Chapter Six
Heart hammering, she raced down the shadowy corridor.
She didn’t know what she was running from, only that it was close, too close, and she needed to hide. She arrived at a dead end, three doors surrounding her: which one should she choose? She grabbed the closest handle, her clammy hands fumbling to get it open. Stumbling inside, she slammed the door shut.
Silence. Darkness. The carpet beneath her slippers was thick as a bog, slowing her clumsy steps toward a flickering in the distance. A fireplace? As she got closer, she saw the back of a massive wingchair. Someone was sitting there. Smoke rose in ghostly spirals, the distinct fruity scent churning her stomach.
A man’s disembodied voice floated to her. “Come here, my little flower…”
Sweat leaked down her palms; on shaky legs, she ran from the room, through another door.
She found herself in a garret room, small, bare… at least no one was there. Her feet took her to the only window: through the glass, dawn’s first rays spilled over the rooftops and streets below. She blinked as the light grew brighter and brighter, a strange orange glow glazing the buildings and blazing into the sky…
Then she smelled it. Smoke.
She whipped around: the room was aflame.
Fire swirled, advancing hungrily toward her. Terror seized her as flames rose higher and higher, thick black smoke choking her lungs. Only one way to escape. She turned, threw open the window, stepping out onto the ledge. Her belly lurched as the cobblestones spun dizzily in her vision, so far away…
The fire exploded, a fist of air punching her out the window, and she screamed as she plummeted backward through darkness…
“Open your eyes, little one.”
Blinking, she found herself staring into the face of a god.
“Wh-where am I?” she stammered.
“You’re safe now.” His brown gaze was warm, his deep voice reassuring. “I’ve got you.”
She was on a bed, she realized, and he was on his side next to her, a wall of masculine strength.
“Who are you?” she murmured.
“You know who I am.”
“I don’t…” Yet staring into his beautiful countenance, she felt recognition stir. Like an autumn wind, it swirled through the leaves of her memories: feelings without images, familiarity without facts. I know you. She reached up, her hand curling against his jawbone.
His eyes smoldered. He bent his head, and her eyes closed in anticipation.
His kiss was like coming home to a place she’d never been. The touch of his lips, soft yet firm, threw open the curtains, dazzling her. So this is desire. Longing flooded her. His taste made her crave more, the disciplined forays of his tongue making her shiver and shake. She arched closer—
“Rosie, darling, are you awake?”
Rosie’s eyes flew open. Her heart thumped in her ears, and it took her a moment to recognize the chintz canopy and buttercup yellow walls, the cabinet of dolls. Her bedchamber. She touched her still-tingling lips, the dream slow to recede, ethereal tendrils clinging to her mind.
Beneath her nightgown, her breasts surged, achy and full. The tips were stiff and throbbing, a syrupy warmth gathered between her legs. Shame and horror collided.
Dear Lord, what is the matter with me? Why did I have such a wanton dream… about him?
“Rosie?”
“Coming, Mama!” Jumping out of bed, she hurriedly donned a flannel wrapper, took a breath, and opened the door.
Mama stood there in a lilac promenade dress.
“Good morning, dear,” she said pleasantly. “Odette said that you were not yet up, and I thought I’d check on you myself.” She made her way inside, the dark-haired maid following in her wake. “You may set the tray down, Odette. I’ll help my daughter with her ablutions this morning.”
Odette bobbed a curtsy and left after drawing open the curtains.
Mama waved Rosie to the rosewood vanity.
Obediently, Rosie took a seat. “You’re up early, aren’t you?”
“I have Sophie to thank for that.” Mama’s smile was rueful as she poured steaming water from the ewer into the basin. “Libby brought her to me at dawn.”
“You ought to hire a wet nurse like other fashionable ladies.”
“I like nursing Sophie. I did the same for Edward and…”—Mama lined up the grooming implements with undue care—“as long as I could for you.”
The reminder of their separation was there, always. Rosie knew it wasn’t her mother’s fault: Mama’s late and unmourned husband, Baron Draven, had stolen Rosie from her. Nonetheless, Rosie couldn’t squelch her bitterness at the infamous start to her life. Unlike her half-siblings, she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and she’d been kidnapped by that bounder Draven, and God knows what else had happened in the period before Sir Gerald Coyner had become her guardian.
