Lord of Secrets

by Alyssa Everett

  Instantly, he set her away from him, turning his back on her in the same motion. “I do beg your pardon.” Good Lord. What was wrong with him? Though short of breath, he struggled to keep his voice level. “I—I lost my head for a moment.”

  Behind him, she laughed. “Yes, I was beginning to lose mine, too.”

  She sounded lighthearted, teasing, but he was shocked at himself. How could he have let matters get out of hand, and so quickly? She was a gently reared young lady, and anyone might have seen them together out here on deck.

  At least he was beginning to cool off. He gave himself another moment to recover and turned to face her with the most formal courtesy he could manage. “I beg your pardon for kissing you in such an—an imprudent fashion. I’ve never proposed marriage before, and I was carried away by the fervor of the moment.”

  Guileless brown eyes searched his face. “Was I supposed to object? I have no experience with such things, I’m afraid.”

  “It was my fault. A gentleman shouldn’t take advantage of a lady’s trust.”

  “But it’s not as if I’ve been truly compromised. We are engaged now. And it was only a kiss.”

  Only a kiss? Couldn’t she see they’d been playing with fire? Trust him to spoil even an honorable offer of marriage with an utter lack of self-restraint. “I’d say we’ve had enough excitement for one evening, wouldn’t you? We can discuss the wedding plans in the dining saloon tomorrow, in the light of day, provided you bring your cousin to discuss the financial arrangements, and perhaps Mrs. Howard to chaperone, so that you needn’t worry I’ll do anything—” He was babbling. He made himself stop. “Shall I escort you to your cabin, Miss Whitwell?”

  “Rosalie,” she said, refusing to budge. “You’d begun to call me Rosalie.”

  He wished she would stop looking at him that way, as if the deck beneath his feet were a mere concession to social convention because he could surely walk on water. “Very well, then—Rosalie.”

  “There, you see?” She gave him a smile so sweet it made him want to groan at her blind faith in his intentions. “It was only a kiss. It didn’t really change anything.”

  * * *

  “You could have knocked me over with a feather when you told me Deal had offered.” Dressed casually in a blue coat and buckskins, Charlie leaned with one shoulder against the bulkhead as they talked in the corridor outside her cabin door. “My first reaction was—Deal? What would he want with a chit like you?”

  Rosalie laughed. “Why, thank you, Charlie.”

  “Oh, nothing against you. I simply mean, why would a fellow like Deal want to go and get himself leg-shackled? He don’t seem like the marrying kind.”

  “And why not? I told you from the beginning he seemed dreadfully solitary.”

  “But that’s just it. I’d have sworn he preferred it that way. You’ve seen how queer-tempered and unsociable he is. He seemed cut out to remain a bachelor. But it’s a most handsome offer he’s made you.”

  They’d just returned from their meeting with David. Since he could no longer ask Rosalie’s father for her hand, he’d instead treated her cousin as her family representative, giving Charlie a brief accounting of his finances and the marriage settlement he proposed. Charlie had sat through the interview wearing a flabbergasted look, his mouth hanging open.

  “You were wrong about him, Charlie, and for once I was right. He’s not at all as cold as you think.”

  Charlie was biting his fingernails, a childhood habit he’d never quite outgrown. “Once we arrive in England, I’ll meet with your uncle and your family’s solicitor about the settlement Deal is proposing, but it sounds most generous.” He shook his head, still looking stunned by the figures David had named. “Most generous.”

  Poor Charlie. He couldn’t stop fretting. When she’d knocked on his cabin door the night before, he’d answered it with a grin and a teasing comment about pretty girls refusing to leave him alone. As soon as she’d told him about David’s offer, however, he’d sobered instantly.

  She understood his misgivings. It wasn’t as if she and David had known each other long, and given David’s quicksilver moods and his reputation for keeping to himself, it was only natural Charlie should have his doubts. Looking at the situation from a purely objective standpoint, Rosalie supposed she ought to have doubts, too. Yet for every logical argument her brain might advance against the match, her heart could offer a dozen reasons for it. No more endless ocean voyages, no Uncle Roger, no Mrs. Howard. She was going to have the home and family she’d always dreamed of, marriage, children. And most of all, she was going to have them with David—handsome, intelligent, self-possessed David. She didn’t want to waste time worrying when she had far happier thoughts to entertain.

