Light penetrated the gap between his face and the pillow as Pierce, showing no sympathy or mercy, threw open the heavy drapes with a flourish. “I’ve your bath already prepared in the dressing room.”
A bath. And, as per his usual routine, it would be cold.
Pain pulsed at the back of his neck and an ominous sickening rumbled in his gut.
More light flooded in as Pierce drew open another set of curtains. More pain. More rumbling.
Rome rolled to his back ever so slowly and, summoning sheer force of will, lowered his feet off the edge of the bed, forcing himself to sit up.
He would not vomit.
Rome Spencer, Viscount Darlington, did not vomit.
A bath would help. He would not be late, nor would he cancel his appointment. He would suffer for his poor judgment, and the punishment would be well deserved. His damned brothers had heckled him, but he’d been foolish to succumb to such reckless behavior.
As his feet landed on the carpeted floor, the pain from his head reverberated all the way down to his toes, and then back up again, gaining strength as it did so.
Eventually, he was going to have to open his eyes.
Rome refused to bury his head in a chamber pot. He swallowed the extra spittle collecting in his mouth and focused all thoughts upon the invigorating bath awaiting him.
“Do you have some sort of concoction for this? Some tonic or remedy?” If such a cure existed, his valet would be in the know.
Of course, the well-informed Mr. Pierce would be cognizant of his employer’s condition and how he’d come to be in it, but neither of them would actually acknowledge it. Rome had spent half his life disparaging such conduct, obnoxiously as a matter of fact. The repercussions of behaving irresponsibly were not worth the temporary pleasure experienced. Perhaps if he pretended it never happened…
“I had the cook make this up for you.” A cold glass pressed into his hand.
Rome lifted one eyelid to examine what he hoped would be a magical elixir.
“Green, Pierce?” Although it wasn’t the bright green the absinthe had been, rather a grayish brownish-green. Rather like—
His stomach lurched threateningly but Rome swallowed hard, denying himself the humiliation.
“I’ve hot tea for after your bath.”
If Rome made it that far.
Shaking off such unproductive thoughts, Rome lifted the glass and poured it down his gullet in one long, mindless, sickening swallow.
His stomach lurched and then made a gurgling sound. Then it settled.
And when he arrived outside thirty minutes later, Rome took great satisfaction in the surprised expressions on his brothers’ faces.
“Didn’t expect to see you this early.” Stone’s mouth twisted into a mocking grin.
“How’s the head, old man?” the younger of his two cursed siblings taunted.
“Why wouldn’t I ride on such a beautiful morning?” He spoke in the direction of the two men who, but for their demeanor and clothing, appeared nearly identical to him. He and his brothers had inherited their father’s dark brooding looks while their only sister resembled their fair-haired mother. Rome adjusted his hat so that it sat straight upon his head and then nodded succinctly. He’d not give them the satisfaction of believing they’d gotten the best of him.
Even if he did feel like hell.
Crisp air hadn’t deterred the early morning riders. Quite the opposite, in fact. Saddling his own mount, Rome glanced around to note that nearly every gentleman in residence for the Christmas house party had dragged themselves out of their warm beds to participate. For a fleeting moment, the lure of his own warm bed nearly brought him to his knees.
Ridiculous.
The Duke of Cortland, the esteemed host of this extravagant party, appeared well-rested and enthusiastic. As did Roman’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Hawthorne, the Duke of Monfort, and… ah, yes. Danbury.
“Glad you could join us today.” The recently married viscount grinned unrepentantly.
Rome vaguely recalled Danbury assisting him to his chamber late the night before. Very late. No, it had been three in the morning. That maid, Rose, had so graciously informed him of the time.
Rome adjusted his hat and then rubbed his chin. Something eluded him. Some… concern. Had he gambled away a fortune? He dismissed the thought as nonsense. Even at his most indisposed moment, he’d never do anything so foolish.
