“We’re here.” The gentleness of James’ voice clashed with the stiffness of his resolve. It had been almost an hour since their last conversation, and he was still looking out the carriage window.
Rosalie watched with a heavy heart as his Corbin mask slipped firmly into place. His shoulders squared, his beautiful green eyes hardened, and that imperious chin lifted. James, the man who kissed her with a passion verging on obsession, was firmly locked away. In his place sat Lord James, Viscount Finchley.
Heavens, but it was an impressive transformation. This was the man she met on her first night at Alcott Hall. The lord who challenged her and sneered and treated her like an inconvenience. Her weary Atlas, carrying all the world’s troubles on his shoulders.
The carriage rattled into the courtyard of Corbin House and Rosalie peered out the window, taking in the handsome grey stone walls that stretched three stories high. It was still quite early. Morning light tinged the stone a hazy blue.
“Let me do the talking,” James said, voice low.
She shrugged out of his evening coat and tried to hand it back to him.
“Keep it.”
“I can’t,” she replied. “You know how it will look.”
He huffed. “It will look like a gentleman offered a lady a coat to keep her warm. Anyone who says otherwise will answer to me.”
“James—”
“Keep the damn coat,” he growled, leaning into her space until his face was mere inches from hers.
Her breath caught in her throat.
His gaze softened slightly, those green eyes rooting her to the spot, as he raised a hand and brushed his thumb over her parted lips. “I can’t wear it if it smells like you,” he whispered, his voice pained. “I cannot think. Rosalie…I can’t breathe.”
For the briefest of moments, he touched his forehead to hers. Did he know? Did he see the way she was holding her face in the crook of her elbow all night, using his scent to calm her to sleep? The coat smelled so wonderfully of him—wool and leather oil and faint notes of spiced cologne. But now it smelled like her too, so it was tainted.
No, not tainted. Tempting. Too tempting.
“Just…put it back on,” he said, dropping his hand away from her. “And leave the talking to me.”
He scooted away just as the carriage door swung open. He stepped out in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, taking all Rosalie’s air with him. She shrugged herself back into the coat, grateful for its warmth.
“Good heavens,” came a high, female voice. “We didn’t know to expect you, my lord. Gracious, you must be exhausted. What were you thinking, driving through the night? Dangerous—downright reckless—oh, I do hope nothing serious has happened at the great house.” By the way the woman fretted, equal parts servile and maternal, Rosalie felt sure she must be the housekeeper.
“Good morning, Mrs. Robbins,” James replied. “I know this is highly irregular, but I bring good tidings. His Grace is newly engaged.”
“Well—that is—” The lady blustered, and Rosalie could well imagine why. “That is simply wonderful news, my lord! May we know who is to be the new duchess?”
“Miss Piety Nash,” James replied. “I arrive express from Alcott where it was just announced. I’m on strict orders to prepare an engagement party. His Grace wants no expense spared,” he added. “George was explicit that it be held in a fortnight. I came ahead of the rest of the group with Miss Harrow, for there is much to plan and I require a feminine eye.”
Rosalie smirked. It was masterfully done—shifting the blame of their expedition onto the duke. George Corbin was surely eccentric enough that his staff would easily believe he sent his brother to London in the dead of night to plan a party for him.
“Miss—who, sir?”
Until that moment, James had been standing in front of the carriage door, blocking Rosalie in. He stepped aside now and held out a hand for her. She took it, letting him help her down the step.
“Gracious,” cried Mrs. Robbins. She was a short and stout lady with a ruffed collar at her neck and frizzy blonde hair tucked under a mop cap. She glanced from Rosalie to James. “Good morning, miss. Welcome to Corbin House.”
“Good morning,” Rosalie replied, giving the woman a smile.
James still held onto her hand, leading her forward. The footmen bustled around behind, shutting the carriage door and flipping up the step.
