One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  But thankfully there were no other indications of foul play—just reminders of Rose everywhere he looked. Books on the table by her bed, a chessboard set for a match, a rainbow of ribbons hanging from the full-length looking glass. He walked to the mirror, fingered a silky ribbon the same shade of blue as her eyes, and slid it off its hook into his pocket.

  Though he would have liked to linger, time was running short. He pulled the duchess’s letter from his jacket and placed it on Rose’s pillow. If he had any semblance of skill with a pen he’d write her a note to leave beside her mother’s. He would have told her that he was going to miss her and asked her to take care of Ash. He would have told her that she deserved every happiness and teased her about her freckles, which he happened to adore.

  He might have even told her he loved her.

  But he couldn’t.

  So, he picked up a sprig of holly and set it next to her mother’s letter, hoping that somehow, the simple gesture would convey all he’d meant to say.

  Sighing, he left her room, made his way down the stairs, and walked out of the grand doors of Yardley Manor into the blinding snow.

  Rose spent the rest of the ball in a fog. She danced with two more gentlemen, surprised her feet would move in time to the music, amazed that her face could smile in response to a compliment. Each time she thought of Charles with Lady Yardley, she wanted to run from the room and find a dark, quiet corner in which she could cry to her heart’s content.

  But she’d suffered similar heartaches. Not exactly the same, for Charles was her first love. Her only love. Still, no matter how dark things seemed at the moment, she knew she’d survive. She just had to keep moving forward and acting as though everything were normal. One day—perhaps months or years from now—she’d wake up and things would be normal.

  For now, she’d simply pretend.

  She attempted to make polite conversation with Lady Bonneville and her friends, but unfortunately, they seemed to prefer impolite conversation.

  Behind her fan, Lady Napier managed to whisper indiscreetly to the viscountess and two other respected ladies of the ton. “What can Mrs. Seaton be thinking? Someone with her girth should not attempt to dress like a debutante. Perhaps I should inform her. After all, she is a dear friend.”

  Rose shuddered to think of the remarks she’d make about enemies.

  “Where has Lady Yardley been, I wonder?” said Lady Bonneville to everyone and no one in particular. “I haven’t seen her in at least an hour.”

  The anger and hurt welled up again, but Rose blinked them back into submission.

  “How very odd,” Lady Napier mused. “She is the hostess of this event, is she not?”

  Rose felt the viscountess’s lorgnette trained upon her but didn’t dare to look at her. It would have been as foolish as staring directly at the sun.

  “Do you know something, Rose?” Lady Bonneville asked.

  “Hmm? Pardon?”

  “Have you seen Lady Yardley?”

  “Not recently, no.”

  The viscountess pursed her lips. “Fascinating. If she doesn’t return soon, I shall have to send out a search party to locate—Well, would you look at that? There’s our hostess now.”

  All heads swiveled to the opposite end of the ballroom, where Lady Yardley hurried in and gave instructions to a passing footman. She patted the back of her head, assuring herself that her elegant hairstyle had not been unduly compromised. Rose suspected a maid would find a few extra pins beneath the cushions of the library settee tomorrow.

  “Are you quite all right, Rose?” Lady Bonneville’s jowls shook with genuine concern.

  “Yes, a bit tired is all,” she lied. “I know I ought to enjoy the revelry all night, but I am unaccustomed to keeping these late hours.”

  “Woefully so,” the viscountess remarked. “Fortunately, you have me. Crotchety old ladies make the best excuses for leaving early. You can avoid all the tedious good-byes.”

  “I wouldn’t say you’re crotchety,” Rose lied again.

  Lady Napier pursed her lips. “What would you call her?”

  “Opinionated,” said Rose. “Delightfully so.”

  “Keep this up,” the viscountess announced, “and I shall have to speak with my solicitor about writing you into my will. For now, however, I require you to help me to my bedchamber. Audrey can take over from there. She’s adamant that I adhere to my nighttime routines, and I find it easier to indulge her than argue.”

