Rose pulled on her dressing gown. “What? I’m going to run down and see who’s awake. Is it six yet?” She peered at the clock on a low bookcase near her bed. “Not quite.”
“What Mother said about the way you run the house.”
Rose paused. “If she has complaints, she should bloody well do it herself.”
Cecily sat up. “No. The opposite. She said you have a gift for handling the servants and managing the household.”
“Because she never listens to them.”
Cecily looked down at her hands a moment. “She also said she’s glad you are going to be a spinster living here the rest of your life. So she will not have to be bothered.”
Rose froze, staring at the floor. “I do not suppose,” she said softly, “it occurred to her that I began this so I could learn to run my own household. Not to make it a permanent shift in duties.”
Cecily slipped off the bed and headed for the door. “Dorothea Timmons? Thinking about someone other than herself? Do not cozen yourself, sister.” She pulled the door closed behind her and the bedchamber dropped into an uncomfortable silence.
Rose dropped down on the stool in front of the dressing table. She absently moved the items on it, placing the lotions, brushes, and combs in neat rows. She opened the lid on a small silver box holding her hair pins in velvet-lined sections, flicked through a few of them, then closed the lid. In the mirror, red blotches left from pressing her face into the pillow dotted her cheeks. Shadows hollowed her blue eyes, which remained bleary and dull from lack of sleep. Her braid had worked free, and loose strands and frizzy curls haloed her head. She plucked at one. How had Cecily described it last night?That sea of dead wheat.
Of course. Rose had never been beautiful. Her mother had reminded her of that often enough. She’d been “pleasant looking,” as Roger Bentley—the bastard who’d tried to marry her—had phrased it. “Adequate, if too round.” Her one and only—thank God—almost-betrothed had wanted her only for her money and her womb, so looks weren’t important to him.
Looks he had made infinitely worse. Rose turned her head to gaze at the left side of her face. Yes, still there. She pushed her hair back, peering at the puckered scar at the edge of her hairline and the thin white one that trailed down from it. Scars Sarah was always careful to disguise behind tendrils and curls. Rose tried not to think about the other scars, the ones not so visible, remnants of Bentley’s determination that if he could not have her, no one would ever want her again.
He had destroyed her choices, and now she was almost eight and twenty, and—as she’d overheard her own mother say—“what little bloom was there has quite gone off that particular rose.” No wonder her mother thought Rose would be managing the earl’s household for the rest of her life.
The image of Thomas that had lingered in her head dissipated into a vapor of realism. No one like him would ever want someone like her.Be practical, Rose. Dreaming of the unattainable is a waste of time. You have things to do.
And with that, she pulled the muslin tie clinging to the end of her braid and began to brush her hair with long, brutal strokes, the tangles pulling hard enough to bring tears.
*
If this worked,it would benefit them all. What better approach to doing battle than building strong alliances?Thomas stared at the canopy over his bed, his mind preoccupied to the point that he did not truly take in the forest green material gathered into the medallion in the center of the canopy or the matching woolen hangings tied back against the four, square posts that anchored the bed. He had slept in this bed since he’d left the nursery, except for the years he’d had his own rooms. It had not been a chore returning to such comfortable surroundings.
Giving up Mrs. Carterton, on the other hand, had left him with a deep, craving ache his left hand was not quite sufficient in resolving. In his mind, he could still taste her sweetness, inhale her scent, a special blended perfume he had paid for. Both knew it was not a love match headed for the altar—her late husband, knighted during the war, had left her a house and a handsome income, and she had no interest in surrendering her independence. Older than Thomas by seven years, she also had no interest in bearing more children. Her interests had been moreadventurous,and she indulged some of his unusual desires. Still... it had been a comfortable arrangement, and Thomas had gotten accustomed to waking up and drifting off with a soft, compliant woman in his arms. Her lyrical, “Goodnight, love,” and his response of “Goodnight, Kitty,” had been the last words of his day for several years. He missed that desperately.
The thought of abandoning that comfort and assurance in favor of a high-born giggle-fiend who had been raised to talk fashion, the weather, and do her marital duty beneath her husband without moving chilled his usual early morning ardor. All for the sake of an income and an heir.
His dislike of becoming a duke grew day by day.
So the abrupt idea he’d had last night had created a spark of hope in his chest. Just a spark at this point, but he had little to lose. Plus, it would put him in repeated contact with Rose, who was the exact opposite of a fashion-dependent giggle-fiend.
Thomas had slept through breakfast, having stayed up even after they had returned home. Beth and his mother had been ebullient, relaying the events of the ball to their father, who had listened with arched eyebrows and an amused glint in his eyes. He doted on Beth—and had since she was born—but even Thomas had to admit her joy was contagious.
He had other things on his mind, however, than his sister’s success at the season’s first event. While Beth’s season was important, so was the quest his father had sent Thomas and his brothers on. Last night had brought visibility, but the needle had barely moved in the direction of acceptance. Robert had had none of his invitations to dance accepted, and Thomas had only danced with the Timmons sisters. They had to try harder, especially if he had any remote chance of pursuing a woman of his choice, a loving partner, and not just the first debutante who said yes.
So his encounter with Rose Timmons had sent his mind working in a dozen different ways. He and Robert had left the other three in the study and retired. Thomas knew Robert would check on Michael, so he put his thoughts to paper, sitting at the escritoire he’d brought from his bachelor rooms to his Ashton House bedchamber. Now he needed to refine them—and get more details from Rose about her information gathering. He had to talk to her. But no man, not even a duke, just showed up at a young woman’s home the night after a ball without certain—expectations—arising. That needed to be prevented at all costs. He needed Rose first and foremost as an ally, not a potential mate.
Thomas swung his legs out of bed, shrugged into a robe, and rang for tea. Then he sat at the escritoire and sketched out a quick note.
Lady Rose—
The idea I mentioned last night has formed more fully in my head. I do think we could benefit each other in our mutual endeavor. May I call on you this afternoon at half-four to discuss possibilities?
Newbury
He folded, addressed, and sealed the note, sending it off with his valet, Langley, after his tray arrived. Like Beth, Thomas knew Cecily would be the greater recipient of potential suitors today—it was her first season—but Rose might be receiving as well. He thought by requesting an appointment, especially that late in the afternoon, it would remain a respectable but non-courting meeting.
He might ease back into Society after all.
Maybe.
