Lady Be Good: Lord Love a Lady Series, Book 5

by Annabelle Anders

  “There’s a card,” Penelope pointed out.

  Rose bit her lip and turned her attention to the folded parchment.

  The slashes on the paper were bold, strong, and yet elegant, much like the viscount himself. Sweets ought not to be the only sin a lady gets away with. Thought you’d enjoy a little vanity as well.

  Rose couldn’t hold back the smile, but Penelope wasn’t nearly as charmed.

  “That scoundrel! What does he mean? The only sin? Surely…”

  “He’s referring to taking sugar in my tea. It’s nothing,” Rose reassured Penelope before she worked herself into a temper.

  The bow slipped off easily and before the paper had come unwrapped completely, she’d all but guessed the contents.

  Well, part of it.

  The lovely lace parasol she’d been admiring at Pinkerton’s, an expensive-looking pair of matching gloves, and a smaller package, almost identical to the one she’d given to him.

  It would be candy.

  “I cannot keep these.” She sighed. “They are far too expensive.” But even worse than that, she dared not imagine the implications if anyone else discovered he’d given them to her.

  Even so, she couldn’t help but slide one hand into one of the buttery soft gloves.

  Penelope pursed her lips and shrugged. “You could always say they are from me. And no one need know, anyhow. You won’t have need of the parasol until springtime.”

  He must have returned to the store after they’d both nearly frozen to death in the lake.

  “They are lovely, aren’t they?” She sighed.

  “But you mustn’t thank him, Rose.” Penelope seemed adamant about this. “To continue this, whatever it is, with him can only lead to trouble for both of you.”

  “I know.” Rose sighed. “I know.”

  Chapter 9

  English Ivy

  The following day, Penelope maintained that if Rose was back to her normal health, she absolutely must participate in collecting greenery and searching for a tree to hang decorations upon. The grand home at Summers Park was so vast, Lilly, the Duchess of Cortland, asserted, that everyone who was able must gather evergreens and vines and holly to hang inside.

  The older guests, the duchess’ aunt as well as a few distant aunts and cousins of the duke, remained inside by a warm fire but no less than twenty of the younger adults and older children donned coats, hats, mittens, and scarfs and were rewarded for their troubles when the sky opened up, sending large snowflakes lazily drifting onto the ground.

  The day promised all the magic of the holidays.

  The Duchess of Cortland, wearing a fur-trimmed navy wool cloak, her face already pink from the cold and her golden eyes sparkling, commanded everyone’s attention. “Let’s make this interesting!” She and Lady Hawthorne stood beside one another with grins on their faces. “Everyone will be paired into teams of four. The teams who successfully collect the best decorations will win a special Christmas gift from His Grace and me!” And then she instructed everyone to select their teams.

  Penelope grasped Danbury’s hand and grinned conspiratorially at Lady Hawthorne, who’d grasped her husband’s arm. Only a few of the married couples paired up with someone other than their spouses.

  “What do you say, Rosie?” Mr. Stone Spencer, one of Viscount Darlington’s younger brothers stepped up from behind her.

  Before Rose could answer, Lady Asherton reached out a mittened hand toward Rose. “You two come with Darlington and me!”

  After a good deal of laughter and confusion, the teams were set.

  The Duke of Cortland joined his wife. “You all have ninety minutes! You needn’t take all that time. If you locate adequate treasure early on, or if the weather gets the best of you, by all means, come inside and warm up. My lovely duchess will select the winner!”

  Enthusiastic cheers rose up amongst the participants. “On your marks, get set, go!” The dignified duke enthusiastically waved them away from the house.

  A few of the teams took off at a run, as Rose was inclined to do, but Lady Asherton kept hold of Rose’s arm and proceeded to lead their group at a sedate, dignified pace.

  “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to bring back a few dead branches,” chided Mr. Stone Spencer, walking backward, slightly ahead of them.

