Page 39 of The Thorn and the Rose

Again, she felt a surge of dismay as he regarded her chapped hands. Though she had not been reduced to doing laundry just yet, working in the kitchens took a toll on one who had once been used to a life where she applied hand cream nightly and had slept wearing white gloves to keep them soft. Despite knowing better, her idiotic heart fluttered wildly behind her ribs. Every romantic novel she had ever read drifted through her mind: the moment where the hero throws caution to the wind and declares himself or makes some pretty speech that give the heroine courage enough to trust in him. She held her breath, wondering if he might lift her fingers to his lips, and dared to look up, foolish hopes flickering to life. There was only pity in his blue eyes.

Rosemarie snatched her hand away, humiliation and hurt lancing through her. Fool. What on earth had she expected? Damn her stupid pride. She was supposed to be playing the helpless female so she could lure him into thinking she would do whatever he wanted, if only he would keep her safe at Gillmont. That was the key to her freedom. She ought to have batted her lashes at him. She ought to have cried and clung to him. That would have been all too easy to do.

“Drink your wine,” he said, his voice soft now.

A shiver ran over her at that caressing tone. She ought not to have come, ought never to have embarked on this mad scheme. Glancing up at him again, she looked into the face of a man who likely had women throwing themselves at his feet wherever he went. Golden hair and sapphire blue eyes, high cheekbones and a fine, straight nose, a chiselled jawline any artist would kill to capture in paint or ink or carve upon marble. Such beauty ought to be captured, she thought, unable to take her eyes off him. Lord but he was dangerous.

Was this the man who had lured Miss Nichols away? Everett had never told her which of the club’s owners was responsible. It had not appeared to her he’d been singled out, for Everett had been lying in wait with his hired thugs for whomever he could get his hands on. She had believed it had simply been bad luck on his part that Lord Thomas had been the one to suffer. Had Everett lured him out, or had he known? Was this the man who had destroyed Everett’s peace of mind, and their lives, by ruining Miss Nichols?

She could see it happening, could well imagine how a woman could fall for a man like this and throw everything away for him. Rosemarie could see it far too clearly and steeled herself against the desire to confide in him, to tell him everything. Men were not to be trusted. Surely, she had learned that much from her brother. If a man she had loved from birth and believed good and decent could go so wrong, what chance for a wealthy nobleman of such rank as this one? A man who owed her nothing, now he knew that she had been part of the plot to harm him and keep him drugged, and not an angelic rescuer.

The mulled wine eased into her blood, smoothing out sharp edges and unknotting the tension in her neck and shoulders. The meal was excellent, and Rosemarie struggled not to moan with pleasure as the first bite of steak melted in her mouth. It had been so long since she had eaten meat or anything that tasted as good as this. Mrs Mills did wonders with the ingredients at her disposal, but they had not dared spend out on steak or the better cuts of meat, instead eking out their existence and padding out their meals with potatoes or pearl barley.

Though she knew it was far from ladylike, Rosemarie decided she had sunk low enough to take a piece of bread and mop up the last of the gravy on her plate, for it was too good to leave. Once her plate was spotless, she looked up to see Lord Thomas regarding her curiously. Did she disgust him now? She told herself she didn’t care, but it hurt too much to believe that.

“Better?”

Rosemarie nodded, holding his gaze defiantly. “Much. Thank you.”

She reached for her wine, discovering the cup had been replenished. Drinking gratefully, she felt the chill leave her bones and enjoyed the sensation of being pleasantly full. It seemed a lifetime since she’d felt warm, for the winter had been a harsh one with snow and ice that settled over Magpie Hall like a frozen blanket and held the cold against the walls. She had taken to sleeping with her mother, the two of them huddling together for warmth. Mama was a restless sleeper, though, and Rosemarie spent the nights dozing and falling into strange dreams and waking again as Mama fidgeted in her sleep. Occasionally she spared a thought for her brother, spending his nights in a gaol cell. She had sent him blankets and as many comforts as she could and paid a monthly amount from her dwindling resources to see that he was properly fed, but that was as far as she would go for him. He had done this to them, after all; it was not unfair that he should reap at least some of the rewards of his behaviour.

Rosemarie closed her eyes, suddenly sleepy. The room was warm and close, and the wine clouded her mind, making her drowsy and indolent.

“Come, Marie. If you wish to go to Gillmont, we must leave now. We’ll not be there before dark as it is.”

Rosemarie turned her head, blinking at him. “Gillmont? You’ll take me, then?”

“Certainly, if that is what you wish. Come along.” He helped her to her feet, and she stood, swaying a little, gazing up at him. “You’re not used to wine, I think,” he remarked, and she heard the smile in his voice.

Rosemarie shook her head. “My brother never allowed it.”

She stood gazing at him, feeling as though she stood in the light of the sun, or before a young God, Apollo perhaps? Is this what Miss Nichols had felt, dazzled and longing for warmth, for someone to care, just a little? She swayed, leaning into him and resting her head upon his chest. Oh, if only she could stay here, if only she could believe in him. His hands went to her shoulders, gently moving her away from him, holding her upright.

“How handsome you are,” she said, gazing at him with a sigh. “But I suppose you know that.”

“I suppose so,” he replied dryly. Rosemarie watched as though from a distance as he walked away and then brought her bonnet to her, placing it on her head. He had strong hands, she noticed, long elegant fingers moving deftly as he tied the ribbons under her chin.

“I miss talking to you,” she blurted out, knowing she ought not, but she had loved hearing him tell her about the theatre and concerts and balls, about the places he had been, the things he had done. Though she knew it was beyond foolish, sometimes she let herself imagine she went to those places with him, laughed at the same plays and enjoyed the same music – danced with him.

He stilled, watching her, but said nothing.

“You gave me too much wine,” she said accusingly, realising he had loosened her tongue and made her foolish. That was what the villains did in those novels of hers. Oh, Rosemarie, what have you done?

“I did,” he agreed, and she wished she could guess what was in his mind, but he was suspicious of her now and gave nothing away, his face a mask, his words careful. She was not feeling careful, but reckless and fatalistic. She swayed closer to him again, placing her hands back on his chest, dimly registering the hard surface beneath her palms, the warmth emanating through his clothes.

“Are you going to seduce me?”

He’d picked up her gloves, apparently about to put them on her as if she was a child. At her question, he froze, looking down at her, his blue eyes dark now. Desire, she told herself with a shiver.

“Do you want me to?”

Rosemarie considered this. The longing to be held in his arms, to relive that illusion of safety, of being cared for, was tantalising. She was tired, so tired of being cold and alone, of fighting for survival. If he had not asked, if he had only acted, she was not sure she would have had the will to resist him.

“I don’t want to end up like her,” she whispered, fearing an even greater force than the desire for his touch, for his attention, his love.

“Ah,” he said, comprehension lighting his blue eyes. “Like the woman your brother thinks we ruined? Is that it? He believes we took the woman he loved and seduced her?”

She nodded, his brisk, somewhat callous tone making her step back. She stared up at him, wishing she knew what he was thinking, and spoke only the truth. “I’m afraid, afraid of ending up like her.”