Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
Tea at Rosehaven House
The next afternoon, the drawing room at Rosehaven House had seldom looked more peaceful.
Afternoon sunlight glowed through lace curtains, pooling over the brocade sofas and polished mahogany tables.
The faint scent of orange blossom drifted from the vase on the mantel—an arrangement Chrissie had assembled that morning.
It was, in short, the picture of domestic calm.
And then I caught sight of the tea table. It groaned under an overabundance of tea fare, including a mountain of fairy cakes, a tower of currant scones, rows and rows of lemon biscuits, and what appeared to be an experimental arrangement of cucumber sandwiches spelling out the word WELCOME.
“Good heavens,” I said from the threshold. “What is all this?”
Petunia, perched on the edge of a sofa like a miniature queen, looked up with an expression of practiced innocence. “Tea.”
“I gathered that, but why does it resemble a bakery explosion?”
“One can’t have a proper tea without options,” she replied serenely. “Variety is the mark of refinement.” Her copper curls gleamed; her cheeks were flushed with triumph. Something was afoot.
“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, Petunia,” I said. “And you’ve taken particular care with your dress and hair. Is there an occasion I ought to know about?”
Petunia smoothed her lemon muslin and smiled seraphically. “Oh, I simply thought I’d practice being a hostess. One never knows when a guest may arrive unexpectedly.”
“Oh, do stop the inquisition, Rosalynd,” Grandmother said from her perch near the hearth. “Let’s be grateful she’s practicing her manners.”
“Very well.” I advanced into the room to sit near my sister Chrissie, who was absorbed in a fashion periodical. “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”
“Not a clue,” she answered. “What do you think about this gown for Lady Stratham’s ball?” She pointed to a pink satin dress trimmed with pearls and lace—the sort of confection designed to turn every head in a ballroom.
“I thought you’d already chosen your gown,” I said.
“I had,” she replied, turning a page with a dramatic sigh, “but Lady Felicia wore nearly the same one to Lady Findley’s ball. I can’t possibly appear in a copy. People would think I have no imagination.”
“Quite right,” said Claire, without looking up from where she lounged on the settee beside Cosmos. “A lady’s wardrobe is her reputation stitched in silk. One must never repeat an impression.”
Cosmos frowned. “Men wear the same evening suit from one ball to the next, and no one cares. Why must a lady change gowns at every gathering?”
Claire’s fan snapped open, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Because women are judged by the clothes they wear while men are measured by the size of their purses, as well as other things.” Her gaze dipped, briefly, to a certain part of his anatomy before returning to his face.
Cosmos went scarlet to the tips of his ears, but still he grinned. Both reactions delighted Claire to no end, who let out a full-throated laugh.
Honestly, those two. Claire couldn’t help but tease Cosmos every chance she got. And Cosmos, well, he loved every second of it, blush notwithstanding.
Laurel, ever the reader, was immersed in a book as always. Holly and Ivy, the inseparable twins, hovered beside the cake stand, whispering about which pastry contained the most icing. Near a window, Fox crouched with a magnifying glass over the carpet, trying to coax a spark from a bit of sunlight.
“Fox, if you set the drawing room on fire, I shall not be pleased.”
“I only want to see if carpet fibers burn differently from linen,” he muttered. “Science requires sacrifice, Rosie.”
“Not in my drawing room it doesn’t. Cease what you’re doing this instant.”
He sighed heavily, but put away the magnifying glass.
The door to the drawing room suddenly opened. Honeycutt entered, a solemn expression on his face. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele.”
Cosmos and Claire froze mid-flirt. Chrissie gasped. And I nearly forgot how to breathe. “The Duke of Steele?”
Honeycutt bowed slightly. “Yes, my lady. Apparently, his grace was issued a written invitation.”
My gaze turned to Petunia, who sat very straight with a wide grin on her face.
“Petunia,” I said, “what have you done?”
“You said I couldn’t go to his house uninvited. So I invited him here instead.”
She’d figured out a loophole, the little minx.
Before I could summon a proper rebuke, Steele appeared in the doorway—tall, impeccably dressed, and entirely too self-possessed for the scene he’d walked into. For a moment he paused to take in the tableau—the entire Rosehaven brood staring at him with different expressions on their faces.
