Chapter Thirteen
Rose was not going to think about what she and Samuel had done the last time they had stepped into this carriage. She was not. She was not—
His lips against her mouth and his arms around her and the stiff length of his manhood pressed against her hip…
Rose swallowed.
“Are you quite well?” Samuel’s voice was gentle over the rumble of the carriage. “You look a mite pale.”
‘Pale’? ‘Pale’? It’s a miracle I look alive, Rose could not help but think. It was astonishing she could walk. It was amazing that she could sleep.
That kiss… Those kisses, they had been far too much and at the same time, not enough. Deep was the memory that had wormed its way into her affections, her very soul, and now every time she looked at him, she no longer saw the slightly foolish, money-grasping inconsiderate man she had first met.
No, she saw a man who was passionate and easily inarticulate. A man who, despite being born wealthy, had sought riches, to be sure, but was no miser. A man who was handsome, charming in an aloof sort of way.
A man she could love.
Rose cleared her throat as the carriage drew to a halt. “And whose ball is this, by the way?”
“This one is hosted by the Dalmerlingtons—they have been hosting quite a lot these last few months, now that I come to think of it,” replied Samuel with a shrug that she could just make out in the gloom. “Dinners, and balls, and card evenings… Nice people. Solid family.”
“But they will not want any hint of scandal. Though we’ve kept much of the true circumstances of our marriage secret, even our concocted story is sure to get tongues wagging. Perhaps we should not attend.”
“Oh, well, gossip of that nature is common when a pretty enough woman enters Society,” her husband said with a shrug.
“I never pay that much heed. Half the Chances will be here, and the Quintrells, and the Baileys—our cousins—and the Daltons, and the Stewarts… In fact, I’m not entirely sure how they will fit us all in. ”
If she were truly happy being no more than friends, Rose would have laughed. She would have teased him, suggested that he had something himself to hide, or perhaps hinted that there was a particular young Dalton who had captured his heart.
None of that felt particularly amusing now; not when in less than a twelvemonth, Samuel would be free to pursue any woman he wanted.
The thought of her husband seeking out a second spouse soured in her stomach, though why it should do, Rose could not tell.
It was not as though she had any real claim on the man.
Not as though he owed her fidelity. Not as though they were anything to each other, besides co-conspirators in a plot to gain wealth.
Rose swallowed. “I see.”
Samuel grinned. “Ready for the onslaught?”
It was going to be an onslaught, she knew.
Their mantelpiece was groaning with the weight of invitations they had received over the last few days, even though it was marble.
Dinners and dances and walks in the park and an art gallery opening and Don Saltero’s Chelsea Coffee House had heard that she had praised their blend to Lady Romeril and would she like to visit again, and on and on—
That was without the Chances dropping in at every moment. Rose had never met a family like them; they appeared truly to like each other.
Most peculiar.
And all because London Society wanted to meet the enigmatic new Marchioness of Aylesbury.
Rose braved a smile and nodded. Enigmatic, indeed. Well, that was perhaps the correct term for a woman with secrets who had absolutely no intention of telling a soul about them…
Samuel was first to descend from their carriage—his carriage, Rose reminded herself sternly—and he offered her his hand.
It was a simple gesture, one that any number of men had made for any number of women in the past. It was hardly a sensual one, either, for brothers had assisted sisters, fathers assisted daughters, friends assisted friends…
But this did not feel like the assistance given to a friend.
A lump formed in Rose’s throat as she took Samuel’s hand.
It was ridiculous that it should feel so hot, his warmth somehow permeating through his and her gloves.
It was foolish of her pulse to skip a beat as she stepped forward, idiotic for her knees to feel weak, daft, indeed, that the ground appeared to shift as she stood on it beside Samuel.
Beside her husband. Beside the most handsome man she had ever seen.
Rose forced the thought aside—her eyes must have been playing tricks on her.
She had traveled to France and Italy and seen a great number of handsome men.
Many had acted on the stage alongside her—though the egos on most of them always diminished their attractiveness in her eyes.
Still, it was impudent of her to the extreme to think that Samuel Chance was the most handsome one amongst them!
Utterly oblivious to her consternation, Samuel tucked her hand into his arm as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Shall we?”
