17. A Taste of Freedom
A TASTE OF FREEDOM
Rose was quite happy to keep her promise to Reginald.
Not because she feared what he might do if she broke it. He hadn’t threatened her. He’d merely asked that she accept no clients that month.
And she had agreed.
Only then did Rose realize how much of each day her work consumed.
Not merely the hours spent with gentlemen, but the dressing, the styling, all the private rituals before and after—the washing, perfuming, preparing clean cloths and protection, then washing again, tending any soreness, and making herself presentable once more.
During those first few days, Rose repeatedly reminded herself not to grow accustomed to such freedom. This was temporary. A reprieve, nothing more. It could be taken away as easily as it had been given.
She knew better than to enjoy it too much.
And yet, each time she warned herself against growing comfortable, the words rang a little more hollow. Because beneath all her sensible cautions was a truth she scarcely dared acknowledge.
She was getting a taste of something dangerously close to freedom.
For a little while, her body was her own. So were her thoughts, her time, even her feelings.
Not wholly. Not permanently, of course. Reginald still held the fate of The Domus in the palm of his hand, and she would be a fool to forget it.
And yet, she was also beginning to see another side of the man who’d inherited her home. A more relaxed, unburdened confidence that seemed to appear only when she drew him away from The Domus.
Which had proved almost suspiciously easy.
She had not needed to persuade him at all. Indeed, judging by the mysterious disappearance of their coach when she’d completed her errand to the dressmaker, Reginald had been even more intent on prolonging their outing than she was.
They had spent nearly an hour in the confectioner’s shop, and afterward, with the coach still nowhere in sight, the two of them had walked along the edge of Hyde Park.
It had been pleasant.
Dangerously so.
As though there were nothing between them but the desire to enjoy each other’s company. It was almost innocent, even, like she really was one of those Mayfair ladies on a simple outing.
Except when he offered her his arm. Or took her hand.
Then she felt it again. That heated current beneath her skin, sharpened now by everything they were pretending not to remember.
No, it had not disappeared.
Later that evening, after she’d given the girls at The Domus an overview of how the day had gone, Nell determined the plan was working.
And when she’d suggested that Rose come up with other ideas to get him away, Rose hadn’t argued at all. In fact, she’d already decided on her next ruse.
She wished to visit the bookseller’s shop a few streets away, and of course, she was perfectly capable of going alone.
Still, it seemed only considerate to ask whether Reginald required anything.
Or… whether he might wish to accompany her.
With all that in mind, she climbed the stairs to his office the next morning, ignoring the little flutters dancing in her chest.
Mr. Huxley sat behind the smaller desk, nearly buried beneath ledgers and correspondence. He looked over his spectacles as she entered, his expression turning wary.
“Miss Darling.”
“Mr. Huxley,” she said with a sugar-sweet smile. “I wished to speak with Lord Reginald.”
“His lordship is occupied.”
“But he is in?”
“He is, but…” Mr. Huxley trailed off when the office door opened behind him.
Reginald stepped out, and Rose nearly forgot her own name.
She ought to have been growing accustomed to the sight of him by now. As usual, he was dressed more like a ship’s captain than a lord. Dark trousers tucked into worn boots, a plain waistcoat open over a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His coat hung over one shoulder.
The lack of formality ought to have made him less imposing.
Instead, it left nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the strength the sea had carved into him. A few dark strands had fallen over his brow, and his open collar showed a tempting stretch of sun-browned skin.
Rose’s mouth went dry.
His silver eyes found hers.
And brightened.
“Miss Darling.”
Rose lifted her chin, though she could feel the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth. “My lord.”
For several seconds, that was the extent of their greeting.
His gaze moved over her face, lingering just long enough to warm her skin. “Have you come looking for me?”
“I was thinking of walking to the bookseller’s.”
He blinked, and then his mouth quirked. “And my offices are on the way?”
“I, er…” Rose barely kept herself from stuttering. What had seemed like a perfectly logical plan the night before suddenly felt more than a little foolish. “I came to ask whether you required anything.”