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said, bowing. “I believe I am expected.”
“Apparently so,” I managed.
Not one to miss her moment in the sun, Petunia rose and curtsied with perfect grace. “Your Grace, welcome to Rosehaven House. Do come sit next to me. We’ve scones, fairy cakes, and Assam, the tea you prefer.”
Amazed at that bit of knowledge, I asked, “How did you know that’s his favorite tea?”
She smiled with quiet pride. “I sent a note to the duke’s cook, of course.”
Good heavens! Next, she would be writing Buckingham Palace to inquire as to His Majesty’s favorite cake.
“It seemed polite to inquire.”
Of course it did.
Steele’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “That was very thorough of you, Lady Petunia,” he said as he took his seat next to her. “Your organizational skills are formidable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I try my best.”
Claire, who had been observing with delight, laughed softly. “Rosie, you should take notes. I do believe Petunia has outmaneuvered you.”
Clearly, she had.
“Petunia has simply inherited the Rosehaven gift for civility, that’s all,” Cosmos offered by way of pouring oil over troubled waters.
What civility? I wanted to ask. Half of our teas were conducted in open skirmishes.
Petunia, adopting the solemn air of a hostess at a royal banquet, turned to the duke. “One lump or two, Your Grace?”
“Two,” Steele replied, eyes still fixed—mockingly—on mine. “I have the feeling I shall require them.” Even from my seat, I could smell the faint scent of bergamot that always clung to him.
Petunia, playing the perfect hostess, asked, “So how has your day been, Duke?”
Steele regarded Petunia solemnly, his expression softening just enough to suggest genuine warmth. “My day has been rather long, Lady Petunia,” he said. “But considerably improved by your invitation. It isn’t every afternoon one is received by such an accomplished hostess.”
Petunia’s smile lit up her entire face. “Then you like it?”
“Very much.” He accepted the cup the maid handed him, pausing just long enough to cool the tea before taking a sip.
Petunia, still intent on conversation, leaned forward. “Do you have dogs, Your Grace?”
“Not in London,” Steele said. “But several at Thornburn Abbey—mostly hounds. Bracken is the oldest. He’s convinced he owns the place.”
Petunia’s eyes widened. “Thornburn Abbey—that’s where your family comes from, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, she added, “Where is it located?”
“Thornburn Abbey is in Yorkshire, and it is indeed our family seat,” he replied, setting his cup carefully upon the saucer.
“It was once a monastery before Henry VIII took a dislike to such institutions. Ours survived by the narrowest of margins. The walls are ancient, the windows are drafty, and the roof is eternally in need of repairs. I treasure it, just the same.”
Petunia brightened at once. “Rosehaven Manor is in Yorkshire, too. It is so beautiful there. All rolling hills and green fields as far as you can see.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Your part of Yorkshire enjoys gentler weather. Thornburn Abbey stands much farther to the east, closer to the sea. The land there rises toward the moors, and the wind never quite settles. Sea mist drifts in without warning, and the rain arrives whenever it pleases. It is harsher but striking in its own way.”
“It sounds awfully cold,” Chrissie said, wrinkling her nose.
Steele’s mouth curved slightly. “It would be, to anyone who values comfort. But it suits me. The air is clear and the moors go on forever. My hounds believe civilization ends at the stables. From August until March, it’s home.”
“You stay there all winter? By yourself?” Petunia asked in wonder.
“Not entirely,” he said. “My mother keeps the dower house nearby, and my brothers drift through at different times. Philip is currently there, and Nicky will join us at the end of the season. After the New Year, he and Mother will seek warmer climes.” He paused as if considering the picture he presented.
“So the abbey is never truly empty. Quieter than some households, including yours, I imagine, but there is life enough. And the hounds see to it I am not left in peace for long.”
“You must be lonely when your family is not there.”
“Sometimes,” he said softly. “But I find peace in solitude.”
That quiet admission drew the room still for a breath. I saw, for the briefest moment, the weariness beneath his composure—the man behind the title. Then it was gone, shuttered once more behind the duke’s reserve.