“My apologies for interrupting your night’s sleep.” Rome crouched beside his horse to test the cinch. Danbury had been wearing a dressing gown when he’d guided Rome through the labyrinth of corridors to find his chamber. The man had risen from his bed in the early hours of dawn. “And that of your viscountess.”
Danbury chuckled into his hand. “Not me you need to apologize to, rather Pen and her maid, Rosie.” The damn viscount sounded far too cheerful to Rome’s ears.
Rosie. She’d said she preferred Rose.
The image of the dark-haired beauty pricked him with that unsettled feeling again.
She’d allowed him into her chamber. No, it had been Pen’s chamber. Despite his muddled memory, he easily recalled the maid’s lush figure discernible even from beneath her dressing gown.
Sultry. That word stuck in his mind as an apt description of the young woman.
“I’ll be sure to do that.” He would apologize to her today.
Seeing other gentlemen already atop their rides, Rome swung himself onto his own mount and turned to join them. Damn, but he oughtn’t to move so quickly. The pain behind his eyes nearly sent him reeling as he adjusted his seat upon the saddle.
Surely, he hadn’t done or said anything untoward to her? Why did he feel so disconcerted? Ever since Laura Creighton, long dead now, Rome had made it a point to never involve himself with servants, regardless of how enticing they may be. As a titled gentleman, there was not much he could offer such a woman, and those same women, in his employ or the employ of an acquaintance of his, might feel powerless to refuse. He’d witnessed the devastation that could be caused firsthand, and that was more than enough to keep him from dallying in those quarters ever again.
“What made you decide to join us for the holidays this year? Is the allure of Harlow Point diminishing?” Hawthorne, his brother-in-law, had ridden up beside him. At one point, Rome and Hawthorne had come to blows over Rome’s younger sister, Natalie, but since the two had married, Rome had gradually grown to respect the earl. Little Nat had found her way into a love match.
Over the past decade, Rome had spent most of his time at his northern estate, Harlow Point, and it had become more home to him than Raven’s Park. Until recently, he’d had far more reason to remain there than to travel home. He’d felt his presence there mattered.
“You know how my sister is when she wants something. I relented after her fifth letter.”
Hawthorne laughed. “She’s determined you marry this year. When she begins throwing debutantes in your path, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Nat has been determined that I marry for as long as I can remember.” And yet he, Stone, and Peter still remained bachelors.
“Any more nights like the last one and she’ll have her wish.” Danbury, of course, had joined them now.
“I heard your brothers led you astray last night.” Hawthorne studied him with a sideways glance. “A little green around the gills, but other than that, you look none the worse for wear.”
Rome sure as hell didn’t feel none the worse. In fact, his skull threatened to explode each time he turned his head.
He did not care for this particular topic of conversation. Leaning forward, he urged his mount to pull away. If they were going to ride, they might as well ride. If they wanted to gossip, they could remain at Summers Park taking tea with the ladies.
Already dressed in a lovely high-waisted day gown, her red hair in a tight chignon at the back of her neck, Penelope stared out the window where a group of gentlemen had assembled for an early morning ride.
She took a sip of her chocolate and then sighed loudly enough that Rose heard it from across the room. “I worry about that man.”
“Danbury?” Rose asked.
“Rome. Viscount Darlington.”
Rose had been lining up the combs along the vanity but stilled for a moment at the name. Had Penelope heard the same rumor that Rose had? “Don’t tell me he’s joined the riders this morning.” Rose had assumed he’d be abed most of the day.
“Darlington? Miss an appointment? The man would have to be at death’s door before he’d fail to meet a commitment.”
“So why worry?” Rose sniffed from a jar of Penelope’s perfume—very expensive perfume––and then rubbed a few drops onto her wrists. Pleased with the fragrance, she dabbed another drop behind her ears.
“He seems different. Lost somehow. Ever since last Christmas…” Penelope’s statement was not at all what Rose expected. “I never thought I’d feel sorry for him. But being tossed over for a blacksmith! Not only did she break his heart, but she had to have stomped on his pride. I rather think he’s in dire need of a wife.”