  “Dead branches?” Lady Asherton laughed. She startled Rose by dropping her hand. “You’ll do well to collect more festive branches than I do!” She dashed into the trees.

  Mr. Spencer, unwilling to be bested, ran after her.

  Just as Rose went to join the chase, Lord Darlington held her up with his voice. “Do you see it?”

  He’d stopped and was looking up into a tree and pointing.

  At first, she didn’t, and so she leaned closer to him, neck craned back.

  “Mistletoe!” The word came out almost as a whisper. “But can we get to it?”

  Although the prized Christmas plant managed to grow in the area, it wasn’t always easy to find.

  The viscount studied the branches leading up to the prized foliage. “It’s been a while since I’ve climbed any trees. Years, in fact. What do you think?” At that moment, he was not a viscount and she was not a maid. They were simply two people giving into the spirit of the contest.

  “You must do it!” She turned to encourage him, but when she did so, her words nearly caught in her throat. His blue eyes danced merrily, and his wide smile made little creases appear at their corners.

  Always in the past, when she’d caught sight of him in London or at other house parties, he’d appeared serious, grim even. Something cracked inside her heart to realize he could be so uninhibited and carefree.

  “I will stand at the bottom in case you fall.” And then she added, “It’s the least that I can do… considering.” She didn’t wish to bring up the catastrophe of two days before, but she also realized she’d not had the opportunity to thank him for pulling her out of the water.

  Or for the gift.

  He stilled, almost as though he read her mind. “You owe me nothing.” The light blue of his eyes darkened.

  “I cannot thank you enough.” How did one express their gratitude to another for saving her from a certain watery death? “One minute, I was safely standing on dry land and the next…” She swallowed hard at the all-too-recent memory of the terror she’d felt. “It was my own fault, for not watching where I stepped. Penelope said she would have jumped in if you hadn’t gotten there in time. I never could forgive myself if anything happened to her after all she went through last year.”

  One gloved finger settled softly upon her lips. Rose did not push it away, as she ought. Nor did she drop her gaze from his. Rose was tall, but the viscount stood at least six inches taller. She had to tilt her head back to look directly into his eyes.

  “Penelope cares a great deal for you.”

  Rose nodded, a mere whisper of a motion. “As I do for her.”

  But as she stared up at him, all thoughts of Penelope flew from her brain.

  She and the viscount had somehow come to be standing very near to one another, so much so that she could smell his soap, his cologne. And being in such proximity to him only made her want to be closer.

  “Anyhow.” She stepped back, sounding breathless. “I thank you.”

  She’d promised Penelope she’d not thank him for the gift and so she bit her lip to keep from making any mention of it.

  Questions seemed to hover in his gaze as he studied her. Questions she was afraid to answer.

  So instead, she babbled. “I should have learned to swim when I was younger, but I wasn’t really interested. I insisted on staying inside with my music instead.”

  He shook his head. “My sister is an excellent swimmer, but a few years ago, she fell out of a rowboat at one of my mother’s garden parties. If not for Hawthorne, I’m not sure she’d still be with us.” He grimaced. “Ladies’ fashions can be dangerous under certain circumstances.”

  “I remember hearing abo
ut that.”

  “Even had you known how to swim, with the cold, and the weight of your gown, you would not have stood a chance.” He shifted his gaze away and clenched his jaw. “I was afraid…”

  Rose swallowed hard.

  She almost wished she had not brought the subject up now. Her experience reminded him of his sister’s accident. She touched the sleeve of his coat. “So, you say you think you are capable of reaching the mistletoe? I promise I’ll catch you if you come tumbling down.”

  He glanced at the tree and then back at her, his earlier mood returning. “You’ll break my fall, is what you’ll do. I suppose that will have to be good enough.”

  She appreciated that he would allow her to change the subject so easily. She was also glad she’d been able to speak with him alone. This very well may have been her only opportunity. “Just holler that you’re falling so I can brace myself to become a pancake.” She went along with the ridiculous joke.

