Rosalie walked at Mr. Burke’s side into the great house, eyes wide as she took in every detail. They were in a long hall with a beautiful parquet floor. One side boasted floor to ceiling windows set every six feet along the wall. Rosalie was sure that in daylight each must offer an incomparable view of the back gardens. The other side contained a series of closed doors. Artwork adorned the space between each door—landscapes in gilded frames, a spindly-legged table set with a china vase full of blooming flowers, a carved wooden chair that looked more like a throne…in fact, it probably was a throne.
She’d never felt so out of place. Her muddy dress slapped awkwardly against her legs and her poor toes squished inside her stockings. She was desperate to take off these ruined clothes. But as Mr. Burke said, she had nothing else to wear.
“Wait,” she slid to a stop, tugging on his arm.
He turned, dark brow raised in question.
“You can’t take me to the duke looking like this,” she cried.
He chuckled. “He’s seen stranger sights than this, I assure you.”
“But—”
“Look, it’s late. I don’t want to wake staff if I don’t have to. James is sure to still be awake, and he’ll take care of it. Just trust me.”
Damn him and that devilish smile. Each time the corner of his mouth tipped up, she felt it tug at her. This man was dangerous. He was beautiful and confident, and he looked at her with open want in his eyes, as if he saw her and determined she was exactly what he’d been waiting for. It was enough to have her gasping for breath…and he’d noticed. In the stable yard just now, she was sure of it. There was a reckoning in his gaze, a promise of more.
But Rosalie Harrow would not be tied to any man. Forget the fact that she didn’t believe marriage could ever bring out the best in two people trapped within the bars of such a cage. She was also quite possibly the worst prospect for a wife. She had no family living, aside from her desperately poor widowed aunt. She didn’t have two shillings to rub together. In fact, she had nothing to her name but mounting debts. Her wastrel of a father saw to that, leaving her and her mother to fend for themselves when he stumbled drunk into the Thames.
That was seven years ago. Seven long years of fighting off the creditors, selling everything they owned. Then her mother got sick…or just gave up. Rosalie wasn’t sure which truth hurt her more, so she put all the details of her mother’s death in a little box on a shelf in the back of her mind.
That was eight months ago. Now here she was, covered in mud, wandering the halls of a duke’s house late at night. Mr. Burke led her a bit further down the hall to where a door stood open. Rosalie heard the unmistakable whack of billiard balls. Mr. Burke pushed open the door and stepped inside, leading her through by the hand.
It was a masculine room, with dark leather furniture and deep green walls. A billiards table sat under a half-lit chandelier. A handsome man in evening clothes stood at the table’s edge, bending over with a cue to take his shot.
“Don’t miss,” Mr. Burke barked.
The man whacked the ball, sending it careening the wrong direction. “Damn—Burke!” His anger faded immediately to relief. “Good god man, I thought you got lost in a ditch.”
This must be the duke. He had a natural air of authority that oozed aristocracy. Heavens, but he was handsome too. Narrower in the shoulders, and not quite so tall, but he had shocking green eyes and auburn hair that curled around his ears. A dusting of freckles spotted his cheeks.
“And yet, I didn’t spot a search party on the road,” Mr. Burke replied.
“What did you—” The duke’s smile slipped off his face as he saw Rosalie. He glanced from her to Mr. Burke. “Who is this?”
“Picking up strays now, Burke?” came a deep voice.
She turned to see another man step out of the corner, glass of brandy in hand. If she thought the others were handsome, this man was…words failed her. He was like something out of a painting, a sculpted David come to life. He had a halo of golden curls and skin so tan he looked almost foreign. She felt sure he must be a sailor. His jaw was chiseled, his shoulders broad, and he had the most devastating blue eyes.
Mr. Burke set her travel case on a chair. “Bloody hell…Renley, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me,” the other man said. “Burke, how are you?” He crossed the space in three strides and the two embraced like brothers, slapping each other’s backs.
“I think you’ve gotten taller since I last saw you,” Mr. Burke laughed, pretending to measure his friend. He was the tallest of the three by several inches.
“Damn, it does me good to see you,” said Mr. Renley, still holding his friend by the shoulders. “You haven’t changed a hair.”
“In foul temper or manner,” Mr. Burke joked.
“Enough,” the duke barked over both men. “Burke, who the hell is this?” His finger was pointed straight at Rosalie.
She shrank under the heat of his gaze.
“Oh, right,” Mr. Burke said, as if he suddenly remembered she was still in the room. “I found her tonight in Carrington in a bit of a desperate situation.”
“And you brought her home with you?” The duke’s voice dripped with derision. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking she was a guest here,” Burke replied. “This is Miss Rosalie Harrow. She has an invitation from your dear mama to join the house party,” he added with a wink.
Rosalie took in the surprised looks of both gentlemen.
“Would you have preferred me to leave her stranded outside the inn?” said Mr. Burke.
The duke rounded on her. “You have an invitation from my mother?”
