Chapter Thirty-Nine
Thirty-Nine
A pounding rattled the windowpanes and shivered through the drawing room like cannon fire. Rose jerked awake on the settee. The fire in the grate had dozed to near embers, and her neck ached from the awkward angle in which she’d fallen asleep.
For a disorienting instant, she woke believing she’d only imagined the nightmare of Viola’s empty bed, the folded night rail, and the missing towel-wrapped loaf of bread. The vision solidified upon hearing Winston’s voice, crisp and incensed, carrying from the foyer.
“Your Grace, if you please, her ladyship is resting—”
“Then wake your mistress, man.” Sebastian’s bark was deep and unmistakable. “Stand aside.”
Rose dropped her head in her hands, groaning. She pushed to her feet, then checked her hair in a large mirror near the door. Heavens, she was a mess. She adjusted a couple of pins to no avail just as the door burst open without ceremony.
Her brother, the Duke of Ryleigh, filled the threshold, cold air infiltrating from the foyer.
He hadn’t even removed his gloves. That never boded well.
His greatcoat was unbuttoned, and his expression resembled a thundercloud.
Rebecca swept in behind him in a soft hush of dove-gray wool, her cheeks flushed from the morning, her eyes already apologizing.
“Rose,” Sebastian said. Her name sounded like an indictment.
“Good morning to you as well, Seb.” She smoothed her hands over her wool frock, thankful she’d dressed before succumbing to sleep after wearing out the carpets with her pacing in trying to come up with some kind—any kind—of solution to locating Viola. She willed a steadiness into her limbs.
Sebastian advanced two steps, his jaw clenched. “What the devil are you about? Half of London has been in my ear since you disappeared last night. And do you know who hasn’t been in my ear?” He was practically shouting—for Sebastian anyway. He swiveled his head to Rebecca. “My wife!”
Rebecca slipped a hand through Sebastian’s arm. “Now, darling—”
He scowled at the duchess, shaking off her hold, turning back to Rose. From the corner of her eye, Rose winced as Rebecca lifted her shoulders, her expression speaking loudly as if shouting, I tried.
Sebastian, however, was not known for picking up the subtle clues around him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you and Whitmore were engaged?
I suppose it doesn’t matter much at this point.
Not after the spectacle of that waltz the two of you put on before one and all.
” His words cracked, then softened. “Is this truly what you want? To marry a merchant?”
Instinct had Rose opening her mouth to…to what?
Deny it? Admit it? She wasn’t prepared for questions of this magnitude.
If she didn’t marry Emerson, it would be tantamount to pushing him from her life.
A man who would never humiliate her. He’d already proven he would protect her—in fact, already had protected her.
He kissed her as if she meant more to him than all the bolts of material stacked to the rafters in his entire warehouse.
Sebastian gripped her hands. “Darling, you leapt into disaster with Stanford out of sheer stubbornness. Is that what you are doing now? Because you need not wed the man if you don’t wish. I can put a stop to Lady Ingleby’s malicious chatter like that,” he said snapping his fingers.
“Oh, Seb,” she cried, hurling herself in his arms. “Yes. Yes, I wish to marry him. He is nothing like Stanford. Emerson is good, if a bit gruff. But he’s kind. So very kind.”
Sebastian’s arms tightened around her then loosened, allowing her to step back.
Rebecca gasped, and Rose’s gazed darted to her, then followed her eyes past Sebastian’s shoulders.
Emerson stood in the door, crushing a beaver hat in his hand, and by the look on his face, he’d heard her clumsy declaration.
Slowly, her brother turned, and Rose held her breath. “Perhaps we should shut the door,” Seb said, not taking his eyes from Emerson. Her brother was large in the elegant, refined way of a noble.
Yet Emerson nearly dwarfed Sebastian in his magnificence and his size. The realization hit her in an instant: She loved him. A lightheaded sensation left her dizzy and clutching air, sending her knees buckling beneath her.
“Rose!”
She was swept off her feet and inundated by the wholly masculine scent of bergamot and power of this wonderful man. Gently, he set her on the settee and planted himself beside her without a single wince. “Your side,” she whispered.
He gave a short shake of his head. “Tell me. What is it?”
Rose looked into the depths of worry creasing his brows. “I’m fine.”
“I ordered tea,” Rebecca said, jarring Rose’s attention from Emerson.
“Er, thank you.”
Rebecca and Sebastian lowered on another settee just across. The duelist and his second. A bout of mad laughter tickled her throat. She swallowed it back.