  Rose learned something new about Lady Bonneville every day. “You are more soft-hearted than you admit.”

  “Nonsense. And I take back what I said about my will.”

  A quarter of an hour later, after Rose had delivered Lady Bonneville into Audrey’s capable hands, she limped to her bedchamber on swollen, aching feet.

  All she wanted was to remove her gown, collapse on her bed, and slip into the oblivion of sleep.

  But there, on her pillow, was a note.

  Charles had not let her down—at least not in this.

  He’d retrieved Mama’s letter, just as he’d said he would.

  She sat on the edge of the mattress, pondering the scene in the library, desperately wishing there could be some other explanation for what she’d seen. He had been lying on top of Lady Yardley. In the darkness Rose hadn’t been able to assess their state of undress or discern their expressions, but she had definitely heard a moan. All in all, a rather damning set of circumstances.

  Though her heart had been trampled and bruised, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope that she’d soon have answers about Mama’s whereabouts. Summoning courage, she picked up the letter and opened it.

  Dear Diana,

  I am writing to you with grave news—the sort that no one ever wishes to share. As you know, I have suffered from a variety of maladies of late. After consulting with two physicians, I have at last received a diagnosis. And now I wish that I had not.

  It seems I am afflicted with consumption. My prognosis is not favorable, and given the severity of my symptoms, I fear the worst.

  Suddenly, I find myself quite alone. Companions who were once delighted to dine and dance with me now treat me as an outcast. I am hopeful that you will prove to be different, however, for I am in dire need of a friend.

  I am in London, in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, a far cry from the sun-soaked, luxurious French mansion where I used to laze about, indulging my every desire. The knowledge that I could well spend the rest of my days here frightens me to my core.

  I suppose that a mother who abandons her children to pursue a life of debauchery deserves no less.

  However, I now must prevail upon our longstanding friendship and beg three favors of you.

  First, I would ask for news of Owen, Olivia, and Rose. Knowing that they are well and happily settled in spite of my maternal deficiencies would be a great comfort.

  Second, I’d request that you keep my condition a secret. My name is already tarnished beyond repair, and if the ton learns that I am back in London, my children shall know no peace. I have no wish to burden them with this news or humiliate them further.

  Last, I’d implore you to visit me here—at your earliest convenience. Though I’m surrounded by patients and nurses, I confess to being desperately lonely. In addition, I’d like to give you a few personal items for safekeeping.

  Sorrowfully yours,

  Lily

  Rose’s pulse pounded in her ears. Consumption.

  Regardless of what Mama thought, no one deserved that.

  Mama had said her prognosis was not favorable, but perhaps something could be done for her. Maybe there was reason to hope.

  One thing Rose knew for sure was that she had to share this information with Owen and Olivia as soon as possible. They had a right to know about Mama’s condition. What they decided to do with the knowledge would be their decision, but Rose already knew what she needed to do.

  She would go to St. Bartholomew’s and help her mother in any way she
could.

  She sprang off the bed and paced the length of her room. Lady Bonneville planned to return to London the following week, but perhaps Rose could persuade her to make the trip earlier—she gazed at the veritable blizzard outside her window—if the roads permitted.

  Clenching her fists, she struggled to come to terms with the horrible vision of her beautiful, vibrant mother, neglected and withering away in a crowded hospital ward. It was almost unfathomable.

  Did Charles have an inkling of the sad news in the letter he’d delivered? Even if he hadn’t had the time to decipher it, Lady Yardley might have enlightened him. Indeed, she seemed eager to share all sorts of things with him.

  Swallowing the bitterness in her throat, Rose glided toward the bed and swept the holly sprig off her pillow. She twirled it between her finger and thumb, then held it to her chest, ignoring the pricks of the leaves against her skin.

  The lovely memory of her encounter with Charles in the folly the day before was sullied by what she’d seen in the library earlier that night. She just couldn’t reconcile the two incidents with what she knew about Charles. She had so many questions.