  Ah, that smile. He had such a lovely smile for a man.

  “I suggest you start with this branch,” she directed him.

  “Are you a bossy woman, then, Miss Waring?” he joked accusingly but lifted one booted foot to where she’d indicated. Over the next quarter of an hour, perhaps less, she directed him up what felt like must be fifty feet into the air. When he reached his objective, he reached down and pulled a knife out of his boot.

  Rose shivered as he wielded the weapon and so easily cut a large sprig away from the evergreen.

  “Will one be enough?” he shouted down.

  “As long as it’s a perfect one. Would you say the one you’ve cut is perfect?” Rose stood with her head tilted back, far too easily impressed by his grace and strength.

  All he’d done was climb a tree, for heaven’s sake.

  He studied his cutting for a minute. “I believe this is the perfect sprig of mistletoe. I’m coming down now. I hope you are prepared to follow through with your promise. It is always trickier descending than it is climbing up.”

  She giggled in an uncharacteristic manner. Something about the day, about being alone with him, about being outside while snow fell from the sky made her unaccountably happy.

  In less than half the time he’d taken going up, he made his way down and landed with a solid thud two feet before her.

  “What do you think?” He held up a very normal-looking length of the notorious Christmas plant.

  Rose pretended to examine it carefully. “I’m not sure, My Lord. Wasn’t there anything less straggly looking?

  “I challenge you to do any better than this, Miss Waring.” He surprised her, then, by lurching forward and winding his arms around her, as though he would drag her to climb the tree.

  She squealed, although she had no desire to fight her way out of his grasp. Being there felt good.

  Too good.

  Trapped in his mock embrace, she pretended to examine the sprig. “I think you needed to go higher, My Lord. The pretty ones, the best ones, are never the easiest to find.”

  At her words, he stilled, something blazing behind his eyes. The same light, the same intensity she remembered from when they’d taken tea together.

  “What if one finds them in the wrong place?” He furrowed his brows.

  Rose dropped her gaze to the top button of his coat. They were no longer speaking of mistletoe. He’d been betrothed last year and then jilted. Was he remembering the woman who’d run off with another man? Had his former betrothed broken his heart?

  She lifted her lashes and studied his face. “Did you love her?” The question escaped before she could stop herself. At his confused expression, she added, “The one from last Christmas? Did she break your heart?”

  He blinked in surprise. “She hurt my pride. She ruined my plans. She did not break my heart.” He’d bent forward, so that he nearly rested his forehead against hers. “What of you, Miss Waring? Who broke your heart?” He was so close that his breath warmed her lips.

  She avoided meeting his gaze this time. “One of those lords who cannot be trusted.” She could not give him any names. It was bad enough that Penelope knew. “I was fool enough to believe his promises. I felt betrayed. Worse than that, I had only myself to blame.” Somehow, she forced her gaze back to his. Every reason for keeping secrets from him seemed to fly from her brain. She felt things for this man.

  Things she ought not to feel for a viscount.

  “Rose.” His lips dipped closer to hers.

  A gust of icy wind chose that moment to whip through the path where they stood, chilling the air between them and breaking the spell.

  Rose turned her attention away from him and back to the mistletoe. “Is it enough?”

  He stared at her for nearly thirty seconds before answering. When he did, he frowned, in mock disapproval. “We should gather more. What do you say, Miss Waring?”

  She ought to insist they locate Lady Asherton and his brother. They’d already been alone for far too long. This overwhelming attraction was dangerous, and she’d not put herself in harm’s way again.

  Granted, Lord Darlington was a very different sort of man from Elias. But he was, nonetheless, a man. She needed to proceed with caution. In truth, she ought not to proceed at all.

  Lust ought never to be mistaken for affection. And when it came to titled gentlemen, Rose knew that lust was all they’d ever offer a woman of her status.

  Best she remember that.