“Mrs. Robbins, may I present Miss Rosalie Harrow,” James said, his tone almost bored. “She is my mother’s ward. She was indispensable in arranging the Michaelmas ball. When I told her of my mission to plan a society soiree in less than a fortnight, she was only too happy to lend a hand.”
Rosalie watched Mrs. Robbins take in her disheveled hair, her ball gown and jewels, James’ coat. “Well, let’s get you both inside then. A spot of tea and breakfast—”
“Nothing for me,” James replied. “But please show Miss Harrow up to the Burgundy Room.” He turned to Rosalie. “I have business this morning. We can meet this afternoon to go over the schedule of events. Does that suit you?”
Rosalie knew what he was doing. He needed to confer a sense of authority to her. He wanted the staff to see her as more than a guest. “Yes, of course, my lord,” she replied.
He gave a curt nod. “Excellent.” With that, he turned and walked off, leaving her in the company of Mrs. Robbins and the two footmen.
“Well then, John, Tanner, you heard Lord James. Bring the lady’s luggage to the Burgundy Room,” said Mrs. Robbins with a snap of her fingers.
The young footmen exchanged a confused look. “But…she has no luggage.”
Corbin House was just as beautiful as Alcott Hall, though on a vastly different scale. The halls were narrower, the ceilings unpainted, and the architecture and furniture stylings all had a more modern feel. Rosalie followed dutifully behind Mrs. Robbins up to the second floor. With no luggage to tote, the footmen had quickly disappeared.
“You must have had a terrible journey,” Mrs. Robbins said, keys jangling at her hip. “If we had known to expect the family, we would have opened the house.”
“Please don’t make yourself uneasy on our account,” Rosalie replied, trotting to keep up. “It was beastly of us to arrive like this, but His Grace says ‘jump’ and it falls to us to say ‘how high.’”
Mrs. Robbins turned left at the stairs, taking Rosalie down a long hall. “Larders empty, half the staff on leave. If I had even a day’s warning…”
Rosalie let the woman fret aloud as they made another turn at the end of the hall. Mrs. Robbins opened the first door on the right and disappeared into a dark bedroom. She immediately went over to the window and opened the curtain a crack, just enough to let a little light pool inside. Then she moved over to the mantle and pulled a servant’s cord. Rosalie was sure a bell was ringing somewhere in the depths of the house.
“You’re welcome to take a rest, dear,” said Mrs. Robbins, turning down the coverlet on the bed. “You look dead on your feet. There’s a wash basin in the corner. Fanny will bring you some hot water. And there’s a proper washroom in the hall.”
A knock at the door had both women turning.
“Come in, Fanny,” Mrs. Robbins called.
A pretty, red-haired maid with copious freckles stepped into the room. She had a sleepy look on her face that disappeared as she took in Rosalie standing by the bed.
“Fanny, this is Miss Harrow. Please see she has everything she needs. Miss Harrow, should you require anything, please let any of the staff know.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Robbins,” Rosalie replied, offering the woman a grateful smile.
The maid glanced around the room confused. “But…why is she in here?”
Mrs. Robbins tisked. “Lord James expressly requested this room. We’ll bring in some flowers and I’ll have the girls dust it up a bit and it will be right as rain.” She moved towards the door, keys still jangling at her hip. “And it sounds like we’ll soon have a houseful, so we’ll need every room we can get.”
The housekeeper ducked out, leaving Rosalie alone with young Fanny.
The maid was still surveying Rosalie from her tousled hair to her satin slippered feet. “How can I help, miss?”
“Umm, perhaps some hot water,” Rosalie replied. She desperately needed a wash, especially after the events of last night.
Oh, heavens. She was all but naked under her gown. She’d quite forgotten that Burke ruined her chemise. When Fanny helped her undress, she’d find Rosalie in nothing but her stockings and stays!
“And umm…” Rosalie would surely die of mortification. “Could—could you perhaps…find me a spare chemise?”
The maid paused at the door. She turned slightly, her face unreadable. “Yes, miss. Right away.”
