Athena leapt off the bed, landing with a solid thump, then sauntered slowly toward the door.
Rose glared. “Obviously there’s no rush. Take your time.”
Athena did, and Rose resisted the urge to slam the door when the cat finally eased into the hallway. “Bloody cat,” she murmured, diving back onto the bed and burrowing beneath the warm covers with a slight shiver. “April should be warmer than this.”
She closed her eyes, longing for a nap before breakfast, but her mind had begun to stir. Despite their late night, Rose had a busy day ahead, and she knew she should get her brain turned toward her tasks, but the image of Thomas as he led her back to the spinster’s corner kept flitting behind her eyelids. Thomas—she mightcallhim Lord Newbury, but she had a hard timethinkingof him by anything other than his Christian name—was definitely no longer the “adorable boy” next door. The lanky ten-year-old had grown into a man who used his height and breadth to intimidate. To protect. He had towered over both Northey and Broxley, his expression determined with a hint of violence as he stood them down and reminded them of his relationship to Lady Elizabeth. She would definitely be interested in what her network spies had to say about the Higginbotham ball.
I think we can help each other... The idea is still forming.
His words kept circling in Rose’s mind, stoking her curiosity. What could he possibly want from her? As a duke’s heir—and scoundrel in his own right—he surely had more resources than she had for any endeavor. She had built her network of information for a specific purpose—preventing the ruination of innocent young girls—and Thomas’s reputation had put him firmly on her list of men to avoid. But after Ann’s little speech, Thomas had been intrigued by what Rose knew.
Ann. That little spiller of secrets. Rose turned on her side, snuggling deeper into her covers against morning chill, and closed her eyes. Ann should not have said so much. But Rose could not resent her friend. Ann had been a great supporter of Rose. She had also been a recipient of Rose’s help. That “waltz to be stopped with copious amounts of champagne” had been Ann’s. The rogue who had claimed it had planned to lure Ann to the veranda of that long-ago ballroom, and he had friends waiting to discover them kissing—against Ann’s wishes.
The orchestra’s conductor had been in on Rose’s scheme, of course. He too had a sister vulnerable to ruin. He’d allowed himself to be thumped in the back with a champagne cork and sprayed with its contents. He had even warned the musicians to protect their instruments—even though he claimed afterward that those same instruments were too damaged to continue. The antepenultimate dance had become the final one.
Rose wondered if Thomas would be amused by the story, if those black, searching eyes would light with glee. When he had examined her, head to toe, Rose had felt an unanticipated warmth slough through her, like sinking into a hot bath, which had startled her. She did not respond to men like that.
Usually.
It wasn’t as if Rose did not have sexual desires—she did, and they ran deep. And due to having married sisters, as well as her own network dedicated to ferreting out the rogues of Society, her exposure to and knowledge of some of the more sordid sides of the intimate relationships that men and women could share had divested Rose of the blushing innocence of a first-season debutante. She knew all too well what happened between men and women—had heard her sisters talk about pleasing a man with hands and lips. Knew exactly how the closeness of a man could make a woman feel.
It was simply that Rose Timmons never let a man get close to her. Not after Roger Bentley. She did not trust them.Anyof them.
But she had positivelyitchedto run her hands into Thomas Ashton’s hair, to see if those thick curls felt as silky as they appeared. The infatuation she had long since divested herself of had flared without warning. The one man she’d long for since she had been one of those blushing innocents had reappeared in her world, seeping past all her safeguards.
Rose let his image conjure in her mind again, remembering the tiniest details. The way he had seemed like an immovable object in the face of Broxley’s blustering, hands clenched at his side, the muscles in his jaw so tense one had throbbed like a heartbeat. The burgundy waistcoat and matching cravat—touches of color without being too like one of the peacocks strutting around the room. Sturdy and highly polished boots. Cuffs in aton-precise length. He definitely seemed to be doing his best to ease back into Society.
That heat, the feeling of being immersed in a comforting, alluring warmth constricted her chest again. What would it be like to have him take her in his arms, brush her lips with his, feel the strength of his body press against her? Would he too be aroused, longing for her touch against his skin?
The image of her hands against his bare chest blossomed in Rose’s imagination and her breasts ached for a masculine caress, her nipples peaking into taut buds. Rose ran her hands across her stomach, down her hips, where her fingers began to gather the cloth of her night rail into a ruche at the top of her thighs. A vision of Thomas, leaning over her, his hands and lips moving lightly over her skin, urged her deeper into the fantasy. She spread her legs and one hand slipped between her thighs, exploring the heated folds—
Tap.“Rose?”
Rose scrambled into a sitting position, pushing down her night rail and swallowing hard. “Yes?” The word was a hoarse croak.
Cecily opened the door and poked her head around. “Are you awake?”
Rose let out a long breath. “I am now. Why are you?”
Cecily closed the door behind her and skipped over to Rose’s bed, landing on it with a most unladylike flop. She snuggled beneath the covers, causing Rose to move over to make room. She curled onto her side, her head on the pillow. Her eyes held a dozen questions, and she chewed her lower lip.
Ah.Rose lay back down, facing her sister. “You’re nervous.”
Cecily hesitated, then gave a rapid nod. “I could not sleep at all.”
Rose reached out and took Cecily’s hand, squeezing it. “We all were, especially after the first ball. It’s only natural.”
“So what happens today? Do you think anyone will call?”
Rose’s eyebrows arched. “After the attention you received last night? My dear, they will be tumbling over each other in the foyer. You will take up a place in the drawing room, receiving them with dignity and politeness. No matter how ridiculously they behave, you will remain a lady.”
Cecily nodded. “You think they will be too ludicrous?”
“Some will. Men are odd on good days. When they are trying to woo, it’s as if their brains turn to mush. They write horrible poetry, bring flowers to make you sneeze, compete with each other like angry peacocks. They will leave kisses so wet your gloves will feel soaked, stumble over their own words, and wind up making preposterous statements and promises about love and provision that even our Lord in heaven could not keep.”
Cecily giggled, and her cheeks pinked.
“You mustn’t laugh. Listen to each carefully. Most of all, do not think you have to accept any of them.You”—she tightened her grip on her sister’s hand—“are a diamond of the first water.Youare the most desirable debutante of the season. You are waiting for the right man, and you must be patient.”