Darkness rose from the depths of her dream, bringing with it that nameless dread that made her pulse throb at the base of her throat. Don’t think about it. Shut it out.
She washed her face with a towel and managed, “Is Papa out already?”
Mama nodded. “Since he was up helping with Sophie, he thought he might as well get an early start at the office.”
Sophie again. “I’m surprised you’re not with her now.” The minute the words slipped out Rosie cringed at how petulant she sounded and hoped her parent didn’t notice.
“Libby took her for her daily outing earlier than usual.” Mama selected a silver-backed brush, running it through Rosie’s hair. “I thought I could have some time with you. We’ve not had much of late, have we?”
Relieved, Rosie returned her mama’s smile in the mirror. “No, we haven’t.”
“As a matter of fact, Helena paid a call yesterday while you were out shopping, and it made me realize that you and I have not discussed the Harteford masquerade.”
Despite the soothing strokes of the brush, she tensed. Aunt Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford, was Mama’s bosom friend, and the two were as thick as thieves. Had her aunt noticed her absence during the ball?
“There’s not much to share,” she said cautiously.
“Helena said that you were radiant in your swan costume.” Mama set down the brush, placing her hands onto Rosie’s shoulders. “Any prospects, dearest?”
Rosie contemplated confessing about the stranger (not that he was a prospect) and instantly rejected the notion. If her mother found out that she’d been unchaperoned in the presence of some mysterious man twice and she’d shared a kiss with him, she’d be subjected to a lifetime of sermons. Not to mention, she’d be kept under lock and key henceforth.
Fear of those consequences had led Rosie to withhold the truth even from Polly and Revelstoke. When they’d found her in the rotunda, she’d skimmed over the details of what had transpired, saying simply that Daltry hadn’t showed. Although she’d sensed the couple’s skepticism, she couldn’t very well confess that she’d kissed a stranger in a public place. And that she’d experienced desire for the first time.
And that she was an utter trollop.
“No one of consequence,” she forced herself to say lightly.
“Hmm.”
She was unnerved by the astute gleam in Mama’s eyes. “Hmm… what?”
“You know I only want the best for you, dearest.”
The phrase that always preceded a lecture. Her jaw tensed. “But?”
“Well, Helena mentioned that Mr. Fellowes, a nice young man, asked you to dance and you refused—”
“Because he has no title and no position in Society,” Rosie burst out. “He was only invited because his father does business with Lord Harteford. There was no point in encouraging him when marrying him won’t help my situation at all!”
“There’s no need for dramatics. Your situation, as you put it, isn’t as dire as you believe—”
“Not dire?” Rosie shot up to face her mother. “After that poem, my reputation is hanging on by a thread. If I don’t marry soon and well, I’ll be an outcast, a nobody—”
“You’re not a nobody,” Mama said sharply. “Why does the ton’s opinion matter so much?”
“Because it does.” Her hands curled at her sides. “I want to belong, Mama. Why is that so dashed difficult for you to understand?”
“I do understand. I just don’t agree. Rosie, my darling,”—Mama touched her arm, but she pulled away—“desperation doesn’t become you. You are better than this.”
She wasn’t. Why couldn’t anyone get it through their thick skulls?
“I am a bastard,” she cried. “I was kidnapped, and no one even knows how I ended up in Gerry’s care. I was damaged goods even before I got publicly branded a flirt!”
Pain—and awful guilt—seized Mama’s features.
“Those are my failures,” she said in a stilted voice, “not yours.”
Ashamed and angry in equal parts, Rosie lifted her chin. “Regardless, I have to live with the consequences. I have to find some way to hold my head up. I have to prove that I’m just as good as other debutantes!”
“That’s my point: you don’t have to prove anything. You think I don’t understand, but I do. I’ve experienced more of the world than you have. When I became Mrs. Ambrose Kent, the ton thought I’d married beneath me, and they could not have been more wrong. In that match, I was the lucky one. It was my great fortune to win your papa’s love, and Society’s opinion matters not a whit.”
