How just a few weeks ago, Rose Waverly would have counted herself amongst the misguided.
“Our city holds ample opportunities for every citizen.” He lifted two glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed one to Rose. “Mr. Linden’s factory employs thousands of women and children in Brooklyn alone.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “Children?”
“Yes, their hands make turning the buttons much more efficient,” he replied as he lifted his cuff to model the delicate stitching. “Keeps them off the street. Unoccupied children cause mayhem, and lord knows this city has too much crime.”
Rose swallowed the rest of her champagne, knowing if she left it in her glass she was likely to toss it in this rotter’s face. “Oh, Mr. Ruffgate, I have so much to learn about the politics in this city.”
He stepped closer and lifted one brow. “It would please me greatly to be your personal tutor.”
A choking hiccup erupted from her chest and caught the champagne at her lips, sending it spurting out and coating Mr. Ruffgate’s necktie in a fine spray of effervescence. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Think nothing of it.” Mr. Ruffgate pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his shirt before tucking it away. Rose wondered if children had embroidered the monogram on the fine linen as well. “Perhaps we could take a turn through Central Park, enjoy a luncheon at Hoffbauer’s. I could elucidate you on all the happenings on our little island.”
Rose doubted this man knew anything about life for the women of Brooklyn, or any other part of Manhattan beyond the gilded mansions of Central Park West. And yet men like him made decisions that impacted thousands of lives. Unease twisted in her gut as she nodded, accepting his offer because she could think of no polite way to refuse.
Society had taught her to accept men like Mr. Ruffgate and Mr. Linden without question, to consider them capable of making decisions for her, her neighbors, Cass, Abby. For Ben. Mr. Ruffgate could just as easily have been a peer she met at a country ball, preparing to vote down a measure on the poor in the House of Lords without even learning the names of his kitchen maids.
“I would be delighted,” she managed.
“Wonderful. Tuesday will be the best day for me, assuming you don’t have plans.” She opened her mouth to confirm her lack of prior obligations, but he barrelled on. “Shall I gather you at—”
“I will meet you at Hoffbauer’s,” Rose interrupted. “I have a bit of shopping to do and will be in the area.” While she cherished the image of Ruffgate knocking on Ben’s door, she needed to carry on the ruse a bit longer. She wanted to make Brooklyn Heights proud.
“Half past eleven?” Mr. Ruffgate asked.
She forced a smile onto her lips. “I look forward to it.”
“As do I.” He sketched an awkward bow. “I must see to Mr. Linden. It appears he needs a refill of sherry.” Ruffgate tottered off, looking like an overly eager errand boy.
Rose narrowed her gaze at Mr. Ruffgate’s retreating figure as he dropped his champagne glass into the hand of a passing footman without pausing or giving the servant a second glance. The low simmering frustration in her gut tipped into a boil.
Spinning on her heel, Rose lifted one of the stuffed squirrels, captured for eternity in mid-leap. She perched it on the back of a crouched gopher and lifted her chin, wishing she could stay to witness the look of horror on Astor’s face when he witnessed his trophies mid-coitus.
Without a backwards glance, Rose Waverly walked through the mansion doors, into the streets of Manhattan, and turned towards the waiting embrace of Brooklyn.
Chapter 18
Inthenearlyfouryears that Ben lived at 138 Willow, the building had never failed to deliver ample problems to keep his hands and mind occupied. But Harvey the ghost had gone into hiding, and every step and light fixture behaved as expected. The doors swung without creaking and not a single tenant needed assistance. Even Wig had pawed at the window early and now lay belly-up in a patch of sunlight on the rug. The gods of building maintenance seemed to mock him, leaving him nothing but free time to obsess over Rose.
The air rushed from his lungs as she burst through the door to his apartment in a flutter of lavender silk, smelling of something fresh and utterly foreign in the sultry heat of September in Brooklyn. Her green eyes gleamed as she spun to face him, grabbing his hands and squeezing.
Ben did not hesitate to pull her against his chest and wrap her in his arms, nor did he question the tension that fled his body to have her near, to have her home again.She came back, his heart said with each disbelieving thump.
“You wouldn’t have believed it, Ben,” she said in a rush, her cheeks flushed, her plush lips spread in a wide smile. “I couldn’t speak to Linden directly, but I spoke to his aide for quite a while. And you would have been so proud. I pressed him to consider the women and children his policies impacted. I’m uncertain if he listened, but with more time, I could probably convince him.”
Lord, she was beautiful. How could such an incredible creature exist in reality, in his arms? He ran his palms up and down the delicate silk covering her back, hesitating when his coarse hands caught on the fabric. His first assertion was still true; Miss Rose Waverly had no place in Brooklyn. And yet Ben felt the strongest sense of pride, as though he had planted the seeds for her to bloom, chased swiftly by the desire to keep her safe from harm.
He dropped his lips to her neck, pressing soft kisses against her pulse point. After last night, when he lost himself to her in an earth-shattering fashion, they tumbled beneath his blankets and into sleep. Ben had not rested so well in years, but awoke in a panic and slid from the bed just as sunlight streamed through his window. He stole from the room like a thief in the night, unable to look directly at the woman in his bed.
It had been four years since he slept with a woman—not the physical act of sex, but the intimate gesture of lying in another’s embrace until dawn. Ben hated how much he craved the touch of a woman, the soft skin and comforting arms, the contentment of belonging to another.
“I know you charmed them all,” he said, nibbling along the shell of her ear. He could not keep this English rose and needed to remind himself of that. But he could pretend she was his as long as he was able.
“I did.” Rose sighed into his touch, her spine relaxing as her body fell flush against his. “Astor had this dreadful room full of animals.”
Ben pulled back and raised a brow. “Live animals?”
