by Anne Barton
“Lady Holdsworth, Lord Stanton,” said Lady Yardley, “may I present Lady Rose Sherbourne, sister of the Duke of Huntford.”
The moment Lady Yardley uttered the word duke the level of interest in Lord Stanton’s eyes went from mild to keen. But perhaps that was a coincidence. Rose generally believed in giving people the benefit of the doubt, so she made the most graceful curtsey she could manage and decided to withhold judgment.
As they exchanged niceties, Lord Stanton assumed the bored, brooding air that she supposed was currently in fashion. A silly affectation, but she had to admit he was handsome—in a polished, arrogant sort of way.
“Is this your first visit to the Pump Room, Lady Rose?” he asked.
“It is indeed.”
“What do you think of the refreshments?” He raised his glass of mineral water and arched a dark brow.
“I think…” Oh dear. There was no way to respond both truthfully and politely, so she opted for candor. “I think that I’d vastly prefer tea.”
“As would I.” The baron flashed her a disarming smile, then continued in a stage whisper, “Not even cream and sugar could save this dreck.”
“I should think they’d only make matters worse,” she said.
He laughed at that and turned to Lady Yardley. “I must thank you for the introduction. Your young friend is a delight.”
Lady Holdsworth tittered at her son’s comment, and her highly rouged cheeks turned even pinker as she addressed Rose. “I do hope we shall see you both at the Assembly Rooms—perhaps at the ball next week?”
“That depends,” Rose began. “You see, I’m acting as a compan—”
“Of course you shall see us at the ball,” Lady Yardley interjected. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
“I look forward to it,” Lord Stanton said meaningfully. His gaze lingered on Rose for a bit longer than was proper before he smoothly steered the conversation to the unusually cold winter.
When both parties at last said their farewells, Lady Yardley swept Rose aside. “You needn’t mention to everyone you meet that you’re Lady Bonneville’s companion.”
“But I am her companion.”
“Of course you are.” Though clearly exasperated, Lady Yardley smiled as she spoke, so much so that her lips barely moved. “But you are also a young, eligible lady. You mustn’t forget that.”
As if she could. Still, Rose nodded obediently.
“Now then,” Lady Yardley said, “no harm done. I do believe Lord Stanton was taken with you in spite of your slip. We must tell Henrietta the details.”
“Wait.” Rose had their hostess—her mother’s close friend—all to herself for the moment. No time like the present. She took a deep breath. “May I ask you something?”
“Certainly, my dear. What is it?” Lady Yardley glanced around the room, vaguely distracted.
A drop of sweat trickled down Rose’s spine, but if she truly wanted answers, she had to ask questions. The brave and courageous kinds of questions.
So she asked the one that was in her heart, as simply and as clearly as she could. “Will you tell me what’s become of my mother?”
The color drained from Lady Yardley’s face. “What?”
“You were a good friend to Mama. I thought you could tell me what’s happened to her.” Her voice shook with desperation. “I need to know.”
Lady Yardley looked at the orchestra, the ceiling, and through the multipaned windows. Anywhere but at Rose. “Of all the times… why would you ask such a question now?”
Perhaps she hadn’t chosen the ideal time or location, but Rose had the distinct feeling that Lady Yardley’s reaction would have been the same anytime and anywhere. “There is always a reason to put off difficult conversations,” Rose said. “I’ve put off this one for far too long.”
Lady Yardley reached for the reticule dangling from her wrist and withdrew a handkerchief. She patted her brow and gazed at the door as if she were praying the cavalry would charge through it and spare her from this inquisition. “But it’s been years. Surely, some things are better left alone.”
“It has been years,” Rose said softly. “I’ve thought about Mama every day.”
“No good can come of digging up the past, my dear. You are much better off moving forward. Think of the bright future you could have with someone like Lord Stanton.” Lady Yardley beamed, as though happy to be back on solid matchmaking ground.
“I must know what’s become of Mama.” Panic gripped her, and she fought back tears of frustration. “Could we speak later, at the manor house?”
Lady Yardley shook her head, her delicate features awash in regret. “I don’t think so. I understand you are curious, and I suppose that’s natural. However, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know nothing, you see. I’m sorry.”
She gave Rose the same patient, pitying look one might give a child after informing her that her beloved puppy has died.
Indeed, Lady Yardley was a fine actress. But the claim that she knew nothing was false, and Rose couldn’t pretend to believe it. “But you must know something.”
“No more than you do, darling.”
The old Rose would have accepted the falsehood gracefully and let the matter drop. There in the Pump Room, the rules of polite society bound her as surely as ropes on her wrists. Summoning courage, she mentally wriggled free from one. “What about Mama’s letter?”
In one measure of music, Lady Yardley’s demeanor shifted. She narrowed her eyes and pinned Rose with an icy stare. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
However, her high color and flared nostrils suggested that she did.
Rose’s own heartbeat thundered in her chest. “Why do you wish to keep the truth about Mama from me?”
Lady Yardley looked down her nose. “So this is why you accompanied Henrietta to Bath. Does she know that she is merely an excuse for your snooping and prying?”
