One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  And everything to do with his own shortcomings.

  “The reason I didn’t write after the first letter or two is because…  it’s because I am an awful writer.” A gross understatement, but a start.

  She blinked. “That’s it? I wouldn’t have cared, Charles. That is, I’m not particularly skilled with a pen, either, but—”

  “Rose, compared to me, you’re Shakespeare.”

  She placed her palm on her forehead, clearly confounded. “But I was desperate to hear from you. I wouldn’t have given a fig about a few misspelled words or grammatical errors. Do you think me such a snob?”

  He laughed—an empty, hollow sound. “You don’t understand. I’m not talking about minor mistakes. I can write only the simplest, most basic of sentences. Most children over the age of seven could do better.”

  The confusion in her eyes gradually changed…  to something resembling pity. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and pressed on. “But it’s worse than that. Your letters, though rarely longer than a page, usually took me several hours to decipher.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Good God, it was mortifying to admit. “I can’t read. At least not well, though it’s not for lack of trying. It can take me an hour to work through a paragraph, trying to put the words together.”

  “I hadn’t the faintest notion,” she said thoughtfully, then looked up as though she’d been struck by a realization. “My letters must have seemed a chore. Like a dreaded school assignment.”

  “No,” he answered quickly. “Never. I was always happy to receive news from you.” He’d saved every letter she’d ever sent him. “I only regretted that I wasn’t able to reciprocate.”

  “But I did receive two letters from you. How did you manage those?”

  “My father wrote them for me.”

  “But then you left Huntford Manor.”

  “Yes. My father forwarded your letters to me in London. I thought about asking one of my friends to write for me, but our conversations seemed too personal to share with anyone else. Besides, you would have noticed the different handwriting.”

  She walked back to the bench, sat upon the quilt, and patted the space beside her, inviting him to sit. He joined her and, noting her pink nose, tucked the extra quilt around her. “So now you know the sordid truth.” He shot her a wry grin. “No chance of me wooing women with poetry.”

  “I should think you’d do just fine without the poetry.” Her gaze drifted to his lips for a moment, then slid away. “There’s something else I don’t understand.”

  “What? You may ask me anything.”

  “When I’d visit you at the stables, I’d often see books there—books I’d assumed you were reading. I even lent you books from my brother’s library.”

  “I loved the books you brought—especially the myths of gods and monsters. But I didn’t read them myself. My father read those stories to me in the evenings—sometimes over and over, at my insistence. I’d bring them with me to the stables each day, intent on making sense of a page or two if I had some spare time. But the main reason I carried those books around was…”

  “Go on.” She leaned into him, blue eyes rapt. God, she was beautiful.

  “I carried those books to impress you.”

  “You wanted to impress me?” The look on her face was incredulous.

  “Of course.”

  She wriggled her arms free from the quilt, reached out, and placed her gloved palms on his cheeks. “You were the center of my world, the one person who recognized that I was more than a sad, damaged girl. You made me smile, and you gave me something to look forward to. You were strong and caring and smart. Other people tried to make me feel better, but you were the only one who could. The only one who did.”

  Her fingers slid slowly downward, caressing his jaw and neck. She couldn’t know what that one innocent gesture did to him. His heart pounded and his lips tingled with the desire to kiss her.

  “Rose…”

  “You have no idea how grateful I am. I shall be indebted to you forevermore.”

  He didn’t want her gratitude—he wanted her. “You don’t owe me anything. But now you know why I didn’t write. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, smiling at him like he was some sort of damned hero. “Your confession has made me feel two stone lighter, for now I know that our friendship was true. That it wasn’t a figment of my youthful, troubled imagination. That you felt something, too.”

  She was so close that he could feel her breath against his cheek. “What if I still do?”

  Her eyes widened and her pupils darkened. “Charles…”

  With a growl, he cupped her face in his palms and pressed his forehead against hers. The soft fur of her hood brushed his skin, and her breath warmed the tip of his nose. Her plump bottom lip taunted him like a ripe strawberry, and he barely resisted the urge to capture it between his teeth.

  His heart hammered against his chest. “Damn it, Rose. Tell me to stop.”

  In a breathless whisper she said, “Never.”

  His restraint shattered. Years of pent-up longing pounded through his veins as he slanted his mouth across hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened to him, sighing as he explored the warm, smooth contours of her mouth. God, but she tasted good—like a mixture of honey, spice, and woman.

  He pulled her closer, and her hood fell back, exposing inches of creamy skin at her neck. Groaning, he dipped his head and kissed a path from the sensitive spot beneath her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips, mimicking the erratic beat of his own heart.

  He traced a path up her neck and nibbled lightly on her earlobe. In response, she moaned softly and leaned into him. It was his undoing.

  Cursing, he hauled her onto his lap and speared his fingers through her hair.

  This was madness. He’d thought that one taste of her would quench his curiosity and sate his hunger, but it only made him want her more.

  Everything about her felt right. The soft weight of her bottom pressed against his thigh. The featherlight touch of her fingertips on his face. The silky strands of her hair beneath his palms.

