Chapter 4

Rose knew Philip was busy for the following few days. Then, on the day of Lord and Lady Spencer’s ball, he sent a note. It was brief and to the point. He’d meet her there.

She couldn’t wait. Part of her hoped that meant he would sneak into her townhouse afterward. Another part reminded her of her decision to question his intentions. Already she was both anticipating their meeting, and dreading it.

Tonight, after the ball, she would find her courage and face her fears. It was time for them both to be honest about their relationship—if one could call it that.

It wasn’t as if Philip was openly courting her. A few nights in secret here, a few weeks’ holiday together there. Over the course of two years it was hardly a commitment.

The ball was a sad crush, and she was beginning to wonder if she would even see Philip in the crowd when a prickle of heat on her neck alerted her that she was being watched.

She turned her head, and there he was. Philip. Their eyes met and held, and awareness smoldered like a stoked fire between them.

She caught her breath.

He was so handsome. An image of him as he’d looked when she’d been a young girl of fifteen pushed to the forefront of her thoughts. He had been the kind of handsome that warranted second and third looks. But she had not realized at the time that, as he matured, his looks would become more masculine, morphing into a stark beauty that stirred her senses. Was it any wonder that first impression upon her fifteen-year-old heart paled in comparison to her feelings for him now?

Would this feeling ever fade?

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as it occurred to her that tonight might be her last night with him.

“He is exceedingly handsome, is he not?”

Lady Philomena’s catty voice jolted Rose from her lustful thoughts.

The impoverished widow hated her, seeing her as a wealthy rival. Rose’s husband had left her a large widow’s portion. Philomena’s had left her barely enough to have a few new gowns made each season. Desperate to land a wealthy husband, Philomena had wanted to get her hooks into Philip but then Rose came along.

Really, some women were so blind. Philomena—and many other women of the ton—only saw Philip’s handsome face, his title, and his wealth. Rose saw all those things, too. But she saw so much more. She saw his hurt, pain, and guilt. She, more than anyone, understood Philip. Perhaps better than he did himself.

“Who is handsome?” Rose pretended nonchalance, but feared everyone had already seen her reaction to Philip.

“Why, Lord Cumberland, of course.” Lady Philomena’s catlike smile held an edge of malevolence and enjoyment. “Don’t you agree? And there are so many fascinating women in the room. Really, the man is spoiled for choice.”

The witch was enjoying herself far too much. What had Rose missed? “I’m sure Lord Cumberland is deluged with admirers,” Rose said, keeping her tone neutral.

Lady Philomena laughed. “We should know, darling. We have both shared his bed.” Her eyes and voice hardened. Chilled. “He used to share his favors, but then you cast your spell.” She studied Rose insolently, slippers to crown. “You stole him from me. Now it’s your turn to be tossed aside. He’s in the market for a wife.”

Gooseflesh prickled her heated skin. Was he? Was this why he’d kept his distance? But she couldn’t think about Philip. Not with Lady Philomena watching her like a cat. Call her bluff; don’t let the bitch know you are vulnerable.

She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Quite possibly. He has to marry sometime. Heirs are a requirement for an earl.”

Rose had the pleasure of seeing her response was not what the woman had been hoping for.

Lady Philomena’s eyes narrowed. “So, you really don’t wish to remarry.”

Rose’s light laugh cost her dearly. “What do I need a husband for? A man, yes, one must have a lover, but a husband?” She let the implied question hang in the air.

Lady Philomena lost her catlike smile. She thrust her head forward, teeth bared and eyes flashing. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re still Duchess of Roxborough. You’re young. You’re rich. But one day you’ll have nothing, and then where will you be?”

Alone. Rose would be alone. She was honest enough to admit she did not wish to end up alone. But she also did not wish to find herself with another husband she could not stand. She already knew how that would be. It was far worse than being alone.

The strains of a waltz—the first waltz of the evening—sounded from the orchestra.