“I’m not certain. Lady Bonneville knows more than most people give her credit for.”
“That is true.” Lady Yardley looked at the glass in her hand like she desperately wished the mineral water were sherry, or perhaps something stronger. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, till she was composed—the picture of calm and reason. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Rose, but I have no information about your mother. I sincerely doubt that anyone does. The sooner you are able to accept that, the better off you shall be.” She looked away, clearly signaling not only that the discussion was over, but that she had just put the whole nasty business to bed. Forever.
Rose tried to keep her expression impassive, but with one brief conversation, Lady Yardley had effectively trampled all her hopes and plans. “I believe I understand your feelings on the matter.”
“Excellent. Now, let us turn to happier subjects. We must go to Henrietta and tell her all about your introduction to Lord Stanton.”
Rose had little choice but to follow. The binds of polite behavior dug into her wrists, pinching and chafing once more. Lady Yardley may have subdued her for the moment, but if she thought Rose would surrender so easily, she was mistaken. If anything, her hostess’s vehemence that Rose was better off not knowing made her more determined than ever to discover the truth.
It also made her rather terrified of what that truth might be.
Later that afternoon, Lady Bonneville was in bed, her head propped on three silk pillows as she dictated a letter intended for her niece. “You would do well to heed my advice and not your mother’s.”
Rose sat at a small table, transcribing.
“I can’t believe I even have to state such a thing,” the viscountess muttered, “but I’m afraid my niece is nearly as addle-brained as my dear sister.”
Rose lifted her quill, looked up, and noted Lady Bonneville’s drooping eyelids. “Shall we finish the letter after you’ve had a rest?”
“No, we must press on,” the viscountess said dramatically, as if the future of England depended upon her advice. For all Rose
knew, it did.
“Very well. We left off with ‘and not your mother’s.’”
The viscountess cleared her throat and continued, “Under no circumstances should you take a position as a governess. Especially for a man such as…”
Rose scribbled furiously to catch up, then waited, quill poised, for Lady Bonneville to complete her sentence.
She began to snore instead.
The timing was perfect. Rose set down her pen and put the stopper on the ink bottle. Quietly, she drew the curtains and slipped out of the viscountess’s bedchamber. She went to her own room to retrieve her cloak and fur-lined gloves before informing Audrey that she was going for a walk.
And then she was on her way—to meet with Charles.
She’d had plenty of time to think about what she wanted to ask him and what she wanted to say, and yet she still wasn’t sure how much to reveal. She had to trust that when she saw him again, somehow she’d know.
The air was as crisp and cold as it had been yesterday, and Rose walked briskly, hood up and head down. The edges of the lake were frozen and ducks swam in vigorous circles, occasionally diving below the surface in search of supper. The folly stood proudly on the far side of the lake, perhaps a hundred yards away, and Rose could see why Charles had designated it as their meeting place.
A tall cylinder of stone with four pointed, narrow archways spaced around its base, the folly had a magical, almost mystical air about it, with vines crawling around the openings and sunlight glinting off the ancient rocks. She looked for any sign of movement within, but it was almost impossible to see inside the structure from her vantage point.
Upon reaching the threshold of one of the entrances, she paused and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Charles was sitting on a bench but stood the moment he saw her. He seemed to take up much of the interior, and the whole folly was probably only twice the span of his arms. She entered, surprised to find it several degrees warmer than outside. The curved walls and picturesque views created an inviting, intimate space.
“Rose.” He waved a hand toward the bench. “Come, sit. I’ve brought some quilts for you.”
She smiled. He seemed impervious to the cold but had thought to bring along the blankets so she’d be more comfortable. He’d always been thoughtful that way and more of a gentleman than most earls and viscounts of her acquaintance.
He arranged a soft, thick quilt for her to sit on, then draped another across her, tucking it beneath her arms as he sat beside her. “I’ve been thinking about you.” The admission, uttered so simply, warmed her more than the blankets.
“Have you?” she said.
“Why are you so determined to find your mother?”
“I adored her, Charles. She was the center of my world before she left. If she was a bit distant sometimes, it only made me more eager to please her. All I wanted was to grow up to be like her—beautiful, poised, confident.”
He snorted and shook his head. “You have already surpassed her.”
Rose waved off the compliment. “In spite of all she’s done, I… love her. I harbor no illusions of a heartwarming mother and daughter reunion. I just want to know what’s become of her. I need to understand why she left. Why she’s never come back.”
“Doesn’t your family know where to find her? Surely your brother could find out if he wanted to.”
“That’s the problem. Owen doesn’t want to. He and Olivia would prefer never to see her, think of her, or speak of her again.”
“I cannot blame them.”
Charles had witnessed the devastating effects of her mother’s abandonment. After Mama ran off with her lover, Papa had been so grief-stricken that he… well, he couldn’t bear it. Then he was gone.
“I didn’t know you then, when your family—you—suffered that heartbreak,” he said. “But I heard the rumors, and I saw enough. After your mother left and your father died, you were shattered. A shadow of the carefree girl you were before. Your brother and sister don’t want to lose you again.”