“Papa is a prince among men,” Rosie said impatiently, “but you had the opportunity to make your choice to leave the ton—and that’s where we’re different. The beau monde won’t let me in, and I want a place there, more than anything.”
“More than love?” Mama frowned.
Who’s going to love damaged goods? All those failed flirtations had made the truth clear. Rosie had lost her faith in romance long ago, and as for her foolish reaction toward the stranger—hadn’t she learned anything? Like all the other men, he’d merely been dallying with her. Why, he’d taken off like a shot at the first sign of trouble. And that claptrap about protecting her?
Hah. Gentlemen were always chivalrous until they got what they wanted.
He said you were a hussy… and he proved it, didn’t he?
Humiliation oozed through her. Her encounter with the bounder was proof positive that she needed the protection of a high connection: a marriage that would make her untouchable. A locked cabinet that put her out of the reach of gossip and rejection.
She returned her mother’s direct gaze. “More than anything.”
Mama sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you.”
“I know.” The panicky feeling returned. When the sounds of crying broke the taut silence, Rosie was relieved. “Sophie is back. You’d best see to her.”
“I suppose I should.” Mama paused in the doorway, turning. “By the by, your father and I were thinking that it might be nice to spend some time in Chudleigh Crest. Sophie’s early arrival kept us here in Town, but I think we could all use a sojourn to the country.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Rosie said, aghast. “Chudleigh Crest has no society to speak of! This is my last chance to meet someone suitable—”
“Eligible bachelors are far and few between in Town at the moment. Like everyone else, they’ve gone to their country seat. I think a little rustication would do us all good.”
“But Mama—”
Sophie’s wails rose in volume.
“It’ll be best for all of us. Trust me, dearest.” With that gentle yet implacable decree, Mama left to tend to her other daughter.
~~~
“I am sure a bit of shopping will lift the spirits, Miss Primrose,” Odette said the following afternoon as they alighted in front of the Bond Street shop.
A devotee of shopping, Rosie couldn’t rouse even an iota of excitement as she and the maid approached Madame Diderot’s atelier. The ton literally owed its fine feathers to the famed plumassier’s art.
“What good will feathers do me in Chudleigh Crest?” Rosie’s breath formed puffs of despair in the chilly air. “The only attention I’ll attract there is that of the local inhabitants—the dashed grouse and pheasants who’ll want their plumage back.”
“I believe Madame Diderot’s plumes come from more exotic game, mademoiselle.” Looking as if she was trying not to smile, the dark-haired French maid opened the door, and Rosie went inside.
No matter the time of day, the plumasserie was dappled in shadow due to the strings of feathers festooned overhead. Plumage from every kind of bird and in a rainbow of glorious hues fluttered as the door closed. The scent of dyes, wax, and something earthier tickled Rosie’s nostrils as the proprietress came from behind a counter.
“Mademoiselle Kent,” she said with a curtsy, “what a lovely surprise to see you!”
Rosie wondered at the woman’s high color. Usually Diderot was as pale as a ghost.
“Likewise, Madame. Odette convinced me to brave the cold to attain a replacement. I lost the white ostrich feather at a masquerade,” she said apologetically.
“You are in luck. Today I received a special shipment which included several heron feathers.”
At the mention of the prized species, Rosie perked up. “I should love to see them.”
“They are in my specimen preparation room, which is a bit cramped. You would not mind your maid waiting here?”
At the words “specimen preparation,” Rosie’s belly had lurched. Being fastidious by nature meant that she was rather squeamish. The image of bloody carcasses flashed in her head, and she said uneasily, “There aren’t any specimens being, um, prepared, are there?”
“Not the animals, mademoiselle. Just the feathers.”
“All right then,” she said with relief. “I’ll be back, Odette.”
She followed the plumassier to a backroom. A large work table cluttered with specially shaped knives, scissors, and other implements of the trade dominated the space.
Diderot opened a door at the side of the room. “After you, Mademoiselle Kent.”
Rosie stepped inside the small chamber—and froze.
“You,” she said furiously.