“Well, well.” The delight in Lady Philomena’s voice burned like acid. “It appears your lover has found his future bride.”

Startled, Rose followed the direction of Lady Philomena’s pointing fan. And all her dreams came tumbling down.

On the other side of the ballroom stood Philip, about to lead a young woman onto the floor. Lady Abigail Somebody-or-other, Rose thought numbly, the nineteen-year-old beauty reputed to be the leading debutante of the Season.

“I told you so.” The victory in Lady Philomena’s voice broke through Rose’s pain. “He’s never danced the waltz with any of the ton’s leading debutantes before. He’s made his choice—and it isn’t you.” With that poisoned barb, she turned and rustled away, leaving Rose standing by herself. Like a statue. Mesmerized by the pair as they glided past, the girl gazing adoringly up into Philip’s smiling face.

Rose recognized the look. It was how she used to stare at him years ago when she was younger and still innocent. She was no longer innocent. Life and her silly pursuit of freedom had seen to that. How could she blame Philip for wanting to possess something so lovely, so untouched, so beautiful?

Philip made a comment and the girl laughed, light and happy. Rose’s heart squeezed hard in her chest, squeezed so hard she thought she’d not be able to take another breath—

An arm slipped through hers. “Smile,” Portia said. “Others are watching.” And she gave a little giggle as though Rose had said something funny.

Obediently, Rose smiled and followed her best friend’s lead, walking and chatting as though she hadn’t a care. As though her heart hadn’t been ripped out of her chest. As though her world were not falling apart.

Finally, they reached a quiet spot out of the way of dancers and watchers. Portia drew her down to the seat beside her, and Rose went willingly before her legs folded under her.

“Why?” she whispered.

“I’m sure it’s only because Mother is here,” Portia said comfortingly. “She has been ringing a fine peal over him for months about getting married and filling his nursery.”

Portia’s light reply made her feel worse. If Philip wanted to appease his mother, that was one thing. If he wanted to make a public statement that he did not consider her a viable option for his countess, that was quite another. Pain lanced through her at that thought. She couldn’t just sit there.

She shoved to her feet, not sure how she got her legs to move. If Portia hadn’t joined her and quickly slipped an arm around her waist—all the time chatting inconsequentially about fustian nonsense, Rose felt she might have crumpled to the floor in a puddle of tears.

But Portia refused to allow Rose to wilt. She was the Duchess of Roxborough. People might believe that something was amiss, but unless Rose lost control they would not be certain.

So they walked around the whole ballroom, ignoring the speculative glances of the men and the horrified glee of many of the women. Only when the dance had ended did Portia relent and shepherd her over to where Lady Serena and Lady Marisa sat talking together.

“How lovely to see you, Rose,” Serena said, and kissed her cheek. “I do hope you’re free for dinner on Wednesday night. Just a small gathering.”

“That would be lovely,” she replied automatically, wondering at the same time if Philip would be there with Lady Abigail. If so, she would send a regretful refusal.

Would she lose the friendship of these women now that her affair with Philip was over? How awful to lose everything in one day. But it would be awkward—to say the least—to have one’s ex-lover in the same room as one’s future wife.

Her head began to pound and the noise around her sounded odd—like breaking waves—and far too loud. Home. She wanted to go home.

She thought rather badly of him. That Philip should so publicly signal the end of their affair in this manner instead of letting it die away slowly or at least preparing her. She could have put on a brave face with a private and mutual ending to their affair, but to be unprepared, to have to face the end of her love affair this way…in front of the ton…

That was the issue. It had never been a love affair for Philip—merely an affair.

She could feel tears welling.

“I’m so sorry, ladies, I have a terrible headache. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll ask a servant to call for my carriage.”

Serena placed a hand on her arm. “Are you sure you want to leave, Rose? There could be an explanation for his behavior.”

So even they understood how dishonorable Philip’s actions had been.

