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She held my gaze for longer than I expected, her pupils roaming my face as if looking for some hint of deception. “I think I would feel more comfortable.” Her voice cracked as she said the words.
I waited in the main suite while she headed to the bedroom to change. When she returned, I decided I liked floral day dresses way more than half-open bathrobes. I silently thanked Madame Galette, our family dressmaker. She hadn’t made all the dresses that had been delivered to Rose – she wouldn’t have had enough time to create garments to my standard – but she’d handmade this one, I could tell. It had all the signature details I’d come to recognise.
It had a conservative neckline that cleverly and subtly exposed the collar bone, a hint of lace beneath the hem of theskirt, a sharpness to the shoulder. In it, Rose looked like summer itself. Floral, warm… virginal.
“I brought breakfast.” The words came out quickly in an attempt to conceal the heat crawling through my pelvis.
Her long, pale eyelashes flicked up at me. “Ever the gentleman.” She pulled out a chair, ignoring the one I’d already held out for her, and sat.
I settled opposite her, filling the small chair with my bulk. At six foot three and two hundred and twenty pounds, I wasn’t made for parlour chairs. I caught her biting back a small smile at my obvious discomfort.
“Why breakfast?”
Her question surprised me.
“What do you mean, ‘why breakfast’? Why not breakfast?”
She placed her hands in her lap and cocked her head to one side. “The way you marched out of the ballroom last night, without even a glance over your shoulder, I honestly expected to have been sent packing on a boat by now.”
I lifted the cloche, revealing a plate of warm croissants, and took one. I sliced it open then stroked a butter knife across its spongy flesh. “Didn’t you hear what I said, Rose?” I dipped the knife into a small pot of freshly cooked jam. It was my favourite, so Chef always made sure he had a small batch on the hob. I streaked it over the open croissant then cut it into small pieces. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Until you take my virginity,” she clarified.
I placed the knife down and gave her my full focus. “Yes.”
“Which you will only do when you’re satisfied that I want it.”
I passed the plate to her. “That’s correct. Now, eat.”
“What is this?” she asked, without glancing down.
“It’s strawberry jam made with rose water. This morning in fact.” I poured two cups of coffee and lifted the jug of cream along with a questioning brow.
“Yes please.” She nodded. “And you’re eating with me, why?”
I shrugged. “You said you wanted to get to know me better, so here I am.”
“I was getting to know you just fine last night before you stormed out on me.”
I bristled. “I didn’t storm out on you. In my mind, the conversation had ended.”
“I’m guessing conversation isn’t your strong point.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t have much call for it these days.”
“Don’t you work?” She popped a piece of croissant into her mouth, chewed briefly, then stopped. My eyes were glued to her lips. They were the same colour as the jam. Slowly, she resumed chewing, swallowed, then popped another piece into mouth.
“Yes, I work. But in my line of work, not a lot of conversation is needed. I have people do that for me.”
She curved an eyebrow. “You have people converse for you? Oh my, how the rich live.” She nodded to my empty plate. “Aren’t you eating?”
I reluctantly reached for a slice of toast. The thought of sitting in front of this beauty as she watched my deformed face consume food made me feel physically sick.
“On the contrary, in my experience most rich people love the sound of their own voice.” I spread butter and jam on my toast and took a small bite.
“So, what do you do?” she asked, brightly.
Every bite felt exaggerated, as though the entire building could see and hear the motion of my chewing. I swallowed and reached for a napkin. “I work in real estate.”
