Chapter Four
The chill of the January afternoon vanished as Rosie, accompanied by the Revelstokes, entered the bustling warmth of the Pantheon Bazaar two days later. She felt a kinship with this mecca of extravagant goods—and not only because she adored shopping. Once home to lavish assemblies for the beau monde, the grand building had gone through various iterations and owners, losing its reputation in the early part of the century. In recent months, however, it had undergone a radical transformation, reopening its doors to become a premier shopping destination.
Hope soared through Rosie. Like the Pantheon, I, too, shall rise from the ashes of disgrace.
Now everyone who was anyone flocked to the Pantheon’s stalls. The finest goods could be found within the colonnaded grand atrium, which was decorated with plaster moldings and topped with a coffered dome. In addition to the shops, the Pantheon boasted a gallery of paintings on the upper floor and a glass-walled conservatory that housed a collection of exotic plants and beasts.
“Do you see Daltry?” Polly whispered.
Rosie, who’d been scanning the throng of well-dressed patrons, shook her head. “In my note, I said that I would be in the conservatory at two o’clock. There’s still an hour to go.”
“Are you certain you wish to do this?” The white silk lining of Polly’s bonnet enhanced the clarity of her aquamarine eyes and their worried expression. “Because we can always—”
“This is what I want.” Having heard the anxious litany on the carriage ride over, Rosie headed the other off at the pass. “Now onto more pressing matters: how do I look?”
Her question was prompted by pragmatism rather than vanity. Physical appearance being her main asset, she had to make the most of what she had. Moreover, conveying a proper, fashionable image was essential in battling the gossip about her.
No matter what anyone said about her, she would always look like a lady.
Thus, she’d worn a pink merino carriage dress with gigot sleeves and full skirts embroidered with black silk thread at the hem. A matching pink mantlet bordered with black velvet draped over her shoulders, a square-buckled ceinture cinching it all in at her waist. To top it all off, she sported a capote bonnet trimmed with pink ribbon and adorned with a clever mix of wax cherries and real hothouse blooms.
Although her corset made breathing a challenge and her bonnet required that she keep her head subtly tilted to offset the weight of the fruit, the effect was worth it. She was as perfectly turned out as any one of her dolls. She was ready to meet Daltry—and to land him.
“You look beautiful, as always.” Polly nudged her husband. “Doesn’t she, Sinjin?”
“You look very well, Miss Kent,” Revelstoke said.
How he could make that assessment was anyone’s guess since he had eyes for no one but Polly. Former rakes apparently not only made the best husbands, they were the most besotted ones, too.
Stifling her amusement, Rosie said, “Shall we make our rounds?”
The three of them spent the next half-hour meandering through the stalls. For once, the Pantheon’s abundant delights failed to distract Rosie, her mind preoccupied by her bold plan. Daltry’s new title was attracting unwed ladies like flies to honey, and she had to act whilst she still had an advantage. Thus, she’d sent Odette on a covert mission to deliver a note to him yesterday; the French maid had returned with an affirmative reply.
Now I must strike while the iron is hot…
“What do you think of this silver comb?” Polly asked.
With an expert eye, Rosie perused the tray of hair ornaments laid out by a stall keeper. “The silver filigree is pretty, but the gold comb would look ravishing with your coloring.”
“Excellent choice, miss.” The merchant beamed, no doubt at the prospect of the higher sale.
“We’ll take both,” Polly told him, “the silver for my sister and the gold for me.”
As Revelstoke completed the transaction with the merchant, Rosie murmured, “You didn’t have to do that, Pols.”
“I know I didn’t have to.” Polly linked arms with her, their gowns swishing as they strolled on together. “But recall how whenever you went shopping, you always bought something for me too. I’m returning the favor.”
“Back then I had to buy you things. For reasons I’ll never comprehend, you chose charitable work with foundlings over shopping. But now look at you,” Rosie said fondly. “You’re a veritable fashion plate.”
“I still prefer the foundlings,” Polly admitted. “Sinjin chooses my wardrobe for me.”
“No doubt he knows your measurements by heart.”
“Rosie.”
Rosie laughed. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized. Save it for when I tell you my good news about Daltry. Speaking of which—I’d best get on to the conservatory to meet him.”
“At least let me accompany you—”
“I need privacy. But don’t worry: Daltry and I are meeting in the section at the back where hardly anyone goes. And if anyone sees us, I’ll pretend I lost you in the crowd, and Daltry was escorting me back to you.”
Polly chewed on her lip. “If I don’t see you back here in exactly fifteen minutes, I’m going to the conservatory to look for you.”
“All right, mother hen.” Rosie winked. “Wish me luck.”
