovely and our beds are quite comfortable.”
Lady Bonneville squinted at Rose, her displeasure etched in the deep lines framing her mouth. “I hardly think you an authority on the comfort of my mattress.”
Rose ignored this and smiled at Lady Yardley. “If I look tired, I’m sure it’s due to the hours we spent traveling yesterday.”
It was a lie. Her sleepless night was
due to one stable master–turned–steward. Thoughts of him had troubled her throughout the night. She wondered what had brought him to Lady Yardley’s house in Bath and whether he’d report her suspicious activities of the night before. She wondered if he remembered the golden summer they’d spent at Huntford Manor and whether any remnants of their improbable but cherished friendship had survived their separation. But mostly she wondered what it would be like to kiss him—to surrender to the desire she’d felt when he held her.
Of course, he hadn’t meant to hold her. It was more of a necessity, an act of desperation in order to avoid discovery. But whatever the circumstances, having his hard, large body pressed against hers had been… unsettling. And not the least bit unpleasant.
His torso was a wall of muscle, broad and unyielding, and his arm had easily circled her waist, holding her snug against him. With any other man, she imagined she’d have felt trapped and suffocated. However, with Charles she felt safe and slightly woozy at the same time.
“Rose!” Lady Bonneville was clearly cross, and she startled Rose so badly that she almost tipped over the cream. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
Rose searched her memory for some thread of the conversation but found nary a trace. “Forgive me. What were you saying?”
“Why haven’t you touched your food?” The viscountess looked down her nose at the runny egg on Rose’s plate. “Never mind, I think I know the answer. At least we shan’t grow too plump during our stay.”
Lady Yardley whimpered into her teacup.
“Everything looks delicious,” Rose assured their hostess. “I haven’t much of an appetite this morning.”
“Heed my advice,” Lady Bonneville said to Rose, “and go back to bed—it’s what I intend to do. Before you retire to your room, however, would you fetch my book from the drawing room? I left it on the table beside the settee last night.”
“Of course.” Rose checked the urge to leap out of her chair. She’d been trying to think of an excuse to return to the room so that she could retrieve her mother’s letter, and Lady Bonneville had unwittingly provided it. “If you’d like I could read to you while you’re resting.”