  Charlie gave her an uneasy smile. “Will you still talk to us lesser mortals when you’re the Marchioness of Deal?”

  “Oh, my!” The full import of her engagement struck her for the first time. “I’m going to be a marchioness!”

  “So you are.” Despite the worry written plainly on his face, Charlie chuckled. “I’m having trouble picturing it. Lady Deal. I suppose the good old days of darning stockings and turning cuffs are over, eh? Only think how grand you’ll be, married to a man like that.”

  Lady Deal. A tiny measure of the shine came off her happiness. What did she know about being the mistress of a great house, or the wife of such a lofty personage? She’d spent most of her life living out of a battered trunk. She wasn’t fit to be the Marchioness of Deal.

  And David had such an air of sophistication. He was elegant, well-spoken, urbane. Despite her remark to Charlie about it being ridiculous for David not to class himself among the ship’s young people, he was older than she was. Thirty-one, he’d told her last night. Sometimes he seemed even older than that. At least, she felt dreadfully green and inexperienced in his company.

  Then again, David was—well, reclusive. Until the night her father died, she’d never seen him speak at length with anyone except Captain Raney. He’d told her himself that he was unaccustomed to conversing with young ladies. And he’d reacted so very strangely that first time she’d touched him, when she’d set her hand on his as they spoke together at the ship’s rail—as if it unnerved him to be touched. He’d reacted even more strangely when they’d kissed last night, pushing her away when the embrace grew passionate, looking positively shocked at his own audacity. Surely he wouldn’t have reacted in such a way if he were really as worldly as he appeared.

  Might he be as inexperienced as she was?

  No, that was silly. How could he be? Thirty-one was too old for any well-circumstanced gentleman to be wholly inexperienced, even one as solitary as David. Besides, he hadn’t kissed like a man with no experience.

  Good heavens, but desire could be a potent thing. Rosalie’s cheeks warmed just thinking about that kiss, and how completely she’d thrown propriety to the winds. No wonder society placed so many restrictions on unmarried girls. If David hadn’t broken off their embrace, she doubted she would’ve had the resolve.

  “I hope Deal knows what he’s in for.” Charlie was still biting his nails. “The fellow is about to be mothered within an inch of his life.”

  Hoping her cousin hadn’t noticed her blush, Rosalie laughed and kissed his cheek.

  But if Charlie had misgivings about her marriage plans, they were nothing to Mrs. Howard’s reaction when Rosalie gave her the news. The older woman was putting on her jewelry, adding the finishing touches to her dinner toilette, but she paused and turned away from the mirror to fix Rosalie with a basilisk stare that all but called her a liar. “He really asked you to marry him? Lord Deal? You’re sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

  Rosalie stood in the doorway between their two cabins, suddenly wishing she’d kept her happy news to herself, or at least told Mrs. Howard when Charlie was present to lend her moral support. “No, ma’am, I didn’t imagine it. I’m certain it was a real proposal.”

  “Really.” Mrs. Howard
’s eyes went flinty with annoyance, two gray pebbles in her pink face. “Hmm. I can see what you’ll be getting out of it. He’s handsome enough in his way, and he must be rich as Croesus. But what on earth can he expect out of the match?” Her gaze raked up and down Rosalie. “How old is that dress you’re wearing? It must be five years old if it’s a day.”

  Rosalie glanced down at her dinner gown, once a becoming pink, now dyed dull black out of respect for her father. “It’s—not quite that old.”

  “You look like a child in it. No offense, dear, but you’ve no feminine allure at all. Look at your hair, your hands, those slippers. You don’t even rouge.”

  “I’m in mourning.”

  “You forget, I knew you before you were in mourning. You didn’t rouge then, either. It pains me to say it, but I’ve known ladies’ maids who possessed more sophistication.” Clasping a necklace about her neck, Mrs. Howard frowned into the mirror. “Deal is the haughtiest man I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. Do you really think he could be interested in a mouse like you?”