Rosalie blinked at his rudeness. Why did no one believe her? Did she have to pin the letter to her pelisse? She dipped into a curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As soon as the words were spoken, she knew something was wrong. The man called Renley stifled a laugh. The duke’s eyes flashed with some heated emotion, as the muscle in his jaw ticked. Next to her, Mr. Burke snorted.
The duke rounded on Mr. Burke. “Goddamn it, you know how George hates it when you do that. The last thing I need is for him to be in a mood.”
Mr. Burke raised both hands in mock surrender. “I never said you were the duke. Any implication was a total slip of the tongue.”
Rosalie gasped, eyes narrowing on Mr. Burke. Had he tricked her? She fought the urge to use her uninjured fist to punch him square in the nose too.
“Oh, and this is Tom Renley,” Mr. Burke added, gesturing to his friend.
“Lieutenant Tom Renley,” the handsome sailor added, confirming her theory. “Pleased to meet you.”
The false duke stepped forward. “Please excuse my worthless friend,” he said. “I am not the Duke of Norland. I’m his younger brother, James Corbin.”
She looked from Mr. Burke to the lord. “I’m sorry if I’m a nuisance, my lord. I was meant to arrive three days ago, but the rain—”
“Aye, it’s delayed half the house party,” he replied. “But why did you not come with the group this afternoon?”
“My coach broke down, sir. I walked into Carrington, which is where Mr. Burke found me. As he said, I had a spot of bother at the inn, and then he offered to—”
“Whoa, wait.” Lord James held up a hand. “What happened?”
Mr. Burke looked down at her with a smile. “A drunk made the mistake of trying to have his way. Miss Harrow here put him in his place.”
Lord James puffed out his chest in anger as Lieutenant Renley’s brows lowered in concern over those beautiful blue eyes. “What happened?”
“Tom you should have seen it,” Mr. Burke said with a grin. “She broke the lout’s nose with a mean left hook. It was poetry.”
Both gentlemen watched her with wide eyes. The lieutenant looked impressed; Lord James wary.
“I think she’s had enough excitement for one night though,” said Mr. Burke. “James, can we get a room sorted? Her trunk should be arriving soon. A bath is probably in order too,” he added.
“Right, come with me. I’ll wake the housekeeper.” The lord moved towards the door and snatched a candle off a side table, waiting for her with one brow raised.
Mr. Burke gave her a half smile and held out her travel case. “Welcome to Alcott, Miss Harrow.”
Rosalie followed closely behind Lord James as he swept down the hall, heels of his shoes clicking on the polished wooden floor. He took a sharp right and the space opened into a hall three times as large. Rosalie stifled a gasp.
It was still a hallway…but the grandest hallway she’d ever seen. It was broad, with a vaulted, Baroque painted ceiling. Four massive chandeliers floated in the air. Their crystals appeared eerily muted in the dark. The walls were festooned with works of art. Some of the frames were larger than life—portraits, still-lifes, hunting scenes, landscapes. The artist in her couldn’t wait for the daylight to see them to better effect.
The lord turned, raising his candle high, and she nearly stumbled into him. “So, who are you then?” he said with that imperiously arched brow.
“I’m Rosalie Harrow,” she repeated. “Look, I get the distinct impression no one knew to expect me. But I promise, my intentions are honest. I was invited by the duchess. I have her letter here if you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I know my mother is expecting you. What I don’t know is why. What does she want with you?”
By the look on his face, Lord James must be used to people answering any question he asked with alacrity. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure of the answer. “All I know is that our mothers were childhood friends. My mother died recently, and that’s the first I heard mention of the dowager duchess. My invitation here is as much a mystery to me as it is to you, sir.”
He considered her words with a deepening frown. “How old are you, Miss Harrow?”
It was rather a rude question to ask, but she was beyond propriety standing in this grand space half-dipped in mud. “I’m twenty-two, sir.”
“And your father?”
“Dead, sir.”
“Your family?”
“I have but one aunt living.”
“Your fortune?”
Now she laughed. “Is this an interrogation, my lord? If I pass your test, will you do the gentlemanly thing and show me to a room?”
His nostrils flared like a dragon without fire. Before he could respond, hurried footsteps echoed down the gallery. They both turned to see a footman trotting towards them, candle flickering in his hand.
“My lord,” the footman said, sliding to a halt, wig askew.
“What is it, Parker?”
“A carriage arrived, my lord, delivering a trunk for the lady.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t have to sleep naked tonight.
“Mr. Burke promised the coachman payment, my lord,” the footman added. “But Mr. Reed has already gone up to bed—”
“I’ll handle it,” said Lord James. “Please go find Mrs. Davies.” He turned, thrusting out his candle. “Take this, Miss Harrow, and wait here. The housekeeper will be along shortly.” Their fingertips brushed as he handed it over and she pulled back from his touch.
Without another word, the lord turned on his heel and stormed away. The footman gave her a little nod before he too ran off, the orb of his candle bobbing away down the grand gallery. Rosalie stood alone, candle in one hand, travel case in the other, waiting for the housekeeper…and praying for a bath.