  And she would have answers.

  She kicked off her delicate slippers and donned her warmest, sturdiest pair of boots. Without bothering to change out of her ball gown, she threw on her fur-lined cloak and gloves. The walk to Charles’s cottage wasn’t long, but any distance in a half foot of snow was bound to present a challenge.

  Rose exited her room and made her way to the back staircase. Most of the staff were still tending to guests at the ball. She suspected that the rest were getting some much-deserved sleep.

  No one saw her tiptoe down the stairs or sneak out of the servants’ entrance.

  The moment she left the protection of the manor house, whirling flakes assaulted her face and fallen snow drenched the hem of her cloak. Rose pulled her hood over her head and trudged forward.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charles shoved the last of his clothes in a bag and glanced around the cottage for any belongings he might have overlooked. He’d set out a large bowl of water and a plate of leftover chicken and fish morsels for Ash, who strutted back and forth, flicking his tail as though demanding an explanation for the packing.

  Pointing to the heaping plate, Charles warned, “Make this last for a few days, or else you’ll be reduced to catching your own food.”

  The cat let out an indignant meow.

  Chuckling, Charles crouched and rubbed Ash’s head, just between his crooked ears. “Take care of Rose. And if one day you crave adventure, you could always stow away on a ship and join me in America.”

  Ash yawned and plopped himself on the rug in front of the fireplace, indicating the likelihood of that particular scenario.

  Charles hoisted a large bag onto one shoulder and slung a smaller leather sack over the other. It would be a long, arduous walk to Bath, but he didn’t want to wait till morning. The sooner he put Yardley Manor behind him, the better.

  He’d find an inn where he could warm up with a pint of ale, then depart for London on the first mail coach that came through town. If he took two or three lucrative jobs on the docks, he’d soon have enough money to buy a parcel of land. Then he could leave England’s shores forever.

  Leaving Yardley Manor was easy. Leaving Rose…  well, nothing could be bloody harder.

  But it was also inevitable.

  “Good-bye, Ash.” Bracing himself for a bitter blast, Charles opened the door, and froze.

  There, shivering on his doorstep, stood Rose, her hand suspended in mid-air as though she were about to knock.

  Jesus. Her teeth chattered and her lips had turned blue. Her hand dropped and her gaze flicked over him, his luggage, and the empty cottage behind him. Damn.

  He dropped both of his bags, kicked them aside, and hauled her inside. Firmly shutting the door behind her, he pulled her toward the fireplace and warmth of the embers that still glowed there. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out on a night like this.”

  She blinked slowly, her lashes glistening with icy crystals. “Y-you were about to leave.”

  Guilty. He turned toward the hearth, threw another log on the grate, and blew life into the fire. “I was going to call on you once you returned to London. You’re supposed to be at the ball right now, and trudging through the snow to come here was foolish—not to mention dangerous.”

  “I had t-to know.”

  “I…  I don’t understand.” He guided her to the bench, tugged off her gloves, and rubbed her hands between his own. “What do you need to know?”

  “What happened in the library—w-when you went to retrieve the letter?”

  He looked away, reluctant to relate the whole of it. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s now in your possession, as it should be. Did you read it? Did you learn anything helpful?”

  “It matters to me,” she said simply. “I must know what you did in exchange for the letter.”

  Puzzled, he dragged his hands down his face. “In exchange for the—Wait. Did you happen to wander into the library? Slam the door perhaps?”

  “I was fetching Lady Bonneville’s fan. I passed by…  and c-couldn’t resist a peek.”

  Good God. “Rose, it may have looked bad, but whatever you may have seen—”

  “It’s not as though you owe me your loyalty. I understand that. I just believed, perhaps incorrectly, that what you and I had was…  special.”

  No wonder she was distraught. Lady Yardley’s groping might well give him nightmares, too. He looked into Rose’s eyes, past the hurt and doubt, willing her to believe what he was about to say. “I was not engaged in a tryst with Lady Yardley.”