~~~
Rosie arrived at the conservatory a tad breathless. A new shipment of tea had arrived from China, and she’d had to make her way through a throng vying to get a sample of the fashionable brew. As a result, it was a few minutes past the appointed meeting time, and she saw that a uniformed man was cordoning off the entryway, shooing away would-be visitors.
“Oh dear,” she said in dismay, “the conservatory isn’t closed, is it?”
The man touched his hand to his cap, bowing. “For cleaning, miss.”
Botheration. Had Daltry come and gone already? Should she wait here or go look for him…
“Beg pardon, but you wouldn’t happen to be Miss Kent?”
She looked at the guard in surprise. “I am indeed.”
“You’re expected, miss.” He untied the rope, granting her access. “In the rotunda at the back.”
“Thank you.” Flashing the man a relieved smile, she made her way in.
She’d never been inside the conservatory while it was empty, and, as she hurried through the long hall, she felt as if she were inside an enchanted garden. The greenhouse walls were composed of glass panes held together by a delicate grid of ironwork. Flowering vines climbed toward the vaulted ceiling, and a stone fountain gurgled merrily as she passed.
Here, she would have the privacy she needed to negotiate the future with Daltry, and things were working out even better than she planned… so why was she feeling uneasy? Why did she have a sudden impulse to turn around and run?
This is what you want. Don’t lose your starch now.
She reached the end of the corridor, which opened into a rotunda shrouded with greenery. Citrus and gardenia perfumed the humid air, and she followed the maze-like path created by the tall potted plants toward the hidden heart of the room. At her arrival, she stopped short: an all-too-familiar tall, broad-shouldered figure was standing next to a basin filled with darting fish.
“Dash it all,” she blurted. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing, Miss Kent,” the stranger replied.
But he wasn’t a stranger, was he? she fumed. This man was the same bounder who’d ruined her plans the last time! To her further annoyance, he looked even more attractive unmasked and in the daylight. Beneath the brim of his elegant hat, his hair gleamed like polished bronze.
His features were the sort that ought to be immortalized in marble: straight, strong, classically male. She saw that he was a tad older than she’d first assumed—in his mid-thirties, most likely. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth saved him from bland perfection and enhanced his aura of sensual experience.
And his eyes… the light revealed that they were a rich brown. Dark as chocolate and disturbingly knowing. As he bowed, she noted that his tailoring was undoubtedly superb, the azure double-breasted tailcoat, tan waistcoat, and buff trousers showcasing his long, sinewy form. His tall black boots, banded by brown leather at the top, hugged his muscular calves.
Stop gawking and gather your wits, you ninny.
She drew her shoulders up and skewered him with a glare. “What business is it of yours?”
“You made me a promise, and you didn’t keep it,” he said mildly.
“I made you no promise! You assumed that you could order me about,” she snapped. “Now kindly make yourself scarce as I am expecting someone—”
“Daltry’s not coming.”
“How would you know?” She blinked. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”
“He’s having some problems with his carriage, I’m afraid.”
Suspicions collided like carts on Covent Garden market day, words scattering from her.
“Did you sabotage Daltry’s vehicle? That guard back there,” she cried in outrage, “he’s not even an employee of the Pantheon, is he? You set this all up!”
The stranger regarded her. “The man is a guard, actually. I bribed him.”
“Of all the nerve.” She marched up to him, jabbed a gloved finger at his chest. “For the last time: who in blazes are you, and why do you insist on ruining my future?”
“I told you: I’m a friend. My sole purpose is to protect you.” His dark gaze was steady, mesmerizing in its intensity. “Daltry will cause you pain, my dear.”
“He is an earl, possessed of one of the oldest titles in the peerage,” she said acidly. “I’ll take the torture, thank you very much.”
“He has three by-blows. By three different mistresses. None of whom—mother or child—he treats with any degree of responsibility.”
The revelations were made more shocking by the emotionless tone in which they’d been uttered. Ruthlessly, Rosie pushed them aside to deal with later.
“It’s easy to talk about a man’s sins when he’s not present,” she scoffed.
“If you don’t believe me, ask your mama. Or your father. He’s an investigator, isn’t he? I’m sure he can have the information verified.”
“I’m not going to discuss Daltry’s by-blows—alleged by-blows, I mean—with my parents!”
“Don’t you think they’d want to know the character of their potential son-in-law?”
The last thing Rosie wanted was to place Daltry beneath the parental magnifying glass. Mama already thought he was a roué. Papa always agreed with Mama.
Switching tactics, she said, “If you’re a friend, why won’t you reveal your identity?”
Shadows ghosted through his eyes. “Because you shouldn’t know a man like me.” His jaw tightened. “And you wouldn’t have to, if you would only behave.”