It was the same for all titled gentlemen. “He’ll have to marry eventually. He’s heir to an earl, for heaven’s sake, and he’s what, all of five and thirty? It’s only a matter of time.”
“I suppose. Although age is different for a man. He could be nearing one hundred years and still be considered a catch.” Penelope sighed again. “Idiot men. Excluding Danbury, of course.” And then she stared at Rose. “What of you? Are you happy, Rose? I’ve been wondering… Things haven’t been the same between us, really, since Danbury and I have…”
Rose swallowed hard. “I’m content enough.” This was the natural course of things. She couldn’t very well expect that their relationship would remain the same now that Penelope had Danbury and the children.
Before Penelope married, she and Rose had shared everything. They’d been the best of friends, bosom buddies. Penelope had sworn off marriage for most of her life, and that had made Rose’s own situation seem not nearly as pathetic. Until the past year.
Penelope was a wife now, and a mother.
Her mistress watched her skeptically. “Do you hate living at Land’s End? We never go to London anymore, or Bath.”
“Land’s End is isolated, but I’m fine.” In fact, Rose thought, perhaps it was best she kept to herself. Especially after last summer’s debacle. “It’s not as though I’m missing out on anything.” Sometimes Penelope was unusually obtuse. Rose was her maid, for heaven’s sake. Even if Penelope didn’t treat her as such, everyone else did. “I’m a servant, Pen.”
Penelope waved her hand through the air. “You are my friend.”
Rose choked back ironic laughter.
“Do you ever think about marrying, Rose? About having your own family?”
As the only daughter to the third son of a baronet, Rose had attended school with other gently bred young ladies, including Penelope. She had learned how to paint using watercolors, play the pianoforte adequately, was a mean shot with a bow and arrow, and excelled at the most practical art of flirtation. She’d been raised with certain expectations for her future; an educated husband, a home, perhaps children.
None of which would ever come to fruition.
Upon hearing such an insensitive question, Rose turned and glared at Penelope. Because she had. Oh, she had. “It would be futile to contemplate what can never be.”
Intent upon putting an end to this conversation, Rose strode into the adjacent dressing room and removed Penelope’s gown for that evening. She’d brush it and hang it up rather than entertain Penelope’s impossible musings.
Sometimes they didn’t bother her, but today…
The visit from Darlington, for some reason, had left her feeling raw.
If only her father had been strong enough to resist the lure of cards. Gambling, to be more precise. He’d played one more hand one too many times, and when his daughter reached the age of five and ten, he’d lost the majority of his fortune with the turn of a single card.
Instead of being shipped off to a distant relative to act as a companion, Rose had chosen to try on the position of Penelope’s maid. She’d worn if for over a decade, now.
Blessing though it had been at the time, it had also proven to be something of a curse.
After no time at all, she’d realized that the line she walked was a precarious one—acting as lady’s maid to her best friend. Especially when Penelope’s mother had opposed the idea. Lord Riverton, Penelope’s father, allowed his daughter to do pretty much anything that took her fancy. Lady Riverton, on the other hand, had never approved of the arrangement. She’d never quite approved of Rose, period.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Penelope had followed her into the dressing room. “I just never realized, before Danbury and I…”
“I know.”
“I want you to be happy, too! I want you to meet someone and fall in love and have children, if that’s what you want.” Long ago, when they were just girls, Rose had confided that she wanted all of those things. Rose would play house with her baby dolls and a miniature cradle while Penelope pretended to preside over Parliament.
So much had changed.
Rose twisted her mouth into what she hoped looked like a smile. “I’m fine, Pen. Really. Now, shouldn’t you be going downstairs? You told the duchess you’d help her sort the Christmas decorations.”
Penelope sighed. “I suppose. But you will tell me if you are unhappy?”