  She raised her chin. “What would you call it then? I desperately want to believe there’s another explanation for what I saw. Truly, I do. But please don’t mistake me for the naïve girl I once was. I’m strong enough to hear the truth.”

  He’d hoped to spare her all the sordid details but couldn’t—not unless he wished her last impression of him to be that of a cold and calculating rake.

  So he sat on the bench beside her and recounted everything, starting with Lady Yardley discovering him in the library and ending with him stuffing his hand down her dress. That part even made her smile a little.

  The sympathy in her eyes told him she believed him, took him at his word. Thank God.

  “It seems so unfair,” she said. “That you should lose your position just because you don’t return Lady Yardley’s feelings.”

  There was the small matter of him stealing her letters as well, but mentioning it would only make Rose feel worse. “She didn’t fire me; I quit. All things considered, it’s for the best. The sooner I begin working for myself—instead of someone else—the better.”

  “Still, I can’t believe you were going to leave without saying good-bye.” The pain in her eyes, raw and intense, echoed in his chest.

  “That wouldn’t have been my choice. I never wanted to hurt you…  and I’m sorry that I have.”

  “Please don’t leave tonight,” she pleaded.

  “I must. But first I’ll deliver you safely back to the manor house.”

  “Couldn’t I just stay here?”

  “Impossible. But I think we could give you an hour to thaw before we brave the blizzard again.”

  “An hour.”

  “I wish we had more time,” he admitted. He would have liked a lifetime with her. “But I suppose we should be grateful for what we have.”

  She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. “Yes.”

  “Did you read the letter?”

  “I did. But I don’t want to discuss it right now—not because I don’t trust you, but because if we have only one hour left together, I want to spend every minute of it focused on you and me.”

  The sentiment, so sweet and sincere, warmed him to the core. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close so he could memorize the scent of her skin, the co
lor of her hair, the curve of her hip. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed softly.

  As they listened to the crackle of the fire in the grate and the patter of flakes on the windows, he twined a damp curl around his index finger, mesmerized by the way it reflected light, just as she did.

  The two of them existed in a strange twilight where they both knew they’d soon have to go their separate ways—and where neither was prepared to let go. Not yet.

  “I feel as though I’ve been robbed,” she said softly. “Of the time we were supposed to have together. I know it would have been only a few more days, but I would have savored each one.”

  “I would have, too.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?”

  “Hmm?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “That we should make this a night we will remember always.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it,” he said with a smile.

  “True. But for all the wrong reasons. We must make happy memories.” Still holding his hand, she stood and tugged him toward the ladder to the loft. “Come with me.”

  Dear God. “Rose, I don’t think we should—”

  She placed his hand on her chest, over her rapidly beating heart. “Do you feel that? I want to be with you. And I think you want to be with me.”

  He’d never wanted anything more. “Yes, but—”

  “We planned to share a night of passion, and as it turns out, this is our opportunity. Our only one.” Her voice caught on the last word.

  He swallowed. “I know. It just doesn’t seem right to lay with you, to love you, and then walk away forever. You deserve more.”

  “I deserve to make my own choices. And I choose you. I choose this.” Twining her fingers in his hair, she pulled his head lower and melded her mouth to his. Her lips, cool at first, warmed on contact. Her tongue was insistent, exploring his mouth, demanding his surrender.

  His body responded instantly and powerfully. Every muscle tensed in anticipation and his breath caught in his throat. Blood thrummed in his veins and rushed to his cock. He was gone.

  He undid the tie at her throat and shoved her cloak off her shoulders. The silky blue gown she wore glowed like the moon. Its low, square neckline and barely there puffed sleeves framed her pixie-like face. The sash cinched below her breasts revealed their fullness while accentuating her slender frame. Yards of glistening satin skimmed over her hips and legs, hinting at her lithe but sweetly curved body.