  She’d thought her heart had been broken last summer but was realizing it had only been bruised. If she were to allow herself to fall for this man, this dark and quiet viscount, she doubted her heart could survive the emptiness he’d leave in his wake.

  He was a true gentleman. He dared speak his mind with her and let her speak honestly with him. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes.

  “Surely, we’ve only used half our allotted time. Let’s see what else we can find.” Betraying the wisdom of her own thoughts, she surrendered to the lure of spending more time with this splendidly handsome gentleman.

  Alone.

  Rome ought not to have given in to the temptation to wrap his arms around her. Once he had her in his embrace, he’d been unwilling to release her. Instead, he’d pulled her closer, sharing his warmth and inhaling her sweet scent.

  Which ironically enough, was nothing like a rose.

  More like snapdragons.

  When she’d stepped away, the sudden sense of loss surprised him. He shook his arms and then stomped his feet on the packed snow.

  “Then we’d best get to work, Miss Waring.”

  The falling snow was thicker now and beginning to accumulate. And yet, he didn’t feel the cold. With Rose by his side, the world and the weather fell away.

  “We need vines, if we can find them. To wind around the balustrade.” She sent him an uncertain look, almost as though she too, realized they ought to seek out the other couple.

  But they did not.

  Deciding not to dwell on what he ought to have done nor what she ought not to have done, he gestured for her to walk beside him, his hands behind his back.

  “Mr. Spencer is closest in age to you, is he not?” She set their conversation onto a safe topic.

  “Stone.” Rome smiled. “The proverbial spare.”

  The path widened so they could walk beside one another. She turned and smiled at his answer, no longer appearing as tentative as she had a moment before. Ah, yes. This topic of conversation would be quite safe indeed. “Tell me about your brothers. You have three, in all, do you not?”

  “Peter is next in line. He’s the quietest of us all, the one who plays the cello. The youngest is Joseph. He is the only one of us to marry so far, aside from Natalie.”

  “Joseph married the duchess’ niece?”

  “Glenda.” He’d never understood the attraction, himself. But his brother seemed happy enough.

  “Penelope absolutely adores your mother. She says she must be some sort of saint to have raised so many boys.”

&n
bsp; “And Natalie.” He grinned. “I think Natalie has given her more grief than all of us boys put together.”

  “But she seems happy with Lord Hawthorne.”

  Rome nodded at her observations. And his sister was happy. He was certain of it. Despite getting off to a less than seamless start. “Tell me about your family.” He would turn the conversation away from himself and his rather unruly brothers. He wanted to know more about her.

  “I have one younger brother,” she said tentatively. “Fergus turned seven and ten this year.”

  “So just a few years younger than you?”

  She laughed, a soft expression of good humor. “Just a few.”

  Miss Waring must be close in age to Penelope, whom he guessed must be nearing thirty, but he would not be so rude as to ask outright. Twenty–five, perhaps twenty–six. He appreciated her maturity and lack of coy naiveté.

  “And your parents?” Rome was curious about her home life. What kind of girl had she been before being forced to take employment?

  “It’s been a year since I’ve visited.” She flicked her eyes at him. “Penelope and I traveled a great deal last year. But the last time I was home, they seemed well enough. Although Mother’s eyesight is failing.”

  “Your father?” The man who supposedly gambled away her future.

  She grimaced.

  “Penelope mentioned he is a gambling man,” he prompted her.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she answered with a frown. “The only good to come from it is that Fergus has seen the ruin of our father’s ways.” She dropped her lashes. “Penelope insisted upon paying for his schooling. When she’s of a mind to do something, it’s nigh impossible to stop her. But Fergus has not been a disappointment. He gets the highest marks in his class.”

  Rome smiled. He’d known Penelope for over a decade. She was the smartest woman he knew, smarter than most men, even. She was also, perhaps, the most stubborn. The two women obviously shared a special type of relationship—one he’d not considered before.

  “I imagine you got high marks as well,” he suggested. Nothing about Miss Waring could be considered ordinary, her current position aside.