  Why did she have to be so gloriously passionate? And for the love of God, why hadn’t she told him to stop?

  Reluctantly, he slowed the pace of his kisses, lifted his head, and soothed her swollen lips with the pad of his thumb.

  Her breath hitched in her throat and she smiled at him, eyes shining. “That was…”

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  But to him it was more than that. It had changed everything.

  “I need to return to the house soon,” she said regretfully, “but there’s something else I’d like to know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why did you leave Huntford Manor? And how did you become Lady Yardley’s steward?”

  He’d never shared the specifics of his dreams or plans with her. Once, it had seemed foolhardy to want so much, but he’d replaced doubt with determination. “We’ll have to save that conversation for another day.”

  Disappointment dimmed her smile. “I cannot meet tomorrow, as I’m to accompany Lady Bonneville to the Pump Room again. Shall we plan to meet here the day after tomorrow?”

  He captured the auburn curl that dangled beside her cheek and rubbed it between his fingers. “Very well. But be careful. Do not come if the viscountess seems suspicious or if you think someone might follow you.”

  She released a long breath, creating a small misty cloud between them. “I won’t.”

  He pulled her hood over her head and wrapped her cloak more tightly around her.

  Smoothly, she slid off bench and stood in front of him. Before he could stand—before he even knew what she was doing—she placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned toward him. The hood of her cloak blocked out the world, and suddenly, only the two of them existed. He dared not
move for fear of breaking the spell.

  He sat motionless as Rose’s lips slowly glided from one side of his mouth to the other, like she was learning the territory and mapping it for future reference. Then, with a small sigh, she breathed his name and pulled away. “Thank you for confiding in me. I’m glad we don’t have any secrets.”

  But they did. “You don’t know everything about me.”

  She shrugged. “I know enough.” Shyly, she added, “I shall see you again in two days’ time.”

  Yes. And then he would have to tell her about his plan to set sail for America, leaving his father, his country—and her—behind. She would no doubt come to think of him as the latest in a line of people who’d abandoned her. But there was no future for him here, and certainly no future with her, even if he wished it.

  He could imagine a life with Rose in America…  he just couldn’t imagine asking her to leave behind everything and everyone she loved.

  He stood and took her hands in his. “If I can help you find your mother, I will.” It seemed important to her, and even though he had every reason to despise her mother, the duchess, it was the least he could do for Rose.

  Beaming, she said, “I knew you would understand.” With a graceful swirl of velvet and fur, she left him there thinking how very, very little he understood.

  Chapter Six

  What, exactly, transpired between you and Diana?” Lady Bonneville peered through her lorgnette and across the coach at Rose, her expression more intrigued than annoyed.

  Caught unaware, Rose blinked. She and the viscountess had left the Pump Room and were on their way to pay a visit to a friend of Lady Bonneville’s. A moment ago the viscountess had been sharing the latest gossip about Lord Stanton spending too much time at the gaming tables and playing too deep. Rose had been unable to tell if the tidbit was meant to be a warning or a hint that the viscount might be uncharacteristically amenable to the idea of marriage at the moment. Rose rather hoped it was the former.

  But now, out of the blue, the viscountess was asking if Rose and Lady Yardley had had some sort of a row, which suggested that she knew very well that they had. And that she wanted a recounting of any salacious details. Rose opened her mouth to reply truthfully, for Lady Bonneville was bound to learn Rose’s true motivation for coming to Bath sooner or later, but then a prickling sensation stole over the back of her neck, and she reconsidered.

  If she told Lady Bonneville that she was trying to locate her mother, the viscountess might insist that they pack up and return to London, where Rose would once again be under the watchful eye of her brother. Which would also mean she’d have to say good-bye to Charles—and she wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  “It’s not a difficult question,” Lady Bonneville mused. “I simply wish to know what happened between you and our hostess.”

  Rose snapped to attention. “Nothing untoward—that I’m aware of, that is. Did she mention anything?”

  Lady Bonneville sucked in her cheeks as if to say, So that’s how it’s to be then. Placing her lorgnette on her lap, she said, “On the contrary. She seems delighted to have you at Yardley Manor and rather eager to match you up with Lord Stanton.”

  “I cannot pretend to share her enthusiasm for Lord Stanton,” Rose offered, happy to change the subject.

  Lady Bonneville’s wry smile, however, said not so fast. “Ever since our last trip to the Pump Room, there has been some tension between you and Diana. I would not go so far as to call it animosity…  more like distrust. You’re like two animals circling each other.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Trying to size up the competition.”

  Rose laughed a bit too loudly. “What a fanciful notion.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Diana. Though she may seem meek at times, she can be a formidable opponent. She’ll stop at nothing to get what she wants.”

  Touched by the viscountess’s rare display of affection—or at least as close an approximation as she was capable of—Rose leaned across the coach and patted her knee. “Don’t worry. Lady Yardley is not my opponent, and I can’t imagine I have anything that she covets.”

  “I’m not entirely sure about that, my dear. It may be something you don’t even realize that you have.” Lady Bonneville sighed as the coach slowed. “Ah, we have arrived.”

