This author can confidently report that the illustrious V— F— recently returned to town. He was spotted in the early hours of Saturday arriving at C— House. Rumors abound as to the identity of a certain lady seen on his arm…and sporting his evening coat.
Rosalie set the folded newspaper aside. “Is this the last one?”
Renley nodded, his hand rubbing small circles on her back over her chemise. “There may be more in the coming days. Though your window escape will cause a bigger splash,” he added.
“George makes the papers so often, the ton will hardly see it as sensational,” Burke said from her other side. “He’s always been an eccentric.”
She considered this for a moment. “Meaning the focus will be on me entirely…no one will care about his behavior. They will only mark mine.”
Burke shrugged. “The ton always marks a lady’s conduct more harshly than a lord’s.”
They were sitting on her bed, the early morning sunlight peeking in through her cracked curtains. Last night, they’d been so gentle with her, holding her and murmuring soft words as she fell asleep in their arms. She woke to find Burke’s place empty, but he’d returned before she could question his absence, the small stack of papers in hand.
The gossip wasn’t as bad as she imagined—half a dozen pieces announcing the arrival of Viscount Finchley. Her name wasn’t referenced in any of them, but two made mention of her dark hair. It wasn’t hard to piece the rest together.
She handed the papers back to Burke. “We need to talk about Olivia.”
He set them aside. “I don’t like having other women mentioned when I’m in your bed,” he replied, pulling her closer.
“In this case, sir, I am the other woman.”
He stiffened, his forehead pressed against the nape of her neck.
“She is your intended. Even if you don’t mean to follow through with the wedding, you still shook hands with her mother. You agreed—”
“Under duress,” he growled.
“All the same…” She shifted away from him, turning to meet his stormy grey eyes. “You need to speak with her. Alone. Do it today. You need to make her understand your intentions. She deserves the truth, Burke.”
He raised a dark brow. “You think it wise to tell her about us?”
“If she is half the lady I think she is, she’ll already be hard at work recruiting gossip from the staff here. And you have not been discreet,” she reminded him. “I imagine there is little else on this earth surer to upset her than humiliation. Tell her that we mean to see a way out for her.”
Burke glanced at Renley, seeking confirmation.
She looked back to see Renley stretched out, arms tucked behind his head. His broad, muscled chest on display. Each time she saw his tattoos, she fought the urge to trace them with her fingers, her lips…
“I agree with Rose,” he said. “Secrets and lies make me edgy. I may think the gorgon deserves to be brought down a peg…but not like this. And certainly not in any way that will reflect badly on Rose.”
A sound down the hall of a shutting door made them all twitch.
“Heavens, the servants will already be moving about,” she whispered, checking the time on the mantle clock. “You both have to go. Now.”
They wasted no time getting out of the bed. Renley slept in his breeches, but his shirt was left discarded on the floor. He tugged it on, while Burke worked himself into his robe. Apparently, the man always slept naked, company or no. Rosalie felt a little flutter in her chest knowing she was learning these intimate habits.
“We may not see you again until dinner,” Renley said, coming around the end of the bed. He wrapped her in his arms, kissing her twice. Her senses swam. Each time he kissed her she felt it everywhere.
No sooner had she recovered than Burke was there. He cupped her face with both hands. “Don’t think I will soon forget your comment about being the other woman,” he said. “Add it to the list of things I intend to punish you for…soon.”
With that threat, he kissed her, nipping her bottom lip hard enough to make her wince. He pulled back, brushing his thumb lightly over the abused lip. “There is no other woman, Rosalie Harrow. There is only you.”
An hour later, Rosalie was dressed in her favorite new walking gown—the pretty, long-sleeved French design with the forest green overlay and pink patterned skirt. She paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, as she spotted Piety and the duke on the middle landing.
“Oh, Miss Harrow, what a relief,” Piety called. She was a vision in sapphire blue, her blonde curls piled high in a style not unlike the one typically worn by the duchess. “My fidanzato and I are having a disagreement. You must come arbitrate.” She waved her hand airily over her shoulder, already turning back to the apparent object of their tiff.
Rosalie came down the stairs and stood at Piety’s side.
“I think it is grotesque, and want it boxed away,” Piety explained, pointing up at a large painting on the wall. “But His Grace believes that art must be allowed to be art. What is your opinion?”
“Cabbage is an expert in pencils,” the duke complained. “What can she know about oils?”
Piety giggled. “Did you just call her a cabbage?”
“Hmm,” he replied, still looking at the painting. “Don’t the lower classes eat cabbages?”
“Oh, Your Grace, you are cruel.”
“Thank you,” Rosalie murmured, to which the duke just shrugged.
“Well?” Piety gestured at the painting. “What are your thoughts, Miss Harrow.”
