4. Summer’s Heat Building #2
“My lord.” She offered a restrained curtsy. “Mrs. Nell Smith. I oversee the ladies of the house.”
Lord Reginald inclined his head.
“Mrs. Smith.”
Then he looked toward Rose, a silent prompt she knew she must answer.
“Rose Darling,” she said, and nothing else.
“Miss Darling.” He held her gaze for several seconds too long.
Then he looked away, and with a visible gathering of himself, he became every inch the nobleman seated behind that expensive desk.
Which was why his next words caught her so utterly off guard.
“I would like a word with Miss Darling. Privately.”
Nell and Huxley both stilled. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
“Leave us.” His tone did not invite argument.
Nell’s brows rose nearly to her hairline. Mr. Huxley’s heavy gaze shifted from Lord Reginald to Rose, his expression giving away nothing at all.
Perhaps they were relieved.
Or trying to be.
The Domus was a fine house, with polished floors, velvet curtains, and enough silver to make a duchess blink.
It was still a brothel.
A private audience might mean the new owner had taken an interest in one woman rather than the whole house. It might mean Rose could soften him where accounts and arguments could not.
But Rose knew it could also mean trouble.
And for a moment, an icy line of fear shot down her spine.
He wouldn’t sack her, surely?
Nell gave Rose one quick, questioning look before she inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.”
Then she and Mr. Huxley left, the door closing softly behind them.
Rose remained standing.
When the door closed behind them, silence settled over the room, and for the first few moments, Lord Reginald only stared down at the papers spread across his desk as though they had personally offended him.
His jaw was tight. One hand rested flat against the blotter, the other curled near the edge of the desk.
Angry, then.
Or embarrassed.
Neither option was promising.
Rose took matters into her own hands.
“I thought I might have imagined you,” she said.
At that, his gaze lifted.
For a moment, he was not the hard-eyed lord behind the desk. He was the man from the garden again, startled and bare, looking at her as though he had carried the memory of her somewhere private and did not know what to do with finding her here.
Then the shutters came down.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You work here?”
Rose straightened. “Yes.”
A pause.
“Not in the kitchens, I presume.”
“No.” Her chin lifted another fraction. “Upstairs.”
He took in a deep breath. Let it out. “What were you doing at the masquerade?”
Rose’s mind moved fast. She could not admit she had been looking for him.
“On occasion,” she said carefully, “a gentleman asks one of us to attend him elsewhere. A supper. A private gathering. A ball.”
It was not wholly untrue. It had simply almost never happened.
Nell would have words to say about this later.
“So you were working.”
The quiet disapproval in his voice made Rose’s stomach drop.
“Not when I met you,” she said quickly. And then added. “The gentleman I’d attended for, had, er, left already.”
His eyes narrowed.
Rose pressed on before he could misunderstand further.
“I was preparing to leave, if you’ll recall. I didn’t even know who you were.” Her throat tightened, though she kept her voice even. “And I swear I would never tell anyone.”
He stared at her.
“About the garden,” she added softly. “What happened there.”
His expression closed.
Whether he regretted how eagerly he had responded to her—or simply could not bear knowing what she did for a living—Rose could not tell.
But one thing was plain.
He did not wish to speak of it.
Not now.
Rose forced herself not to fidget beneath his scrutiny. She was not ashamed. She had no cause to be. But now was not the time to push.
In that moment, instinct urged her to smooth this over. To make herself useful to him, and through him, to everyone at The Domus.
Those issues from the garden would have to be handled in time, but for now, he needed easing past his discomfort. Made comfortable. Calm. Willing to listen.
And so, Rose fell back on what she knew. She relaxed and gave him a smile meant to put him at ease. “Have you visited The Domus before, Lord Reginald?”
His gaze sharpened. “No. I’ve never had reason to do so.”
“Until your brother gifted it to you.”
“A gift I never asked for.”
Rose nodded. So that was how matters stood. “Nonetheless, it is yours now.”
She did not ask what he intended to do with it. Not yet. She simply waited.
His distaste for the business was obvious. There was no denying that. But he had barely crossed the threshold. Once he examined the accounts and saw how the house was run—how much care, order, and skill went into it—perhaps that would change.
“Perhaps you’ll appreciate it more,” she said, “once you’ve looked it over properly.”
Lord Reginald’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It is a brothel.”
Rose refused to let that end the matter.