  “He must be.” Rosalie wished she could have thought of a more cogent reply, or at least one with a bit more spirit, but she hardly knew how to answer when everything Mrs. Howard said was true.

  The older woman turned back to face her again. “If you were exceptionally accomplished or had dazzling connections, I might be able to see it, but...well.”

  It was precisely the reaction Rosalie had dreaded. Mrs. Howard seemed to take it as a personal affront that Rosalie had refused to be Lady Whitwell for her friends in New York, but was now prepared to be the Marchioness of Deal for David.

  Rosalie fidgeted with her skirts, wanting to offer some protest. I can be useful to him. I can look after him and make him comfortable and see he isn’t alone anymore. But she didn’t think those arguments would count for much when Mrs. Howard considered her unfit even to serve as a paid companion.

  “You’re a pretty child, but a man like that grows bored quickly.” Mrs. Howard pulled on her gloves—Rosalie’s gloves, the yellow kid Papa had given her as a birthday present in Florence. “I don’t know how you managed to convince him you were worth taking on, but I shudder to think what he’ll do when he realizes his mistake.” Fastening the buttons at her wrist, she glanced up to skewer Rosalie with a look. “I say these things not to hurt you, my dear, but just to open your eyes while there’s still time. Given that I agreed out of the kindness of my heart to be your chaperone, I should hate for anyone to blame me when this marriage ends up a miserable failure.”

  * * *

  David stepped off the Neptune’s Fancy and back onto English soil on a bright June afternoon, certain he’d made a ghastly mistake.

  There was a great deal to do before the wedding could take place—inform the staff at both Deal House and Lyningthorp that they could expect a new mistress, meet with his solicitors to draw up the marriage contracts, procure a license. He supposed he owed his heir presumptive, a second cousin he’d encountered only a handful of times in his life, the courtesy of a face-to-face call to break the news. In the meantime, his bride-to-be planned to stay with her aunt and uncle in the family’s London town house for the week or two necessary to complete the wedding arrangements. David had already extracted a promise from a befuddled Rosalie that she would take care never to be alone with the new Lord Whitwell.

  But even as he went over the list of details in his head, David found it difficult to concentrate on such practical matters. With every passing hour, he grew more and more convinced he should never have asked Rosalie to marry him in the first place.

  They’d parted company with just a few polite words, not only because they’d been forced to take their leave before an audience of disembarking fellow passengers, but also because he’d preferred it that way. He didn’t trust himself alone with Rosalie after the impetuousness of the kiss they’d shared.

  True, it had been only a kiss, and in retrospect he should have expected the kind of physical response it had brought on. She’d been straining up against him, so soft and sweet and passionate it would’ve been a miracle if he hadn’t been aroused. The disturbing part was the emotion he’d experienced when he realized what effect she was having on him—alarm. A bit of belated decorum, too, of course, but mostly that pervasive sense of shock, as if he’d caught himself raping the girl with a hand clapped over her mouth to stifle her screams instead of merely kissing her.

  Well, he deserved to feel shocked. When he’d pulled her into his arms, he’d sensed both her surprise and her inexperience. True, she’d quickly relaxed against him, even returned his ardor—but only because she’d trusted him enough not to question what they were doing.

  He didn’t want her trusting him. He knew himself too well. Other people in his life had trusted him, and he’d rarely lived up to their trust.

  How could he marry Rosalie—sweet, innocent Rosalie—when she didn’t know the first thing about this character? He must have been half-mad to offer for her. What if she were to find out the truth about him, about his past and the things he was capable of? He couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing. But how could he possibly keep the knowledge from her for the rest of their lives together? How could he marry her in good conscience if she didn’t know?

  He couldn’t. He had only two choices—either confess the truth about himself to Rosalie, or find some way out of the corner he’d backed himself into.

  Chapter Six

  Oh, what portents are these?

  Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,

  And I must know it, else he loves me not.

  — William Shakespeare

  Thanks to the speed of the Royal Mail, news of her father’s death preceded Rosalie to London. By the time she arrived on the doorstep of Whitwell House with her brassbound trunk strapped to the back of a hired hack, her aunt and uncle had already taken up residence there.

