When Seducing A Duke (15 page)

Rose woke that morning with a bit of a headache and the realization that she wasn’t a nice person. She always thought she was, but last night with Grey she’d realized the awful truth. She was a judgmental cow.

It hadn’t been her intention to insult him, but she’d done it all the same. At first she’d almost felt sorry for him, but after hearing the gossip—and then him not even trying to defend himself against it…

How could he have done those things? How could he have treated women so badly? And how could she, even after hearing it, still want to deny it?

Were you anyone else I would have plucked you that first season.

And no doubt then he would have moved on to someone else. The only reason he hadn’t done that now was because he didn’t go out anymore.

Or maybe he had moved on. Maybe, in the week and one day since their last night together, he’d bedded countless prostitutes. Maybe she had been just another conquest in a long and heartbreaking list.

Or maybe, she told herself when being maudlin started to become annoying, he was well aware of what people said about him and wanted to keep her as far from that as possible. Maybe, in that thick male head of his, he thought he was doing her a service by rejecting her.

Ridiculous, yes, but it was exactly the kind of thing an honorable coward might tell himself. Better to make them both miserable and keep up appearances than risk a chance of happiness and stir up the gossips. And perhaps his avoidance of society was for the best. People still whispered about his exploits of years ago. What would it feel like to stand by and watch him flirt with other women while the gossips speculated who would be next on his list of conquests?

And if she were an honest woman, which she was known to be on occasion, she could readily admit that hearing about his escapades had bothered her on so many levels. And, yes, it affected how she looked at him, how she thought of him.

But not, unfortunately, how she felt about him. Which either made her very generous, or very stupid.

She was also very hungry, despite the ache in her head. So, she climbed out of bed, rang for Heather, and set about getting ready for the day. She told her maid to tell Cook that she would like to take breakfast out on the terrace since it was such a lovely day and she doubted anyone would join her. Her mother had no doubt eaten long ago, and Grey was probably passed out somewhere if his condition of last night had worsened after her departure. She rather fancied him drinking himself blind after she made her grand exit.

Not that she wanted him to be miserable—she simply wanted to think that her words and opinion mattered.

As she stepped outside onto the terrace, the morning breeze came to greet her, brushing her skin with a gentle warmth that promised to increase as the day went on. A small table had already been prepared for her, and on it was a selection of breads and jams, along with a plate of sausage and eggs. It was her favorite breakfast, as Cook well knew.

Rose barely poured herself a cup of hot, mouthwatering chocolate, when she saw Grey and Archer walking across the lawn. Archer was impeccable as always, but Grey was a mess. His clothes were the same he’d worn the night before, and obviously slept in. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed a glimpse of tanned flesh that made her heart twitch and her fingers itch to touch him. His hair was mussed, and stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, except where prohibited by his scar.

In short, he looked absolutely beautiful—a fallen angel. The only thing that made him remotely human was that scar, and she could easily tell herself he got that from battling the archangel Gabriel before being thrown out of heaven.

She squinted as she realized Grey held something against his chest—something that moved. Was that a puppy?

She jumped to her feet, and skipped down the few steps that took her down to the lawn. Lifting the skirts of her yellow morning gown, she hurried to meet them. “Good morning!” she cried. “What have you there?”

Archer smiled in greeting, but Rose barely noticed. Her gaze was riveted on the man looking at her with an expression so hopeful it neigh on broke her heart.

“I brought you something,” he said, his voice low and strangely rough. “A gift.” And then he held out his arms and offered her the sweetest face she’d ever seen.

“Oh!” What an idiot she must seem, her eyes welling with tears over a dog, but she didn’t care. She let the tears come and slip down her cheeks as she took the warm, silky animal into her own arms, burying her face against its fur. “Grey, thank you!”

“He’s too young to be away from his mother yet, but he’s yours if you want him.”

“Of course I want him! He’s beautiful.”

He ran a hand through the thick tangle of his hair. “I didn’t know that you’d never had a dog before.”

Rose cast a glance at Archer, who shrugged. “Telling my secrets are you, Lord Archer?” What else had he revealed?

Grey’s brother shot her a sincere glance. “Only that one, Lady Rose. I did not think you would mind.”

“And I don’t.” Turning her attention back to the squirming puppy in her arms, Rose was rewarded with a lick to the chin.

“He’ll need to go back to the stables in a few minutes,” Grey told her. “But you can see him whenever you like.”

With her free hand, Rose reached out and took one of Grey’s. His fingers were so big and strong next to hers. She squeezed and then let go, letting him know with a touch just how much his gift meant to her. “I love him. Thank you so very much.”

“What are you going to name him?” he asked.

Rose tore her gaze away from the pleasure in his, lest she do something stupid like kiss him in front of his brother. Instead, she cast a small, secretive smile at Archer. “Heathcliff,” she replied. “His name is Heathcliff.”

“Aren’t these sort of theatrical performances better suited for a house party?” Rose asked Eve as they entered Lord and Lady Battenfield’s drawing room, their arms linked.

“Yes, but rumor has it that Lord Battenfield is trying to woo Mrs. Terry with his knowledge of the theater.”

“Mrs. Terry the actress?” Rose looked around the drawing room. “Is she here?”

“Of course not. Her running off with Godwin while still married made her quite scandalous. Still, Lord Battenfield is hoping she’ll hear of his theatrical prowess and decide to succumb to him.”

Rose arched a brow at her friend’s choice of “succumb.” “I gather, then, that Mrs. Terry is no longer with Mr. Godwin?”

“Heaven’s no, but she is still married to Mr. Watts, the painter, although she left him years ago.”