Rosalie took in the life-sized portrait of…well, he was surely a man, a lord perhaps? But the proportions were off—his torso too narrow, and his thighs longer than his calves. The details of the face were so obscured by the heavy-handed application of thick paint, it made the features seem almost deformed. If the sitter actually paid for this portrait, he was grossly abused.
She pursed her lips. “Well, from a certain angle perhaps…”
“It is horrid,” Piety whined. “It shall haunt my dreams, Your Grace. It should have no place on the walls of a house as great and noble as this. Whoever put it in such a spot of honor must have been playing a cruel joke.”
The duke just chuckled. “I had this piece hung here. It may be one of my favorites in the house.”
Rosalie fought her laugh as Piety sputtered. “But—you have an original Reynolds,” she cried. “A Gainsborough portrait sits in your drawing room. There is a Vittore Carpaccio in your dining room, Your Grace. How can you even compare—”
“I never said I was trying to compare them,” the duke replied.
“But—”
“My darling lemon drop, if it bothers you so much, simply avert your eyes,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Avert my eyes on the stairs? Do you wish me to tumble to my death?”
Turing sharply, he wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck and cupping her bottom in a display that had the lady squealing.
“Your Grace, not in front of Miss Harrow,” she giggled.
Yes, please god, not in front of me.
Rosalie took a step back as the duke growled into Piety’s neck. “I shall build a litter for you with silk curtains, and my footmen shall carry you down the stairs past the offensive painting every morning and every night.”
“You are impossible,” Piety cried.
“Nothing is impossible for a duke.” Over her shoulder, he caught Rosalie’s eye and winked.
Rosalie grimaced. “I shall just…leave you then.” She inched around them, trying to blot out the sounds of panting as she escaped down the stairs. No sooner had she turned the corner than she paused in her steps with a gasp.
The duchess stood before her, resplendent as ever in a blush pink gown. A little lap dog sat curled in her arms. “Are they still there?” she said, her mouth tipped into a frown.
Behind Rosalie, peals of laughter echoed down the stairs, followed by a squeal of ‘Oh, Your Grace!’ She shifted awkwardly. “It would seem so.”
The duchess tisked. “Apparently, Mr. Nash has not managed to buy any class with his buckets of new money. The girl is offensive.”
“The girl will be duchess of this house,” Rosalie replied. “Perhaps if we are all to live happily together, we might look for her merits rather than her faults.”
The duchess held her gaze, those blue eyes the same shade and shape as her eldest son’s. “And what of me, Miss Harrow? Are you to look for my merits rather than my faults?”
“I don’t typically look at people to find fault with them, Your Grace. I prefer to find the beauty in things. It is the artist in me…the ever-reluctant optimist.”
The duchess huffed at that.
Rosalie decided to offer an olive branch. “In your case, I need not look very hard…your merits being so evident in the running of this house, the quality of your staff, the generosity of your sons.” She paused before adding, “As well as your demonstrated generosity towards me. You paid my family’s debts. I have not forgotten.”
“And yet, yesterday you threatened to expose me in front of my children,” the duchess snarled. “I confided in you, I helped you, and you were ready to use it against me. You think after three weeks in this world you’re ready to take on a duchess and win? You think to put me in my place?”
Rosalie just shrugged. “I think, to quote your son, I am a lioness. I will fight for those I love and for those too weak to fight for themselves.”
The duchess narrowed her eyes. “And James is weak in your eyes?”
“I said nothing about James,” Rosalie replied. “His Grace calls me the lioness. You fought so hard to earn him his title, schemed so beautifully, and I think part of you now resents him for it. You are cruel to him, and I will not tolerate it. As his ward, I issue you this warning: hurt him with unkind words in my presence again, and I will tear at your throat until no words are left.”
The duchess blinked, unshed tears in eyes. Slowly, she nodded her approval. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” she whispered.
A faint smile tipped Rosalie’s lips. “True, but he has me all the same.”
The ladies held each other’s gaze for a moment before the duchess leaned in and whispered, “Will you tell him what you know?”
Rosalie didn’t need to ask which son she referred to now. “No…but perhaps you should. About the money…about everything. James values honesty above all else. You will not keep him close to you if you cannot learn to be honest with him.”
Even as she said the words, she saw them for the cruel joke they were. But she’d given her promise, and she meant to keep it. James would not be hearing about his mother’s past from her lips. And if he couldn’t respect her decision to honor her oath, well…then perhaps they were too incompatible to ever work.
The duchess squared her shoulders, giving her little dog another pat. “I think I shall take a walk in the garden. Moppet needs some fresh air…will you join me, Miss Rose?”
Rosalie smiled. “I would be happy to, Your Grace.”