  Alone in her old bedroom, Rosalie was unpacking her belongings when a soft noise from the corridor drew her attention. A boy was peering through the open door at her—a boy of about eight, with tousled light brown hair and freckles. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected her aunt Whitwell’s natural son to look like, but the discovery that he appeared scrubbed and neatly dressed, not to mention every bit as curious about her as she was about him, made Rosalie smile. “Why, you must be Nate. Do come in. I’m your cousin Rosalie.”

  A look of uncertainty crossed his face, but he took a step into the room. He wore a pair of high-waisted black trousers and a close-fitting green coat. “We’re not really cousins. Cook says we can’t be when Papa Whitwell isn’t my real father.” He stared down at the floor and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have one.”

  Something in the boy’s self-conscious posture tugged at her heart. “I don’t have a father, either, now. And I haven’t had a mother since I was about your age.”

  He looked up sharply, his expression suggesting that not having a mother was the worst fate he could imagine. “You haven’t?”

  Rosalie understood his look of dismay. She’d been anxious about sharing a house with her aunt. From everything Charlie had told her, she’d expected a woman of vulgar manners and vicious character.

  Rosalie couldn’t deny her aunt Whitwell’s manners were sadly unpolished. The lady had a regrettable accent, and she spoke in the same carrying tone she must have used on stage to reach the theatergoers in the back row. Her gowns appeared likewise tailored for the stage, for they were eye-popping combinations of low-cut garish fabric and ostentatious trimming. She snorted when she laughed, and she liked to punch Uncle Roger on the arm and call him you old dog.

  But none of that mattered to Rosalie, for it turned out her aunt Whitwell was also one of the kindest women she’d ever met. Rosalie had no sooner stepped out of the hack carriage and onto the pavement before Whitwell House than her aunt had come flying out to envelop her in a fierce, jasmine-scented hug. She’d peppered Rosalie with expressions of sympathy at the loss of h
er father, her eyes growing misty as she spoke. Before Rosalie could come upstairs and unpack, her aunt had made her take some refreshment, begging even as she plied Rosalie with tea and macaroons that she be allowed to help her assemble her trousseau. Beneath Aunt Whitwell’s brassy demeanor beat a heart of pure gold.

  “No, my mother died when I was ten,” Rosalie told the boy. “I haven’t any brothers or sisters, either. If you don’t mind, I’d like to pay no heed to what Cook said and to think of you as my cousin. We’re cousins-in-law at the very least.”

  Nate brightened. “I don’t mind. Are you going to live here from now on, too?”

  “Only for a little while. I’m to be married soon, and then I’ll go to live with my husband.” Her husband. Just saying the word gave Rosalie a warm, happy feeling.

  “I’ll wager he’s handsome.” The boy took a step closer. “Do you play dominos?”

  “Yes, and backgammon and chess, too.”

  “Chess? The one with the knights and the castles? Could you teach me to play?”

  “Only if you promise to let me win now and then.”

  They went on talking while she unpacked. Rosalie soon gleaned that he had no one his own age to play with at Whitwell House. He’d tried to befriend the neighbors’ children, but Bruton Street society had closed its doors to him—”On account of not approving of Mama,” he said, looking simultaneously wounded and fiercely protective of his mother’s honor.

  “Well, if they don’t approve of your mother then they’re probably not worth knowing, are they?” Rosalie reasoned.

  “I’m going away to school next year, and Mama says I’ll make friends there. She says she’ll miss me, but I’ll learn a lot and I shan’t get in Papa Whitwell’s way at school. He doesn’t like me very much.”

  Rosalie had to resist a strong urge to gather the boy into her arms. Her own experience of school had been miserable. Then again, she’d had a father she loved and admired, while Uncle Roger was—well, he was a drunkard. Though Rosalie preferred to make up her own mind rather than listen to gossip, it hadn’t taken her more than a few minutes to reach the unwelcome conclusion. Not only did his breath reek of alcohol, but one could see it in his florid face. He walked with an unsteady gait and slurred his speech.