Yes, The Domus was a brothel. And she was, in fact, a courtesan.
Which meant she was not powerless.
She knew men. Furthermore, she knew something about this one.
He held himself with restraint now, but she’d seen how fiercely he responded when it slipped.
That, joined with everything The Domus had taught her, gave her an advantage.
Stepping closer, she extended her hand in a gesture not unlike the one he’d offered her several weeks ago, beneath a moonlit sky from behind a mask.
She had taken his hand then because she wanted to know where he might lead her.
This time, she was the one doing the leading.
Or attempting to do so, anyhow.
“That is true, we are a brothel,” she said lightly. “But are all ships the same, my lord?”
For one suspended moment, he simply looked at her hand.
Then his gaze lifted to hers.
Memory flickered there. A hint of embarrassment. Perhaps annoyance that she had reminded him they’d ever touched at all.
“Touche,” he said at last.
He stood from behind the desk.
Rose had seen this man half-undone, his formal coat mussed, his expression stripped of the careful control he wore now. She had felt the breadth of his chest against hers. The powerful line of his thighs. The tension that had gathered in him with such startling speed.
She ought not to remember it so clearly.
Nor ought she to have noticed the hard, unmistakable outline pressing against the front of his trousers now.
Ordinarily, Rose noticed such things only as a matter of practical assessment. It was her business, after all.
But there was nothing practical about the warmth that curled low in her belly now.
At the sight of her masked gentleman.
No…
He made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t her anything—masked or otherwise. He ignored her hand and instead gestured toward the door.
“After you, Miss Darling.”
It was sensible, really. Safer than touching him.
Rose lifted her chin and swept past him, half expecting to find Nell and Mr. Huxley waiting outside the office with their ears pressed to the walls.
Instead, it was empty.
Voices drifted from somewhere below. Rose registered them only vaguely. Most of her attention had fixed upon the man walking behind her—and the unmistakable weight of his gaze between her shoulder blades.
She could feel him watching her, but resisted the urge to glance back.
She needed to focus.
What should she show him first? What would make the strongest impression?
The private rooms, perhaps. Or the sitting room. Then the kitchen, where Mrs. Frye, once employed by one of Mayfair’s fussiest duchesses, understood culinary appetites nearly as well as the women upstairs understood carnal ones.
Later, she’d direct him back to the office to go over the accounts, where Mr. Huxley could explain precisely how little of his attention would be required to keep The Domus running smoothly.
As they neared the grand staircase, the voices from below grew louder.
But then they fell silent.
Not gradually.
All at once.
Rose stopped and looked down, and realized too late that she ought to have expected something like this.
Nearly everyone employed by The Domus had gathered in the main entertainment room—ladies, maids, footmen, kitchen staff, Nell, and Mr. Huxley.
Even Boris, their head of security, was there. All seven feet of him. Silent. Watchful.
And every single face was turned upward—toward Lord Reginald.
Rose felt him go still behind her.
They had all been waiting.
Of course they had. They had heard the rumors circulating in London ever since Malum had stepped away. They knew the duke’s younger brother had finally returned, and that he now had the authority to decide what became of them all.
And apparently, none of them intended to wait politely while he made that decision from behind a desk.
Nell’s gaze traveled over Lord Reginald with open assessment.
“Well then,” she called, her voice carrying cleanly through the room. “Have you made your decision?”
No one moved.
Rose glanced back at his lordship.
His face had gone unreadable. Not cold, exactly. But careful. Like a captain sighting weather on a horizon.
Stepping forward, he looked… uncomfortable.
And yet, somehow, also, entirely certain.
“I have,” he said.
Rose’s stomach tightened.
“The future of this establishment concerns many people. I understand that.” His gaze moved over the faces before him. “I also understand that you depend upon this place for both your livelihood and your home. So rather than pretend otherwise, I’ll be clear.”
He paused.
“I intend to close The Domus and sell the property.”
Not a single person moved.
“No one will be destitute,” he continued. “There will be stipends. References, where they are useful. Discreet placements. Assistance for any person who wishes to seek a respectable occupation.
“But… Where will we live?”
The question came from Violet. Rose knew the tremble in her voice. Knew she had nowhere to return to. No family willing to take her.
Lord Reginald’s expression tightened.
“There are proper lodgings to be had,” he said. “I will see to the expense for a reasonable period. And, as I have already said, no one will leave here penniless.”