Chapter Thirteen #2
Try as she might, Rose could not prevent her heart from singing.
That a man should have such power over her—it was ridiculous.
And yet this man was charming. And good.
So good. Aside from a bit of an occasional impatient streak, there did not appear to be a bad bone in his body, though Rose was perfectly willing to volunteer for the search.
Control yourself, woman!
“Oh, and I thought about what you said,” Samuel said without any preamble.
Rose blinked. “You did? I said something?”
“You say lots of things, and I listen to them all,” he said with a shrug, as though that were a perfectly normal thing to say. “But I was thinking specifically of when you challenged me to consider what I would do with the money beyond my family.”
“I did?” She could hardly remember such a conversation, though that sounded like her.
Oh, of course: the orphanage and the cousins’ dowries and Frank’s engineering oil…and she had sternly told the man to think about others. Others not living or working at a Chance establishment.
Well, she had never been shy with her opinions, though even Rose had to admit to herself that it was a mite presumptuous of her to dictate how the man should spend his ill-gotten gains.
“Yes, I thought long and hard about it, and I think I have come up with an idea that is perfect,” continued her husband with a grin that was almost shy. “I… I wanted your opinion before I put the wheels in motion. Not that it will have wheels.”
Rose laughed as a footman—similarly harassed as those in the hall—dashed past them holding a silver platter upon which were glasses of wine. Samuel swiftly grabbed two and handed her one.
After she had taken a sip of the wine that was really very good, she said as lightly as she could manage, “Well, I am always happy to spend other people’s money. What are we buying this time?”
“A retirement home,” Samuel said, his eyes serious. “For actors and actresses who are down on their luck.”
Rose’s lips parted.
She must have misheard. Surely, he could not have said that?
“It doesn’t have to be a retirement home, as such, I would hardly wish to restrict their professional activities,” Samuel was now saying in a rush, his words merging into one another.
“No age requirements, no credentials save that they once worked on the stage, or behind the stage, I suppose, and I thought, help with medical problems, and maybe a stage and theater so that they could put on performances, and entertainment, and good food. My sister Lilianna knows a cook who—”
“A retirement home for actors,” Rose said weakly.
This was not possible. Men as handsome as Samuel and as charming as Samuel were not this perfect.
“And actresses,” he reminded her cheerfully. “I think Great-Aunt Tessie would approve. What do you think?”
“I…” Words were not quite possible, so Rose took a large gulp of wine, coughed, then managed, “I think the great Contessa Margolotta would be delighted her funds could provide a good life for her fellow theatricals.”
“Oh, I’m glad. I really am,” said Samuel enthusiastically, and he meant it too, gladness radiating from every pore. “But I more meant, what do you think? Your opinion… Well, it matters to me.”
Rose looked helplessly up at the man she was absolutely not supposed to be falling in love with.
He cared about her opinion. Was there anything more attractive? She had certainly not come across a quality more enticing, more intriguing.
Why else did women the world over pretend to find men so intriguing?
But Samuel was not an actor; this was not a clever trick, or a way to entice her into something, or a placatory gesture from a stage manager who had just given her splendid Act III monologue to another.
This man was genuine, and true, and a far better person than she would ever be.
Rose swallowed. “I think it a most excellent idea.”
Samuel’s smile was one of relief. “Oh, good! I am so glad. I started sketching out the sort of property we would need, but now you can assist me in drawing up lists of locations, and the staff we’ll need—oh, your wine is empty. Let me fetch you another.”
“Oh, no, that’s—”
He was gone before Rose could attempt to explain that if she was going to retain her head against such a tumult of attractiveness, she would need no more wine.
She sagged against the wall, grateful for the obscuring nature of the potted plant.
Well, what on earth was she supposed to say to that?
The man was a treasure, worse luck. If only he had been unpleasant and generally spiteful.
Then she would not feel so bad for keeping her past a secret and risking his very reputation every time she stepped out into Society…
“…heard she was most pleasant, though somewhat distant.”
“Yes, I heard that too.”
A pair of women had wandered close to her potted plant, both dressed in resplendent finery, but they must have been near-sighted, for they did not appear to have noticed Rose.
“I thought her pretty, obviously.”
“Oh, obviously, but what value will that be in twenty years? That family needs to keep an eye on who joins them in matrimony, that’s all I’m saying. One rotten apple will quickly spoil a barrel.”
The Dalmerlingtons, Rose thought wryly, were clearly not as popular as they thought. Whoever had so recently married into their number was clearly not approved of, if the gossip of these two women was anything to go by.
Poor thing.
“And to give the boy the title! Before his father’s dead and buried—”
“Oh, well, the Chances do things differently. The ‘dowager duke’—what a remarkably nonsensical title—has been strutting around as if that were a normal thing to be for months.”
Rose stiffened. Blast.
“But to make him Marquess of Aylesbury, too? ‘Dowager marquess’ is a thing now as well, I suppose?”
“It’s the wife I don’t understand,” said the other with a shake of her head. “I did not even know Lord Samuel was married.”
