16. Anywhere but The Domus
ANYWHERE BUT THE DOMUS
Reginald liked seeing Rose away from his brother’s legacy.
Away from the brothel, the receiving rooms, and all the reminders of the institution she defended with such maddening conviction. Out here, she was not Miss Darling of The Domus Emporium.
She was simply Rose.
So when, the following morning, Mrs. Smith mentioned that Miss Darling required one of The Domus coaches to carry several gowns to her seamstress, Reginald seized the opportunity to accompany her.
Not that he made his intentions obvious.
He merely informed Mrs. Smith that he required the coach himself, then generously offered to alter his route to accommodate Miss Darling’s stop as well.
Which was how Reginald came to be standing outside a small dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street as his coach disappeared into traffic.
He rocked back on his heels, rather pleased with himself.
Rose stared after it.
Only when it vanished from sight did she turn to him, disbelief written plainly across her face.
“You dismissed him.”
“I did no such thing.” Reginald glanced along the street and frowned. “He mentioned something about another errand.”
“So he simply abandoned you. His employer. On Bond Street.”
Reginald stared down the walk at the row of shops. “It is a savage wilderness.”
Rose’s lovely mouth twitched.
Reginald forced his gaze from her and glanced along the street. “I believe there’s a confectioner’s shop a few doors down.”
Rose looked up at him. “You noticed it?”
“I noticed you noticing it.” Reginald offered his arm. “Shall we investigate?”’
“Is that a real question?”
Something almost girlish lit her eyes, and as she dropped her hand on his sleeve, Reginald found himself far more interested in that than in anything the shop might sell.
They’d passed only a few storefronts when the scent of baked goods drifted toward them from the confectioner’s door.
Inside, the air was rich with cacao, hot milk, sugar, and warm pastry. Rose slowed and closed her eyes as she breathed it in, and the pleasure on her face sent a quiet spark of satisfaction through Reginald.
He guided her toward a vacant table near the window, though her attention had already strayed to the glass case filled with pastries, cakes, and sugar-dusted candies. Before either could settle on any of them, a young woman in a spotless white apron approached their table.
“Tea?” she asked. “Or chocolate?”
“Chocolate,” Reginald answered.
Rose glanced at him. “You truly like it?”
“I do.”
“Odd. I’ve been imagining you eating nothing but salt beef and hard biscuits.”
“I’ve had my share of those,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate something sweet now and again.”
“Good.” Rose’s eyes gleamed. “I should hate to think all those years at sea ruined your appetite.”
“Quite the opposite.”
The attendant cleared her throat softly.
Rose looked away, while Reginald ordered both of them chocolate, and more pastries than Rose thought reasonable.
“Did you have any sweets on the ship, then?” she asked once they were alone.
“Occasionally, but unless I hoarded them, they didn’t last long. Depending on the last port… In Canton, candied ginger—mouthwatering little slices crusted with sugar. It burned before it sweetened.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her, and couldn’t help but smile. “Sweetness with a little bite.”
The server returned with a tray so laden, the contents nearly covered the table by the time she’d set it all down.
Once she’d gone, Reginald waited for Rose to taste the chocolate. Her eyes softened with pleasure before he lifted his own cup.
“Well?” he asked.
Rose laughed. “It’s lovely. Almost as good as my grandmother’s. Hers was thicker.”
Her grandmother.
It was the first mention of any family, and Reginald tucked it away.
“Do you like it?” She tilted her head and a delicate blonde tendril curled around her chin.
“I do, though I miss the spice of it.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “In Cádiz, they add cinnamon. I grew rather fond of the taste.”
They lingered over the pastries, sampling one after another while the chocolate cooled in their cups.
Rose kept asking questions, and Reginald found himself answering them. He told her of distant ports, strange dishes, and spices she’d never encountered. Some of his stories should have shocked her.
Instead, she leaned closer and asked for more.
And because Reginald seemed incapable of looking anywhere but at her, he noticed when her hand drifted toward the sugar bowl.
His gaze flicked to her cup. She had already sweetened her chocolate.
Rose hesitated.
Then her chin lifted. She closed her fingers around a few pieces, and tucked both hands into her lap, as though daring him to comment.
He said nothing.
“My grandmother was a baker,” she said instead.
“She worked in a bakehouse when she was young, then later from our rooms. Making bread, mostly. Buns when she could afford currants.” A faint smile touched her mouth.
“Sometimes apple puffs. Pastry folded over stewed apples, with sugar scattered across the top while they were still warm.”
“She sold them?”
“Yes. Though she was never terribly strict about the extras.”
Reginald liked to think of Rose as a young girl, enjoying her grandmother’s sweets. And yet… If her grandmother was still alive, he doubted Rose would have ended up at The Domus.
“She is passed?” he asked softly. The way she spoke about the woman, it was fairly obvious.
“Yes.” Her smile faded. “I came home from school one afternoon and found her lying on the floor, right by the oven. Biscuits in the oven, burned to a crisp.” The words were quietly spoken, as though the memory had stolen all the strength from her lungs.
“Was it just the two of you?”
He asked despite already knowing the answer. Hoping, absurdly, that there had been an aunt. A neighbor. Someone who had taken the frightened child inside and told her she would be cared for.
“Just me.” Rose smiled brightly. Too brightly.
His chest tightened.
“What did you do?”
“I found work where I could. Washing. Carrying parcels. Helping in kitchens.” She gave a small shrug. “None of it lasted.”
“Why not?”
Her gaze dropped to the table. And when she just shook her head, Reginald’s hand tightened around his cup.
Rose glanced toward the sugar bowl. “I didn’t taste sugar again for a very long while.”
She brought her hand back up to the table.
“When I came to The Domus, there was always sugar. In the tea, in the kitchen—bowls of it left sitting about, forgotten, seemingly.”
She opened her hand.
Three small, irregular lumps of loaf sugar rested upon her palm.
“I always keep a few pieces with me.” She began to close her fingers. “It’s foolish.”
“No.”
Her gaze lifted.
Reginald nodded toward the sugar. “They’re provisions.”
“Provisions?”
“In case the world runs short again.”
Rose stared at him.
Then her fingers closed carefully around the sugar, and she tucked it away again.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Something like that.”
Reginald looked down at his cup.
Some part of him had believed that spending more time with this woman would expose the flaws beneath her beauty. That familiarity would make her less captivating.
That once and for all, he could chase her out of his dreams.
Instead, with each new glimpse into her person, her past… he found himself even more entangled.
Perhaps this all was part of her campaign to convince him. Perhaps she thought any of this could help her cause.
It didn’t matter.
If anything, coming to know the woman beneath the paint, the wigs, and the silk only strengthened his resolve to rid the world of one more brothel.
He wasn’t going to change his mind.
And he certainly wasn’t going to tell her he’d already found a buyer for The Domus.