Chapter Nine
R osilee stared at the image of herself reflected in the mirror in her vibrant yellow ballgown. The silk fabric shimmered in the candlelight, cascading from the high waist in soft, flowing folds that brushed the floor with every slight movement. The bodice was embroidered with delicate golden thread, roses winding across her chest and shoulders like the finest lacework, their petals and leaves artfully stitched to create the illusion of a single rose in bloom.
The neckline was low.
A bit too low for her taste. But the modiste had assured her that this was the fashion these days. The woman had also insisted this shade of yellow would set off her skin perfectly, bringing warmth to her cheeks and light to her eyes. What could she say to that? She’d never worn anything so fine, so brilliant. It felt like a dream... one that didn’t fit with the reason she was wearing the gown in the first place.
She brushed the fabric hesitantly with her hand, still unsure. And soon she would be attending a ball with the very man who had kissed her only days ago.
Oh!
How was she to do that?
She strode to the bed and fell back on it, brushing a finger over her lips.
The door opened and Mrs. Prune entered. “Oh, dearie, what is wrong? Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m well. I’m just a touch overwhelmed.”
Mrs. Prune looked at Rosilee with a sympathetic smile, but before she could offer more comfort, the door creaked open wider, and Mr. Wiggins ambled in, his grey hair neatly combed and his expression as serious as ever. Behind him trailed Ben, who she hadn’t seen since she arrived.
She sat up straight. “Ben! Where have you been hiding?”
The boy sent her a sheepish glance. “I’ve been helping Mr. Wiggins weed the garden, my lady.”
Ah.
“Well, then, to what do I owe the pleasure now?”
“My lady,” Mr. Wiggins said, nodding solemnly as though he were about to deliver a grand proclamation. “We came to see you off.”
See her off?
“You look lovely,” Mr. Wiggins finished, nodding, satisfied.
Ben nodded frantically.
Rosilee raised an eyebrow, managing a small smile. An odd feeling rose within her. “Well, thank you, I suppose. What about the duke?”
“He is waiting downstairs for you, my lady.”
So, it’s time.
She clutched at her chest. “What if no one asks me to dance?” The thought of standing alone amidst the swirling couples was rather frightening. It was, after all, her first ball she would be attending here in London. It was thrilling and bittersweet at the same time.
Mrs. Prune laughed. “Then you ask someone.”
“I cannot do that!”
“You can ask the duke,” Mrs. Wiggins said, a knowing smile formed on his lips. “He will oblige you.”
The kiss flashed in her mind, and she felt her cheeks heat. “I suppose I could do that,” she muttered, averting her gaze.
“Our duke is an excellent dancer,” Mrs. Prune said. “Though he might be a bit rusty, so forgive any blunders.”
Rosilee wanted to laugh. Well, she had come this far, she could handle a dance, couldn’t she? In fact, dancing with him might just be the thing to lighten his mood.
Ben gave an eager nod. “And if you stumble, you can just blame it on His Grace.”
Rosilee did laugh then, the sound ringing out more confidently than she felt. “I might just do that.”
Mrs. Prune clapped her hands together. “Now, no more fretting. It’s time to go to the ball and get your man.”
Get her man? Why did that sound a bit off to her ears?
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Mrs. Prune said. “Ben told us why you are in London. We are certainly cheering for you.”
“Thank you, I suppose.”
Rosilee stood, adjusting her gown with a final check in the mirror. She hardly recognized the woman staring back at her. But perhaps that was what she needed. This was the woman who was going to save her brother and their home.
She turned to the trio. “I believe you’ve managed to calm my nerves more effectively than even my brother’s brandy would have.”
A knock on the door sounded, and Rosilee’s gaze fell on a large silhouette filling the doorway.
Her breath caught.
Good Lord in Heaven.
The duke—who was decidedly not waiting downstairs—cut a striking figure in his evening attire. Not just striking, but downright spellbinding. Rosilee could hardly tear her gaze away from him. He still had a day’s growth of stubble on his jawline, but his hair had been arranged in an elegant, fashionable style, giving him a slightly— slightly —more youthful appearance.
“What’s all this?” the duke asked, his gaze flicking over everyone gathered in the chamber.
“We were just collecting Lady Rosilee,” Mrs. Prune said with a big smile. “Why are you here? Weren’t you waiting downstairs, Your Grace?”
The duke tugged at his cravat. “You were taking too long.”
Rosilee’s heart gave a restless beat. “You look rather dashing, Your Grace,” Rosilee murmured.
Their eyes met.
“Yes, well, I would hate to embarrass you. You look...” He paused, and Rosilee waited breathlessly. “Beyond compare,” he finally finished.
Beyond compare.
There wasn’t anything particularly special about the two words, but to her, they were magical. They wrapped around her like a warm embrace, settling deep into her breast where they left a curious flutter.
Beyond compare.
She turned the phrase over in her mind, again and again, as though it were a priceless treasure she’d unearthed from this man. She should say something, anything. It was unlike her to be caught speechless, but words wouldn’t form as she stared at the duke.
A throat cleared, and with a start, Rosilee watched as Mrs. Prune, Mr. Wiggins, and Ben expertly cleared from the chamber. What must they not think of her! It must seem as though she was ogling the duke.
But then . . .
A hint of something dangerous and thrilling sparked between them, something she wasn’t entirely sure she could resist.