  When the coach halted, a footman opened the door. “Audrey, do go ahead with my stool. Rose and I shall follow momentarily.”

  As the viscountess turned her gaze upon Rose, another shiver raced down her spine. “What is it, my lady?”

  “I noticed that you have been wandering on your own in the afternoons.”

  Rose swallowed. “Yes, perhaps once or twice.”

  “I trust that you are, indeed, alone?”

  “I was in the garden one day. I took a stroll by the lake on the other.”

  “You did not answer my question, and that in itself is an answer, is it not?”

  “I…”

  The viscountess held up a hand. “How old are you?”

  “One and twenty.”

  Lady Bonneville nodded firmly. “Plenty old enough to understand any risks you might be taking and the consequences of improper behavior.”

  Rose lowered her head. “Yes, of course.”

  “Do not make the mistake of assuming that being away from Town is some sort of protection. News of a good scandal can travel from Bath to London at the same speed as a bullet shot from a dueling pistol.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m glad that’s settled. Now let’s get this visit over with. You’ll like Lord Haversall. He was a friend of my late brother’s. I’m afraid he’s always been rather taken with me.”

  Rose brightened a little. “And do you return his affections?”

  The viscountess made a face. “He’s too old and stodgy for me. Life’s is far too short to follow the rules all the time. I like a man who’s a bit of a rogue.”

  “I see,” Rose said with a smile. Lady Bonneville was full of contradictions. Which made Rose like her all the more.

  After returning to Yardley Manor, Lady Bonneville retired to her bedchamber for a predinner nap and Rose availed herself of the library. Lady Yardley had an impressive collection, with shelves nearly covering three walls from floor to ceiling. The room smelled of lemon wax and leather and ink—a bit like heaven. A settee and a pair of wingback chairs anchored the center of the room and created a cozy area in front of the flickering fire, perfect for losing an hour or four in the pages of a book. But it wasn’t the gold silk cushions on the settee that tempted Rose.

  Rather, it was the desk behind it.

  Could Lady Yardley have stashed some of Mama’s letters inside its drawers?

  Rose walked directly to the desk, slid open the top drawer, and peered inside. Sealing wax and seals, a few sketches of the garden and grounds, three random pieces of sheet music. Nothing resembling a letter.

  She shut the drawer and opened the one beneath it. Folded maps, drawing charcoal, and blank sheets of vellum. Blast. She thrust her knee at the drawer in a clumsy attempt to shove it closed. Predictably, it jammed, and the heavy desk shook. Tears welled, and not just because of her stinging kneecap.

  This was hopeless.

  She’d been reduced to snooping around the manor house on the off chance that she’d find a small trace of her own mother’s existence. But Lady Yardley clearly didn’t want to share whatever information she had, and now that she knew Rose was looking, her chances of finding anything were slimmer than ever. Mama’s letter seemed to have disappeared. What if Lady Yardley had burned it?

  The very thought angered Rose. She jiggled the desk drawer until it finally slid shut with a satisfying thud. Who cared if someone heard her? What did she have to lose?

  She spun to face the section of shelves behind the desk. Rows of leather-bound tomes were punctuated with the occasional knickknack—a cut-crystal vase, an ivory carving, a polished wooden box. Boxes could hide thing
s—things like letters—and one caught her eye. It was painted to resemble a large book that sat on turned legs. The hinged top begged to be opened. Rose prayed the small chest wouldn’t be locked.

  Before she could change her mind, she lifted the cover and peered inside the velvet-lined box. Her heart sank, for there were no letters inside—at least none resembling the letter she’d seen from Mama. Instead three small scrolls, each tied neatly with a string, lay nestled inside.

  The scent of rosewater tickled her nose, and she stifled a sneeze. No, whatever these papers were, they didn’t belong to Mama, who had always favored expensive French perfume.

  Feeling rather daring, Rose reached into the box, picked up a rolled piece of parchment, and slid the string off one end. She walked back to the desk where the light was better and spread the curled paper flat beneath her palms, slowly revealing a sketch—a portrait of some sort.

  Her heart hammered and her mouth went dry. This was not just any portrait.

  This was Charles.

  It was a rough sketch, and yet Rose would have recognized those soulful eyes anywhere. With nothing more than a bit of charcoal, the artist had captured Charles’s wavy, slightly too-long hair, the corded muscles in his neck, and his granite cheekbones. Even his beautiful mouth.

  Rose ran a finger over the paper, tracing the curves of his upper lip, then his lower. She’d tasted those lips, felt the light stubble on his jaw against her cheek.

  She would have liked to stare at the drawing forever, but she was suddenly self-conscious. Whoever drew the sketch appeared to have feelings for Charles—feelings similar to her own. Rose would have been hard-pressed to explain how she knew this, but she did. The evidence was right there on the parchment, in the laugh lines around his eyes and the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

  Reluctantly, she rolled up the sketch and returned it to the box. Unable to resist, she peeked at the other two rolls. As she’d suspected, they both depicted Charles as well. Like the first sketch, they showed him from the chest up, gazing off to one side, looking impossibly handsome, confident, and strong.