She nodded. That was indeed the scandal that had shaken her world and almost crushed her soul. But there was more to it.
Rose had walked into her parents’ bedchamber and unwittingly caught her mother and her lovers in the act, effectively setting the whole chain of events into motion. She was the reason her mother had fled. And if Mama hadn’t left, Papa might still be alive today. The whole tragedy was her fault. That knowledge was like an immovable weight on her chest. Why did she have to walk into Mama’s bedroom that day? The memory would forever haunt her, pinning her down and making it difficult to breathe every time it resurfaced.
“Mama’s disappearance changed all of us. Owen and Olivia see no point in trying to find her. They think that doing so could only cause more strife. I’m certain they wish to protect me from any unpleasantness, but I’m not the same distraught girl that I was when Mama left—and I don’t need protecting.”
Charles grunted. “Your brother is right to want to protect you. If I were in his place I’d do the same.”
Rose couldn’t decide if she was frustrated or touched by the declaration. “Well, I realized that if I wanted to discover Mama’s whereabouts—and I do—I would have to proceed without their help.”
“And without their knowledge?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I knew that Lady Yardley was a close friend of Mama’s and suspected that she’d know how to reach her.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Actually, I did, earlier today. It didn’t go well.”
His brow creased. “She must know something.”
“She says that she does not. However, I’m almost sure she does. On the first evening I arrived, I saw her with the letter. That’s why I was looking for it when you caught me in the drawing room.”
“And I prevented you from reading it.”
“Yes. I was so shocked to see you there. I feared you’d tell Lady Yardley.”
“I would never betray you.”
“I wasn’t sure what to think.” She tossed the quilt aside and stood. “After the first two brief letters, you never wrote back to me. What happened?”
He ran a hand through his longish, wavy hair. “It’s complicated, but I asked you to come here today so that I could explain—and I will.”
Chapter Five
Balk: (1) When a horse stops short and refuses to obey a rider’s commands. (2) When a lady stops being agreeable and refuses to obey society’s strictures.
Charles swallowed as he looked at Rose’s earnest face. She wanted to know the truth about why he hadn’t written to her.
He’d told her it was complicated, but it wasn’t. Not really.
It was simple. He was simple. And too proud to admit the real reason.
He stood and leaned against the arched opening that faced the pond. “I disappointed you, and you deserved better.” That much was certainly true.
They’d spent too much time together that summer. In the beginning he’d thought her a sad, frail lass who’d suffered a tragic loss. He’d seen no harm in letting her hang about.
But with each visit she made to the stables, Charles grew to understand and respect her more. He found himself glancing up at the manor house as he worked, hoping to see her walking across the lawn toward him, her auburn hair glinting in the sun.
He could remember the precise day that their friendship developed into something more—at least for him. He’d been repairing a saddle when she walked into the yard, her thick strawberry braid swaying to the rhythm of her hips. She held a bunch of yellow wildflowers that she’d picked, and her eyes glowed with mischief as she sauntered up to him and brushed the soft petals under his chin. He jumped and she laughed—a rare and beautiful sound that stirred a dangerous desire inside him. Her fragrance mingled with the wildflowers’, creating an intoxicating mixture. She stood close, her gown revealing the smooth expanse of creamy skin above her breasts.
In that moment he realized that she was more than a
girl—and that he wanted her.
But setting aside the fact that she was the duke’s sister, what kind of man—even a young man of nineteen—desired a girl who was so troubled that she didn’t speak? So he kept his baser impulses in check. That entire, long summer.
And when it was time for Rose and her family to return to London, he knew he’d miss her. But mostly he was relieved that he no longer had to ignore the heat in her beautiful eyes or the enticing curve of her lips or the fierce arousal he felt whenever she was near. He’d planned to focus on building the future he’d dreamed of.
Still, he would have written to her. If he could have.
He sensed her behind him even before she spoke. “Don’t spare my feelings. Even if the truth stings, the pain will eventually subside. It always does. Besides, I would rather feel pain than nothing.”
Dried leaves swirled in an eddy on the stone path, completely at the mercy of the fickle winds. But he was not. Though he hadn’t been born to a privileged family of means, he meant to take his place in the world. And he intended to do so with his integrity intact.
Responding to Rose—honestly—was a good beginning. “There are two reasons I didn’t reply to your letters,” he said.
“Go on, please.”
“First, because our friendship seemed to be developing into something altogether different. Something that could never be. I thought it would be easier if we made a clean break of it.”
“I understand. I had those feelings, too.” He noted that she’d used the past tense and mentally slapped himself for wishing she hadn’t. “When you didn’t write back to me,” she continued, “I felt as though I’d lost my best friend.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you had to know it would.”
“Yes.” There was no use denying it.
“You said there was another reason, too,” she prompted.
He faced her, determined to speak the truth no matter how humiliating. Because even though she didn’t feel the same way about him that she once had, hearing his explanation would make her understand that his failure to correspond had absolutely nothing to do with her.