Chapter Nineteen
Adequately respected theater in search of actress with open approach to—
Rose snorted. ‘Open approach.’ She knew what that meant. The place would want her to take her clothes off. And only ‘adequately’ respected? Absolutely not.
Her gaze flickered down the newspaper page that she had been perusing over breakfast, one corner of it sadly tea-stained but otherwise legible.
Acting troupe requires singer, actress, musician for a multitude of roles…
No, that was no good. Her acting skills were impeccable, Rose knew, but her musical ability was second to none. As in, second from the last. It was entirely absent, right next to none. And as for her singing…
No.
Prestigious theater desires a conversation with a suitable actress of international renown.
Rose bit her lip. Well, that sounded more like it. The trouble was, she was almost certain that disgraced nobility need not apply, especially when that woman was twice married, a marchioness, and on the run from her husband.
Slowly, she lifted her focus from the newspaper and looked at the butler just…standing there. Oh, that was what butlers were supposed to do, but still. It was rather disconcerting, in all this wintry silence.
“Thank you, Arden,” she said, trying for an imperious and yet aloof tone. “I can help myself to breakfast adequately without you and the others.”
The others were the three footmen. And yes, it was probably appropriate for a marquess to eat breakfast with a butler and three footmen in attendance, but her father had always done that, had always insisted on six footmen, and—that was, Rose hastily corrected herself, refusing to even think about such a man, she saw no reason to be so encumbered.
The butler raised an eyebrow. “His lordship always—”
“And I am not him,” Rose said smartly. Never a truer word was spoken. “Thank you.”
It was galling to the extreme to notice that the three footmen, instead of accepting her order, looked to Arden.
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
It was a relief to see them finally start to move. The whole house had felt stifling these last few days, different to how it had been when she and Samuel… When he had both been in it. Without him, somehow, the walls towered over her and the ceilings loomed.
But at least as she sat in the breakfast room all alone, Rose could breathe.
She would find another role. To be sure, the role of marchioness had perhaps been the best one she had ever played… She had certainly enjoyed it the most. And she was a better one than her mother, if she said so herself.
“You are the most perfect woman I have ever seen.”
Rose forced the memory away. No, she’d had her fun: she’d hosted the afternoon teas and attended the balls.
She’d smiled and laughed and spent the man’s money.
But it couldn’t continue, not forever. It had been foolish of her to think that the whole escapade would last the full year and a day.
And to demand the payment when she hadn’t made it as long as contracted? She couldn’t bring herself to do that.
So: a new role. What was it to be? Acting troupe that traveled the country? Perhaps the globe? A starring actress in a small theater in a town that Samuel and his unexpectedly large family would never visit? Could she risk returning to Brighton?
The notices of employers and employees looking for work were as varied as she had imagined. Rose’s attention flickered across the page. The trouble was, she would have to outrun her past.
Both of them.
So, somewhere the Daltons were unlikely to go, and the Chances would probably not venture toward. That did not leave a great number of places…
Rose’s eyes settled on a notice that she had not yet read.
Scottish theater looking for actress with believable English accent. Good wages paid. Bring own gowns.
Well, she had the gowns. Samuel—Lord Aylesbury had been more than generous. Rose had to assume the man would not mind if she disappeared with her wardrobe; after all, it was not as though he was likely to find much use out of it.
Until, muttered a most irritating voice in the back of her mind, he marries again.
The jolt to her stomach was so severe, Rose was a spot surprised her breakfast did not make a reappearance.
Dear God, the very thought that Samuel…
But he’s young, that irritating voice said as it returned with a leer. And handsome. And rich. He had a great deal to offer. Of course, he’d have to annul their marriage or divorce her, but she wouldn’t fight it. Not even if he had to accuse her of adultery to do it.
And she knew it—knew him better than she had expected in such a short time. She could run away to Scotland, yes, and try to pretend that she was not married, perhaps give him an excuse to sue for divorce by reason of abandonment…but how could she take away the memories?
The scatter of light on the ocean, shining over Samuel’s face. The way he laughed, especially when he laughed at himself—one of the most attractive traits in a man. The way his face filled with delight at the thought of helping someone.