Rose sighed dramatically. “I can’t keep it all straight. What does Lady Battenfield think of all of this?”

Eve giggled, and hugged Rose’s arm to her chest. “Supposedly she’s supported her husband’s endeavors with great gusto, convinced that he’ll publicly embarrass himself rather than win Mrs. Terry’s favor. Honestly, I think he’s a bit too drab for a woman as worldly as Mrs. Terry.”

Rose slanted her an arch look. “Hmm. Be careful my dear, someone might mistake all this talk of succumbing and worldliness for experience on your part.”

Her friend blushed and Rose had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She could tease Eve herself, but she would never dream of calling unwanted attention to her.

While Eve hadn’t given all the details—a fact for which Rose was grateful—she had imparted enough that Rose knew something of an intimate nature had happened between Eve and her mysterious gentleman. She hadn’t pressed because Eve seemed as surprised that it had happened as she was. Quite frankly, she’d been shocked by the news. She never would have thought Eve as the type to risk ruination with an affair. Of course, many would say the same about Rose herself. And they would be wrong.

“Let’s sit in the back,” Eve suggested as they moved toward the rows of chairs set up before a makeshift stage. “No one will hear us if we laugh.”

Rose chuckled now. “You are so bad.”

They stopped long enough to point out to their mothers where they were going to sit, and then left the older women in the company of Lady Battenfield, as she and Rose’s mother were old friends.

The drawing room soon filled up. Lady Battenfield must have invited a lot of friends to witness her husband’s acting debut—or perhaps his humiliation. Rose and Eve watched other guests as they filed in and took their respective seats.

Soon, Lady Battenfield asked that everyone be seated as the play was about to start. Then, the lights dimmed, leaving only the stage area at the front of the room light. The play began.

Lord Battenfield came out in something that resembled a toga and showed entirely too much of his corpulent form. “Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight’s entertainment will be a humble interpretation of William Shakespeare’s
Timon of Athens.”

Rose joined the others in polite applause as she leaned toward Eve. “I’m sure I’ve never heard of this one. You?”

Eve shook her head. “I’m not much of a follower of the bard.”

Shrugging, Rose settled back in her seat and waited. This was either going to be very good or very bad.

It ended up being the latter. The play seemed disjointed, although the blame for that couldn’t be put totally on Lord Battenfield. His acting abilities were next to nonexistent, but he made up for it in sheer drama. Rose recognized some of his lordships “company” as various children of titled families. They seemed to be having a good time. But the play! In this case the play was
not
the thing. Neither it nor the people acting it out could seem to decide if it was a tragedy or a comedy and so the audience never knew whether or not they should laugh. Rose was amongst them. Timon began the play as a posturing, wealthy character like many modern aristos, caring about nothing but money. Lord Battenfield played this with a naïve bravado that made it highly amusing. But then Timon lost his fortune and none of his former friends would help him. This should have been a serious moment in the production, but it wasn’t. Finally, when Timon realizes the servant Flavius is his only friend and then seems to commit suicide in the wilderness, what could have been a poignant commentary on society became a joke when Lord Battenfield’s death scene revealed that he was completely naked beneath the toga. It was just a glimpse, but Rose was certain she would be scarred for life.

She and Eve were trying to control their giggles when the curtains fell. It was then that Rose noticed her mother leaving the room, followed by Lady Battenfield. Her mother seemed composed, but Rose knew that look. She saw the tightness around her mother’s mouth that meant she was trying very hard to hold back tears.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Eve, all her good humor gone. Holding her skirts so as not to trip, she strode from the room as quickly as she could without drawing notice, and as much grace as was expected.

Fortunately, she spied the back of her hostess as she disappeared into a room further down the corridor. It wasn’t proper of her to give chase like this, in the lady’s home, but what did propriety matter when her mother was involved?

The door was closed, so she knocked before opening it. If her mother wasn’t there she would apologize. But as the door swung open, she saw that her mother was indeed there, and she was being comforted by Lady Battenfield who was saying, “…never would have allowed him to perform such a mockery had I known the subject.”

“What’s wrong?” Rose demanded as she entered the room. “Mama?”

Her mother was crying—something Rose hadn’t seen since her father’s death. It was as alien and strange as if the queen danced a jig at a common pub.

Lady Battenfield’s expression was grieved as she looked at Rose. “I’m so sorry, my dear. The play…His lordship didn’t know. He never would have performed had he known it would bring back unpleasant memories.”

“Memories?” Seeing Lord Battenfield’s naked thigh had brought back memories?

The lady nodded. “I will strangle him for reminding your mother of your father’s tragic death.”

But her father’s death was an accident.

And then she looked at her mother’s face and saw the horror there. No longer crying, she was looking at Rose with such terror and such…guilt.

Timon of Athens was rejected by his so-called friends. Timon lost his fortune and his pride. Those were unpleasant for Rose to think of as well, but not enough to drive her to tears. Not like this.

Timon of Athens took his own life.

Oh God. It was as though a great hand had reached in and wrapped icy fingers around her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. And all her mother did was look at her, the awful truth in her tear-reddened eyes.

“You said it was an accident,” she whispered.

Her mother straightened, pulled away from Lady Battenfield’s comfort. “Rose, dearest—”

But Rose didn’t listen. She yanked open the door and ran out as fast as she could. She ran through the great hall, not caring that people witnessed her distress. The gossips would be whispering tomorrow. No doubt the front page of the
Times
would herald the awful truth for all to hear.

Her father had killed himself. And if her mother knew it, so did Grey. Even Lady Battenfield knew.

Apparently the only one who hadn’t known—other than Lord Battenfield—Rose thought bitterly as she ran into the night with tears streaming down her face, was she.