The Dalmerlingtons had obviously invited a great number of people to their ball, for there was an almighty crush in the hall as copious footmen attempted to accept pelisses and greatcoats and hats and scarves and gloves in large numbers.
A gentleman stepped backward right into Rose’s path and before she could attempt to move—or if needed, tap the gentleman irritably on the shoulder—Samuel immediately stepped into his path.
Protecting her with his body. His fine, expertly chiseled—
Rose Morgan—er, Chance—you need to get a grip on yourself.
“Awfully busy this, isn’t it?” The gentleman guffawed as he turned around. “Awfully sorry, I almost got your—but, Sammy, what are you doing here!”
After a week, Rose was starting to become an expert on the Chance family, and this was most certainly a cousin. She could see it in the sparkle of the eyes.
Her husband smacked the man on the arm. “Why on earth have they let you in, you dog?”
“You know the Dalmerlingtons. No accounting for taste.” The man nudged Samuel with his elbow. “Come now, introduce me to this splendid young thing. I suppose he begged you to marry him, did he?”
“He did, in fact.” Rose smiled, her stomach jolting with delight as a slight flush broke out on Samuel’s cheeks. “But then, he has been so good to me since, I have promised him only to bring it up once a week—and you’ve filled my quota.”
“And for that, I am terribly sorry. Alexander Chance, one of the Cothroms. Have you got us all sorted out yet?” The gentleman wiggled his eyebrows as a pair of ladies pushed past them. “I’m the rogue.”
Rose could not help but laugh at that, but she also could not help but notice that Samuel’s blush had darkened, his lips growing flat as he clenched his jaw.
Interesting.
“Yes, you are, so go bother someone else’s wife,” her husband said gruffly.
Lord Alexander Chance winked at Rose. “If you insist.”
He disappeared into the crowd and Rose was not unsurprised to find that Samuel squeezed her hand.
“You must ignore him,” he said in a low voice as they divested their outerwear into the arms of a frantic footman. “Zander is a rogue, but he is harmless. Mostly harmless.”
A mostly harmless rogue for a cousin…and he was worried. Rose had always been one for flattery—what actress wasn’t—and jealousy was merely another flavor.
But though in a past life, she would have giggled and teased the man she was with and made sure to curtsey low to the next man to ensure that he gained an eyeful of her décolletage, Rose found herself squeezing Samuel’s arm. “You mustn’t worry. I only have eyes for you.”
His gaze caught hers as his lips parted, and Rose found, to her annoyance, that her cheeks were heating.
Hers! As though they had been permitted to do such a thing!
“Shall we go into the ballroom? It’s so very hot here,” she said hastily.
Whether or not that was a sufficient excuse for her sudden pinkness, she did not know. Either way, Samuel led her forward through a pair of double doors into a room that was both stiflingly noisy and stiflingly hot.
Not a pleasing combination.
“Your cousin was right,” Rose murmured in a low voice, bringing her lips close to Samuel’s ear so that only he could hear her. “The Dalmerlingtons have no taste.”
This many people! Oh, it was unsupportable. How was anyone supposed to even move?
“When we host a ball,” Samuel replied in a similar murmur, his lips curling upward, “I shall leave all question of taste to you.”
A shiver of something hot and spicy trickled through Rose’s throat at the mere thought.
A ball, hosted by herself. Hosted by the Marchioness of Aylesbury. Her choices as to music, décor, food, guest list…
And by her side, her husband. Samuel Chance.
Rose tried to remember to smile. “Careful. Do not make promises you do not intend to keep.”
And he beamed, and God if he did that too often, she was going to crumble. Rose had made promises to herself, stern promises, about not falling in love with the man who was literally paying her to pretend to the world that she was his happy wife…and now those promises felt a long time ago.
“Goodness, it’s busy in here,” Samuel said with a laugh. “The poor Dalmerlingtons; they must really want to impress. Come on, over here.”
Rose allowed herself to be pulled through the bustling crowd, packed full of clucking mamas and shy debutantes and guffawing gentlemen and a few who looked to be, rather like ‘Cousin Zander,’ complete rogues.
Some were smoking and some were drinking and all were laughing, a dissonance of noise that was almost too much to bear.
And then they were standing in a corner of the ballroom beside a large potted plant that gave them a little coverage from the chaos.
“That’s better,” said Samuel with a wink. “I get you all to myself here.”