Her brother was the ultimate politician, and he let a long silence grow awkward. Thankfully, her sister-in-law was not cut of that same cloth. “We understand congratulations are in order, Mr. Whitmore,” she said, smiling.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, not taking his eyes from Rose. Her hand somehow ended up in his, and he squeezed.
Oh, dear. He’d spoken to Lady Kimpton, she was certain of it. But she could read nothing from him. The look in his eyes was indiscernible.
“How is Miss Lockhart this morning?” he asked her.
Rose pulled herself together. She swallowed hard and lifted her eyes to his. “She’s gone.” The words spilled from her on a harsh, furious breath. “I must find her, of course.”
Rebecca’s breath caught. “What do you mean ‘she’s gone’? I thought Miss Lockhart had settled comfortably at Hope House.”
Emerson grabbed her fist with his large hand—a touch that seemed to brand her.
Gentle, kind. They were the words she used to describe him to her brother.
She set her other hand atop his and squeezed.
“No. Yesterday morning, I gave her all the money from my coin purse and informed her she was not welcome to stay if she treated the others so horribly. When I returned home last night from the subscription ball, she was on my doorstep.” Her vision shimmered her view with sudden tears.
“But why would she run from here?” Shock reverberated from Rebecca.
“Because she’d stolen gloves I’d given Miss Macy.” Anger cleared her vision. “And she lied about it. I vow I never realized my temper was so short.”
“Didn’t you?” Sebastian said with a small smile. “You were a fiercely temperamental child as I recall.”
Rose glanced sharply at her brother. “Are you teasing me?”
“I believe I am,” he said, then added, “Mostly.”
It was a shocking admission. Her brother had never possessed a sense of humor. But then neither had she.
He frowned. “Are you speaking of Lady Lockhart’s niece?”
Rebecca patted his hand, shushing him.
“She was gone when I woke this morning,” Rose said, discounting his question. “By way of the kitchens. Winston informed me she took a loaf of bread. A small price to pay for her freedom.” Her jaw locked. She would not feel sorry for the girl.
Rebecca tapped her thigh. “As if bread could shield her.”
The laugh that escaped Rose was brittle and small. “Emerson said I would regret it.”
“Rose,” he whispered. “The girl is a fool.”
“Oh, yes. She is that,” Rose bit out.
Rebecca let out a haughty sniff, indicating just how much Sebastian had rubbed off on her. “She has no notion of what she would have experienced if it hadn’t been for you, Rose. Most of the young women are grateful, I assure you.” After a moment, she went on. “But where the devil would she go?”
Sebastian winced. At her profanity, no doubt. Another bout of frantic laughter hovered.
The duchess went on, though it was unclear if she had deliberately ignored Sebastian. “I can’t imagine her traipsing back to Lady Lockhart.”
With a deep breath, Rose shook her head. “I have exhausted myself over those very questions all morning,” she said with a helpless shrug. “After finding her in Whitefriars—”
“What?” Sebastian thundered. “What the devil were you—” He glared at Emerson.
“Stop right there, Seb. Emerson spotted me leaving Peachornsby’s the other night and followed. You should be thanking him, not berating him.”
Sebastian turned his glare on her, but she stiffened her spine, meeting it fiercely. After a long moment, he turned back to Emerson. “It appears I owe you my thanks,” he gritted out, grudgingly. “I hadn’t realized the eldest of my sisters shared the same reckless nature of my youngest one.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rose muttered.
“Don’t.” Sebastian tilted his head to one side. The razor-sharp smile did not bode well. “Tell me, Mr. Whitmore, when are these convenient nuptials to take place?”
“Convenient nuptials,” Emerson repeated slowly.
Rebecca groaned. “Sebastian…”
Oh, no. “Emerson…” Rose started.
Too late. Emerson shot to his feet, tugging Rose up with him. “You’ll excuse us, Your Graces, while I speak to my…betrothed.” He hauled her from the room. “Where can we talk?” he demanded in a low voice.
“The…the morning room,” she stuttered out.
“Lead the way, my lady.” His tone gave nothing away.
“All right.” Rose lifted her chin and led him past the dining hall to the smaller chamber just beyond.
He shut the door behind them with a near slam, then grasped her arms and pulled her to his chest. In the softest brush, his lips moved over hers.
A caress filled with promise and hope. This merchant who’d stolen into her heart with his large hands that kept danger at bay, and with the stroke of his tongue that vowed endless passionate nights. “Rose, say you’ll marry me.”
“Yes.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He crushed his mouth over hers again, his arms banding her tightly against him as if they were one. He lifted his head. “What of the duke’s question?” Emerson murmured against her lips.
“Question?”