Rose swallowed, shaking the newspaper decisively.
She was not going to think about him. He was the one who had stormed out of his own house. He was the one who had apparently no interest in discussing her own life with her. He was the one who had thrown a petulant tantrum.
The trouble was, the movement of shaking the newspaper had allowed the mid-morning light to sparkle on a gold band on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Rose stared…at her wedding ring.
It wasn’t much. There were no diamonds or sapphires or rubies or emeralds. There had been no grand speeches, save for their negotiations. No expectations, beyond that of wealth.
She had lost something so much greater than money and though a part of her ached to find him, Rose knew that it was impossible.
Where had he gone? Why had he fled at the first sign of difficulty?
“It’s foolish, really,” Rose murmured to herself, desperately trying to fill up the empty space that had so often been filled, these last few weeks, with their chatter and laughter. “Wearing a ring gifted by a man who does not love me.”
The gold gleamed again as she twisted her hand this way and that way. It reminded her of Samuel, of his smile…but not of his love. A ring could not be a reminder of something that did not exist.
Swallowing hard, and knowing that the upcoming action would probably make her cry tears of anger and rage and disappointment, Rose slowly put the newspaper down.
Onto her toast and marmalade.
Not that it mattered. As the sweet, orangery stickiness started to seep through the pages of the newspaper, Rose held her left hand before her and stared at it, attempting to put the image deep into her memory.
She hadn’t had a ring last time. This time, she had only worn it for a matter of weeks.
Sighing heavily and hoping to goodness that her sobs would not be audible from the servants’ corridor, Rose lifted her right hand and slowly started to remove the only physical evidence that she had ever met Samuel Chance.
“Don’t you dare,” came a low yet serious voice.
She had barely slipped the ring past the first knuckle and in her surprise, she jammed it back onto her finger and whirled around.
There, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though he had just stepped out of the room momentarily to fetch something, was…Samuel.
Samuel. Her Samuel.
Not my Samuel, Rose reminded herself severely as she tried to focus on the man before her without rising swiftly just to fall into his arms. He was the Marquess of Aylesbury and he would soon be someone else’s husband.
Still, she could not prevent herself from saying, “Samuel.”
At least she had some self-control. Rose would have lost all respect for herself if her tone had been welcoming, friendly. No, it was ice cold, frosty, even, permeating a chill into the breakfast room and the few feet between them.
Samuel obviously registered the less-than-warm welcome. His smile faltered, his expression losing a little of that jesting delight.
It pained Rose to do it, but there was no use in getting swept up in their obvious attraction for each other.
They were well suited in that regard, to be sure.
But an actress with a previous husband and a disgraced past—even if it was noble—was not the suitable wife for a marquess.
Certainly not one like Samuel.
“I… I have come back,” Samuel said, rather unhelpfully.
Rose snorted. As though she needed someone to tell her that! “Where have you been?” she snapped.
The actual whereabouts of the man were neither here nor there, really. The fact that he had stormed out, unwilling to have a conversation, gone for days without a word, without a single word to let her know that he was well!
Rose swallowed down the torrent of words that threatened to pour from her lips.
He owes me nothing, she tried to remind herself. It was true husbands who owed some sort of allegiance and information to their wives.
Not temporary wives who were merely acting the role of marchioness.
Samuel opened his mouth, and Rose just knew it was going to be filled with meaningless patter and nonsense, and if she were not careful, she would be swept up by it. Thousands of women would be, she thought darkly, with his tall stance and those wide shoulders and his intensely kissable lips.
No, whatever he was about to say, she would have to harden herself to it and not permit herself to be so easily taken in.
Samuel hesitated. Then he said, “I am sorry.”
“Oh, that’s just the sort of thing I expected from—” began Rose in a heated tone.
Then her voice faltered as her gaze fixed on the man who inexplicably had just said the one thing she could never, in a million years, have predicted.
The breakfast room was spinning. Most unhelpful at a time like this.
“You…” Rose cleared her throat. “You are what?”
“Sorry. Prodigiously,” added Samuel, as though that were an adequate measure of apology. “I am sorry, Rose.”