She shook her head. “I really don’t care what people think, but if I don’t leave now I might slap his face if I see him.” Grief lodged in her throat. Made it hard to speak. “I don’t understand. I’ve never treated any of the men who professed to love me this way.”

“I agree with the slap.” Portia sounded almost bloodthirsty. “I’d like to kick him in the family jewels. But Serena is right. This is unlike him. There must be something else behind his behavior.”

Perhaps. At that moment Rose hurt too much to care. She squeezed Portia’s hand. “Thank you. I must go. I’ll be fine in the morning, but tonight I need to lick my wounds in private. Walk out with me, Marisa?”

“Of course.” Without a moment’s hesitation Marisa linked her arm through Rose’s and, chatting brightly, escorted her out to her waiting carriage.

After one of the most insipid dances of his life, Philip strode toward the refreshment table. Thank Christ that bloody display was over. It finally dawned on him how difficult it was going to be to misdirect his mother for much longer. She was unlikely to leave the matter of his marital status alone, but after tonight perhaps she would turn her attention to one of his brothers. He needed a drink. Then he needed to find Rose—and sanity.

“I could kick you where it bloody hurts.”

Surprised at his sister’s vicious whisper, he accepted the snifter of brandy the servant offered and turned to smile down at her. His smile faded as he recognized her calm mask. Portia only wore that expression when she was furious. “What’s wrong?”

She blinked at him. “And for that stupid question I just might get Grayson to bloody thump you, too. Very badly done, brother.”

He took a long-suffering sip of the spirit. No doubt he’d need it. “What am I supposed to have done?”

Portia’s eyes blazed but her face remained calm. “Are you really so unfeeling? Don’t you understand what that waltz with Lady Abigail signaled to everyone here?”

Damn Lady Abigail. And damn his mother’s interference. “It signaled that Mother is determined to see me riveted to some chit. You know what she is like. One minute I am talking to her and wishing I were anywhere else, and the next I find myself escorting some vacuous debutante onto the floor. It meant nothing.”

“Did it?” Now the polite mask slipped. “It certainly meant something to Rose. And to the ton. Everyone now believes you’ve discarded your mistress to start hunting for a wife. Lady Philomena couldn’t wait to rub Rose’s face in it.”

Philip’s heart dropped to the soles of his shoes. A curse on his mother. How could a woman of only five feet, two inches manipulate him into something so stupid? Because, as usual, he hadn’t thought. And he’d asked Rose to come tonight. He went cold. “Goddamn it to hell.”

Only as he frantically scanned the room for her did he realize the buzzing groups at the edge of the dance floor were casting covert glances their way. If he was the subject of speculation and gossip, then Rose—

“Where is she? I need to explain—”

“Gone,” Portia snapped.

Stunned, Philip swung his gaze back to her. “What?”

“I said she’s gone.” Portia’s cold mask was once again in place. “What did you expect? The ton believes you’ve publicly announced the end of your affair. She’s heartbroken that you’d treat her so cruelly.”

His fists clenched as he silently cursed his mother—and himself—to kingdom come. He’d known the moment his mother had come over with the simpering Lady Abigail that she was up to something. Why had he not found a way to thwart her? But as always, he hadn’t thought. All he’d seen was a chance to get his mother off the scent for a while by dancing with a young lady.

The entire set had been bearable only when he imagined it was Rose at his side. Rose’s hand he held. Rose’s face lifted up to his. That face appeared in his mind’s eye now, pale and haunted. Because of him. But he would never have ended their affair this way. Never hurt her like this. She had a place in his heart. If Robert had not died at Waterloo, then perhaps they could have been happy together. She was the only woman he wanted, needed. And yet he couldn’t give her what she deserved—his name. This was his punishment for causing Robert’s death—to grieve the woman he…cared for.

Sebastian was right. He was being unfair to Rose. It was time to set her free.

But first, he had to beg her forgiveness for his actions.

He put down his drink and, ignoring both Portia’s attempts to stop him and all the avid eyes of the ton, he shouldered his way out of the ballroom.