Behave? Her head jerked at the insult. “I am not a witless child, sir, to be ordered about!”
“To the contrary, discipline is what you need. You’ve been given too much latitude, which has resulted in you running about pell-mell, courting disaster at every turn,” he said grimly. “A young lady’s reputation is her most precious and irreplaceable commodity, Miss Kent, and you are dangerously close to losing yours.”
His words struck with the precision of a sniper’s bullet, hitting the bull’s-eye of all her failures. In a single stroke, he shattered her defenses, her pretty composure cracking like porcelain, shards slicing into her heart. Her wicked, ugly self was bared, and it snarled, fighting back against the exposing light.
“How dare you speak to me that way? I despise you.” She raised her fists.
He caught them. Panting, she struggled to free herself, but she was trapped by his superior strength. She fought and fought and still his hold on her wrists didn’t budge. As her energy sapped, something else began to flow in its place. Something dark and terrifying, as if she’d been walking on the edge of a dormant volcano, and it was suddenly rumbling to life.
To her horror, humid heat surged against the back of her eyes.
She hadn’t cried in ages. Not when she’d discovered that yet another gentleman had been dallying with her, not even when that literary “masterpiece” about her had been published for the world to see. Now, tears leaked down her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop them.
His arms enveloped her, the comfort so absolute that she had no choice but to surrender. To bury her face into his solid strength. To allow her disappointments and humiliations to soak into the spice-tinged wool of his jacket.
After the jag ended, she felt lighter—but perhaps that was because she was no longer wearing her bonnet. It had tumbled to the ground, the sight of the scattered cherries bringing her back to reality. What had just happened? Why had she abandoned herself in the arms of a stranger—and this stranger, no less?
Why did she feel… safe with him?
Trembling, she drew back.
He didn’t stop her, his arms falling to his sides.
“I—I don’t know what came over me. I’m not normally a watering pot,” she blurted.
“Without rain, nothing grows.”
The understanding in his warm eyes made her heart thump against her ribs. The sense of familiarity unfurled inside her, awareness blossoming. I know him, and he knows me.
But how was that possible?
“Tell me your name,” she whispered.
He cupped her cheek with his hand, his gloved thumb swiping away a stray tear. “It’s better for you not to know. Just trust that I want what’s best for you. That I’ll be there for you when you need me.”
Mesmerized by the husky intensity of his words, the tenderness of his touch, she said, “How can I trust you if I don’t know who you are?”
“Listen to your instincts. What do they tell you?”
The answer surfaced from some inner abyss. Her hand lifted, closed over his, which was still cradling her cheek. Through their gloves, their heat mingled, her pulse racing at the rightness of it. Before she knew what she was doing, she rose on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against his jaw. She heard his sharp intake of breath; before her heels touched the ground, he had her face framed between his hands, his gaze holding hers intently.
You know this man… trust him.
A breath puffed from her lips. Her eyes closed, her head tipping back.
~~~
This is wrong. Don’t do this.
As he beheld Primrose’s loveliness, her head resting trustingly between his palms, her fresh floral scent filling his nostrils, the words pounded in his skull. They were as futile as a prisoner’s fists against iron bars. His rationality had dissolved the moment she’d kissed him. One innocent, tentative kiss—and desire had roared to life inside him. Desire that was anything but brotherly. Desire that was unexpected, unwanted.
Undeniable.
Her upturned lips trembled, as did her lashes against her cheeks. Her offering was so vulnerable and sweet that he had to partake. Just one taste. One time. He bent his head, touched his mouth to hers—ah, Christ.
Her sweetness hit him like a right hook: his head reeled, thoughts scattered.
Only instinct remained.
His mouth sank into hers, a gentle fusion of honey and heat. A perfect fit. Before long, he had to delve deeper into the source of pleasure. His tongue slid against the seam of her mouth, and, after a brief hesitation, she yielded.
God, her taste. Fresh. Intoxicating.
Right.
Arousal blasted through him. His tongue foraged inside, and he felt her shivered response all the way in his balls. Angling her head back, he deepened the kiss, savoring her sugar and softness, the essence of who she was. When her tongue brushed shyly against his, a hot drop of pleasure slid down his spine, and he groaned against her lips.
“Rosie, are you in here?”
The distant, feminine voice snapped his head up. Bloody fucking hell.
He let go of Primrose, who stumbled back a step. Her gaze locked with his: he saw shock and innocence in those jade depths, the bright remnants of desire. A stray curl lay against her cheek like an upside-down question mark.
What the hell have you done, you bastard?
“Rosie, I’m coming in right now,” the voice warned.
He lifted his hand toward her—and let it fall. Nothing to say, no time to say it. Without a word, he turned and left her… again.