“I will tell you.” But she would not.
Penelope was her employer. As long as Rose depended upon Lord Danbury and Penelope for her livelihood, for her security, things could never be as they’d been when they were younger.
Chapter 3
Tea
Every bone and most of Rome’s organs seemed to be pleading with him to return to his chamber and slip into blissful oblivion, but he refused to give in. Nor would he squander the day on billiards. Playing the damn game with his brothers was what had led to his irresponsible behavior the evening before. Although he occasionally felt a wave of the effects of liquor yet to have worn off, he felt utterly sober and of a firm resolve to remain so for the remainder of Cortland’s house party.
He didn’t quite understand why he’d succumbed in the first place. And to have ended up in Penelope’s chamber like that…
With every intention of seeking out Cortland’s library, he halted, pivoted, and headed toward the staircase instead.
Doubtful that his pounding head would allow him to accomplish much reading, he’d instead locate Penelope’s lady’s maid and apologize to her. Manners demanded it and since all of the lady guests were in the attics going through old trunks of Christmas ribbons and whatnot, he’d likely find the chit alone.
Unlike the evening before, he had no difficulty finding Lady Danbury’s chamber. It would behoove his conscience to put this matter behind him as succinctly as possible.
Damned nuisance, a conscience.
He rapped on the heavy door with three resounding knocks before stepping backward and clasping his hands behind his back. He’d attend to some correspondence that awaited him afterward. Perhaps send a note to Wesley.
The sound of soft footsteps preceded the slow opening of the door and the word ‘sultry’ jumped into his mind once again. When her dark eyes peered out at him, he couldn’t shake the sense of deja vu.
“Danbury isn’t here,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Nor is Pen—the viscountess.”
Rome cleared his throat. “You are the person I wish to speak with.” When her delicate brows furrowed, he added, “May I come in for a moment?”
He would never think to enter any actual lady’s chamber for fear he’d be marrying the occupant the next day. But Miss Waring… ah, yes, he remembered her telling him her full name. Ursula Rosamond Waring. She, he assured himself, was but a maid.
He was perfectly safe.
As was she.
She scowled but p
ulled the door inward and gestured for him to enter.
Once inside, he absent-mindedly scrutinized the contents of the room: fainting couch, sofa, wardrobe, desk… bed.
Woman.
Last night, her hair had been braided into a long sleek rope, her figure soft and yielding beneath her dressing gown. Today she appeared starched, more the maid. And although the mobcap covered her silky mane completely, it had the unintended consequence of emphasizing her dark expressive eyes and lush cherry lips.
Sultry.
“What can I do for you, My Lord?” Her attitude was far more subservient now than he had observed the night before. And he realized that he liked her voice, which was deeper than most of the chits he knew. Warm. Rich.
He searched his memory for the reason he’d come and then cleared his throat. “Regarding last night.” Well, of course, it would be about last night. What else would he have to discuss with his friend’s wife’s lady’s maid?
“I’ve come to apolo—”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
They both began speaking at the same time. What could she possibly be sorry for?
He watched her through narrowed eyes as he recalled their conversation. Had she insulted him? And then, oh, yes. She’d told him she thought he was a Molly.
Which sent the original reason for his visit flying out the window.
“Miss Waring.” He spoke firmly, in much the same tone he’d use with any of his employees who dared have the audacity to speculate, let along address him on matters of his private life. “It’s obvious your mistress has been far too lenient with you.”
“Excuse me?” She came to life, eyes blazing and anger flushing her lovely complexion a pale pink. “I may have spoken out of turn, but it is you who was in the wrong, sir!”
“That is ‘My Lord’ to you, Miss.”
“You!” she sputtered. “It was you who woke me in the middle of the night, drunk as a wheelbarrow, in need of assistance!”
Which was true.
“But did I turn you away? No! I ought to have sent your jug-bitten—”
Lady Be Good: Lord Love a Lady Series, Book 5 Page 2