Blake gazed over the crowd of people dressed at the height of fashion, the sounds of the orchestra filling the room along with the buzz of all the titters. And their eyes. This bothered him the most. They kept flicking in his direction like he was an exotic circus animal that had just arrived at their event.
Why on God’s earth had he decided to attend this ball?
You did it for her.
Yes, but he could just have sent Bishop. Or Mrs. Prune. Or anyone else but himself. But then again, this world didn’t work like that, did it? He’d already made one blunder by kissing her, he couldn’t afford to make another. But Christ, he’d only kissed her because he would have perished if he hadn’t seized the one chance he might ever get in this life to capture her lips with his.
Right, well, now he had to live with knowing her taste. Everything had changed with that kiss. At least, for him. He would no longer be sketching pictures of her youthful face, but her current lips, all the while remembering that one moment.
Longing for it over and over.
Damnation.
Only this woman had the power to render him a pitiable mess. Now that he’d had a taste of her sweet lips, he feared he was utterly ruined. But that wasn’t all. He could feel the budding spark of greediness threatening to sprout in his heart.
They needed to get this matter of Baston settled as soon as possible.
“You are quite popular, Your Grace,” Lady Rosilee murmured beside him. “Everyone is staring at you.”
He shook his head. “They’re staring at you.”
She shook her head, but a slight blush still stained her cheeks. “No, they are not.”
Blake’s gaze swept over the crowd again. She wasn’t wrong about people blatantly staring at him, but still, there were plenty of men ogling her. He scowled at those men, clenching his jaw. “Yes, well, not all of them. And as for those staring at me, they must be wondering why a beauty is at the side of a—”
“If you say anything like ‘beast’ or ‘monster,’ I shall kick you,” Lady Rosilee cut him off, directing her narrowed eyes at him even while keeping a smile on her face. Blake shivered. “However,” she went on. “Your title does seem to have captured many people’s attention.”
What a tactful usage of words. “I inherited that skin. Donned long enough...” he trailed off, sending her a sidelong glance.
She suddenly laughed, a bright, unexpected sound that cut through the bit of tightness in the air. “ Donned long enough? It’s just a title, Your Grace. A string of words. A fancy way to be addressed. A few syllables tacked on for effect.”
“Indeed, and those few syllables carry a monstrous weight.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Of course, I don’t mean to disparage titles. They are, after all, also a currency of power, but it seems to me that in your case, you are the one giving those few syllables all the weight.”
Blake furrowed his brows.
“I don’t mean to make light of you or any burdens you carry,” Rosilee said softly. “I just hope for you to perhaps see it all in a different light. After all, a title does have its advantages.”
Before Blake could help himself, he blurted, “Such as?”
Her eyes sparkled. “You know, with those few syllables, you can cause widespread panic just by sighing dramatically. People shall laugh at your jokes, even when they’re not funny, and you have the power to make anything a trend. I suspect every man in attendance shall sport some stubble from tomorrow.”
Silly things.
But then, she meant for them to be silly, and Blake marveled at how this silliness actually worked, for a fragment of amusement eased the clench of his jaw.
“Ah, Crane! You made it!” a voice boomed.
The Marquess of Southby.
Blake inclined his head at the man, who joined them, his gaze resting on the man who accompanied their host, and whose gaze seemed to be fastened on Lady Rosilee. His gut clenched instead of his jaw. “Thank you for extending an invitation.”
Southby waved it away. “Oh, it’s no bother. Have you met the Earl of Stagbourne?”
“It’s a pleasure,” Blake said simply, wishing the man would disappear already.
“Likewise,” Stagbourne replied, inclining his head before glancing at Lady Rosilee.
“And who is this lovely creature?” Southby asked with a grin. “Did you secretly marry without anyone being the wiser?”
If he sighed dramatically right now, would he cause his host to panic? “Lady Rosilee, may I present Lord Southby and Lord Stagbourne.” He paused before adding, “Lady Rosilee Fairchild is my ward.”
She dipped a graceful curtsy as both men took turns kissing the back of her hand. Blake tried to keep the lines of his face from pulling up in a sneer. He wanted to swat them away, but he remained as still as a lamppost, all the muscles in his body contracting once more.
This was pure torture.
Were all introductions so painful?
“Would you do me the honor of the next dance?” the earl asked.
Blake clasped his hands at his back to keep from balling them into fists. He caught her fleeting glance at him before nodding at Stagbourne. “Ah, yes, of course.”
He steeled his expression, tracking Stagbourne leading her away. Damn it. His gut twisted with every step she took, her soft laughter carrying back to him like a bell tolling his doom.
What the devil could be so funny?
Stagbourne certainly didn’t look like a funny man.
Blake bit down the urge to storm over and yank her back. No, he told himself, this is fine. Completely fine. This is how it was meant to be.
But it wasn’t fine. It was maddening. He could practically feel the satisfaction radiating off Stagbourne from where he stood, as if the man had already claimed victory. His hands tightened behind his back, muscles in his forearms straining under the pressure.
“They make a striking couple.” Southby chirped from the side.
His arse they made one. “It’s too early to tell.”
A hand clapped his back. “I assure you, Stagbourne is an honorable man.”
I shall be the judge of that.
Blake suddenly regretted his “plan.” He should just storm Baston’s castle, retrieve the viscount, toss Baston in a crate, and send him away on a ship bound for China.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
Blake glanced over, and all the blood left his face.