“No one did! Turned up from Brighton with madam on his arm. No announcement, no banns. Why, I wonder what—”
“Lady Romeril was impressed.”
That pronouncement halted the conversation for a moment, and Rose attempted not to breathe. The last thing she wanted was for them to turn around and see her…
“Lady Romeril may well be losing her touch,” one of the women said quietly, lowering her voice under the hubbub of the ballroom. “The new Lady Aylesbury, pretty as she might be, comes from no family and with no good blood. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You’re right on that account—oh, there’s my daughter. Come on, Geraldine, let me introduce you to the nincompoop she married…”
The two ladies wandered off, leaving Rose flushed behind the potted plant and wondering if that were the worst of the gossip.
That there had been gossip about her, she had known. Well, guessed. There was always gossip about a new member of Society, especially when one had clearly not been in polite Society for quite some time.
But hearing it herself was quite another matter.
“You look a little pink.”
Rose started. “Samuel!”
“I told you I’d be back,” he said, handing her a fresh glass of wine. “I was worried for a moment that I’d forget where I’d left you, but I could never do that.”
She nodded, her thoughts still focused on the two ladies and their conversation. What else were people saying about her? Should she be concerned—was it possible that someone would eventually recognize her?
“Rose.”
And if they did, what would Samuel say? Oh, he appeared to be relaxed about the social mores, but then look at how he’d responded when he’d thought she’d said something outrageous to Lady Romeril?
He had panicked—the man had barely been able to stand upright.
What would he say if he discovered that she had been born—
“Rose?”
Rose blinked. Samuel had stepped closer to her, perhaps far closer than he ought in public, and his brow furrowed as he examined her.
“I lost you for a moment there,” he said uneasily. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” she said instinctively. Nothing that he could help with. “Thank you for the wine. It is most delicious.”
“Do not shut me out, Rose. There’s no point, and besides, I… I want to know what you’re thinking.” Samuel’s smile was somehow wistful. “I know we are not long to be husband and wife, but I would like you to trust me.”
Trust him.
If only I could, Rose thought darkly. If only her past was not something that others could hold against him. If only she had been brave enough to tell him the truth before they had met at the altar.
As it was…
She exhaled slowly. “I…I overheard a pair of ladies gossiping about me.”
The protectiveness she had felt in Samuel’s frame in the hall returned with full force as he turned to glare at each and every other guest in the ballroom. “What? Who? Point them out and I will—”
“You will do absolutely nothing! It is common, I am sure, for newcomers to polite Society to be… well, verbally poked and prodded,” Rose said hastily. “It’s just… Well. I would not wish to shame you with my background. If they were to find out… I do not wish to shame you, Samuel.”
There. She had said it.
The trouble was, Samuel did not appear to understand just what a statement she had made.
Of course he did not. How could he, if she did not explain it to him?
“Being an actress is… Well, it is a profession, to be sure, and there are those who are not exactly respectable within it—but I am certain you have always been a most elegant and…and aboveboard sort of person,” Samuel said quietly, lifting his free hand to stroke her cheek.
Rose did not flinch this time, but she did hesitate before leaning into his touch, knowing as she did so that she should not but utterly unable to prevent herself. “You are?”
“Naturally. No one could know you as I do and not believe, not be certain that you have never done a bad deed in your life.” Her husband’s husky whisper tickled her ear.
Oh, she would have to tell him. One day soon, she would have to tell him.
“Now, I need you to drink that wine as quickly as is respectable,” Samuel said brightly, pulling back.
Rose started drinking her wine before she could stop herself, halting suddenly and almost dribbling down her own chin. What was wrong with her? Why did her body find it so easy to obey this man?
“Oops, you’ve got a bit of…” Leaning forward again, Samuel reached out and used his index finger to dab a bit of wine from her lips.
She watched, transfixed, as he then brought that same index finger to his mouth and suckled on the digit.
Dear God, did he know how erotic he looked?
Removing the finger from his mouth casually, as if he did not have any idea, Samuel took her glass from her hand and placed both of theirs on a footman’s passing platter.
“Now,” he said cheerfully, as though absolutely nothing had occurred. “I must dance with you. If we are only to be married for a twelvemonth, I must take every opportunity to have you in my arms.”
Saints preserve us…
“‘If’?” Rose repeated, unable to help herself.
A shadow passed across Samuel’s face. “Since. Because we are only to be married a twelvemonth. So, shall we?”
What could she say to such a question?
“We shall,” Rose said, smiling through the pain as she took his proffered hand and allowed him to lead her to the center of the ballroom.
Just think about dancing. One foot before the other. And another. And another.
Don’t think about how charming the man is. Or how good he is. Or how he makes your knees weak, something you had only previously pretended on stage. Don’t think about how fervent he makes you, or how his smile makes your heart flutter, or how you’ve lied to him from the very beginning.
And whatever you do, Rose told herself sternly as the man she was caring more and more for with each passing day twirled her around in a waltz, do not fall in love with the man who is paying you to only temporarily be his wife.
Oh, hell. This was never the plan.