“It does sound beautiful,” Petunia said, her words a quiet comfort.
A swell of tenderness rose within me. Petunia, for all her youth, saw far more than most adults ever did. She had heard the quiet ache beneath the duke’s words and offered the only balm she could—a child’s gentle reassurance, simple and sincere.
“It is,” he said quietly. He turned to me then, the gravity of the moment still lingering in his eyes. “You preside over a remarkable household, Lady Rosalynd.”
“You have only seen them on their best behavior,” I replied. “You should visit when open warfare breaks out. It is far less impressive.”
His expression softened. “Even so,” he said. “It says a great deal about the one who holds it together.”
For a moment, the room fell away, and it was only the two of us, his gaze resting on me with an understanding that felt both unsettling and impossibly gentle.
“So, Your Grace,” Petunia said brightly, shattering the spell with all the innocence in the world, “how many horses do you own?”
The next half hour was spent in alternating bursts of laughter, teasing, and Petunia’s relentless curiosity about ducal life. Steele answered each question with good humor and patience, though his gaze strayed to me often enough to make my pulse unsteady.
When the teapot was empty, and the last crumb of cake vanished, Petunia sighed with satisfaction. “That went rather well,” she announced. “Do come again, Your Grace.”
“I fear I shall have no choice,” he said, rising. “Your invitation leaves no room for refusal.”
“Excellent. Tomorrow, then.”
“Petunia,” I said warningly. “The duke is quite a busy man.”
“Not tomorrow,” Steele said, “But soon.” He turned to me with a slight bow. “Lady Rosalynd, as always, a pleasure.” Something in his tone lingered, warm and genuine, settling beneath my ribs in a way I had not anticipated. For a breath, I could not look away.
I told myself it was only courtesy, nothing more, yet the truth pressed closer than I liked. He felt more than he was saying.
He took his leave with perfect composure, every gesture measured and courtly. The instant he was gone, the room erupted.
“Well, that was rather illuminating,” Grandmother declared, folding her hands atop her cane.
Chrissie leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “If you do not marry him, I will,” she said, fighting back a grin.
Claire howled with laughter. “You will have to fight Petunia for the privilege.”
Petunia straightened her shoulders with great dignity. “I was merely being hospitable.”
“You were being an inquisitor,” I said, lifting a brow at her. “You tricked me.”
“I invited him here. I did not ask to be invited to his home.” Petunia flicked an accusatory glance toward Laurel. “Like some people did.”
Laurel looked up at last from her book. “He is rather handsome,” she admitted, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “And he does have a splendid library.”
Fox stepped forward, brows drawn together in a sincere puzzle. “I do not see what all the fuss is about.”
Chrissie waved a dismissive hand. “That’s because you’re a boy. Wait until you are interested in girls.”
Fox snorted. “That is never going to happen.”
Cosmos studied me with a drawn brow. “Seriously, Rosie, do you have an interest in marrying Steele? Because if you do, we should start thinking about arrangements.”
Petunia’s head snapped toward him. “What arrangements?” Her voice tightened, the first thread of worry visible.
Claire jabbed an elbow into Cosmos’s ribs. “Hush.”
He winced. “Yes, yes, you are right. Er, I beg your pardon.”
But Petunia edged closer, her brows knitting. “What arrangements?”
“Obviously, he means us, Petunia,” Fox said, far too intelligent for his age. “We would have to choose whether we would live with Rosie or Cosmos.”
The color drained from Petunia’s face, and her bottom lip trembled. The idea had never occurred to her. It was all I thought about some days. “I do not want to be split up,” she cried out. “I want us to remain together. All of us.”
Before anyone could stop her, she fled from the room, tears streaming down her face.
Holly and Ivy, my mischievous, fun-loving sisters, clung to each other, their faces twin tragedies. “We won’t be separated. We won’t.”
I fixed Cosmos with a look sharp enough to pin him to the floorboards. “Now, look what you’ve done.”
Gathering my skirts, I went after Petunia, a single thought steadying my steps. I would tell her the truth she needed most. Our family would never be split up. Not now, not ever.
Because I would never marry the duke.