“From the bookseller.”
Rose shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps you have been longing for a volume of poetry.”
“I have not.”
“A philosophical treatise?”
“No.”
Behind them, Mr. Huxley cleared his throat.
They both turned.
The secretary looked from Rose to Reginald and then deliberately lowered his gaze to the documents before him.
Reginald looked back at her.
“You ought not walk alone.”
Rose tilted her head. “Are you offering to escort me?”
“I need to meet with Mr. Sedgewick.”
The name was somewhat familiar, but Rose was too disappointed to recall why. “Oh. Well…” She concealed the sinking feeling with a forced smile. “Then I shall not keep you.”
Reginald glanced toward the stairs. Then back at her.
“Sedgewick isn’t going anywhere.”
The warmth returned. “Is that so?” Rose murmured.
This time, his smile appeared fully.
The Compass and Quill was tucked between a milliner and a seller of antiquities, its bowed window crowded with gilt-edged volumes, rolled maps, and a large brass globe.
When they stepped inside, Rose took Reginald by the hand, leading him directly to the rear of the shop.
Reginald didn’t mind at all. In fact, he found he rather liked following Rose.
She moved with purpose, never lingering or pretending uncertainty. She knew what she wanted and went directly toward it.
There was something deeply appealing about that.
At the towering shelves along the back wall, she ran her fingers over a row of spines before pulling out the second volume of Ivanhoe.
“You’ve already read the first?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Are you surprised that I can read?”
“Not at all. But I have the entire set aboard the ship. We could fetch them, if you like.”
She blinked, then gave a small nod as she returned the volume to its place. “I’d like that.”
For a few minutes, she was unusually quiet. But then, she let out a soft sigh.
“I’ve nearly exhausted the library at The Domus,” she said. “And now I find myself with rather more time in the evenings than I’m accustomed to.”
For a moment, he didn’t understand.
Then it struck him.
She was no longer receiving clients.
Because of him.
Yet he knew she’d hardly been idle. Nell had kept him informed. Miss Darling had helped dress the other women, mended gowns, soothed nerves, and stepped in wherever the house required her.
But she herself had not been… working.
Rose glanced at him from beneath her lashes, and something in her expression made him wonder whether she meant for him to hear an invitation in her words or whether his own imagination had conjured it.
He would go to her readily enough if it were what she wanted. If his presence pleased her.
But not there.
Not at The Domus, where no amount of civility could make him forget what the place was.
Rose withdrew a different novel and studied its cover.
“Did you ever return to school?” he asked, before he said something he oughtn’t.
Her hand slid the book back onto the shelf, and her smile faltered a little.
“Not in the usual sense.” She returned the book to its place. “But I continued learning after I came to The Domus. History, literature, music, French. Even a little philosophy.”
Reginald watched her choose another volume.
She pulled down a slim volume and opened it carefully. “I was fortunate to attend school for as long as I did. I could read and write. I knew my sums, some history.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I’d just turned twelve when I stopped attending.”
Twelve.
A haunting image of her came to him suddenly: A younger Rose carrying parcels through wet streets, bargaining for wages, trying to disappear if a man looked too closely.
Reginald hated it.
“At The Domus,” she continued, “we’re encouraged to learn. You know about the tutors, and there’s the library besides. Nell always said, if a woman doesn’t know enough to mind her own affairs, there’s always someone ready to cheat her.”
“A practical philosophy.”
“And we are courtesans,” she reminded him. “An educated woman makes a more interesting companion.”
His jaw tightened.
Rose noticed. Her expression didn’t turn ashamed, but some of the ease left it.
“I’ve disturbed you.”
Reginald looked down at the atlas between them. It lay open to the Mediterranean, its coastlines so familiar he could have traced them with his eyes closed.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Though not for the reason you think.”
“You disapprove of how my education is used.”
“I disapprove of men believing they may purchase the pleasure of your mind along with everything else.” He met her gaze again. “The education was never wasted on you, Rose.”
A faint challenge entered her eyes. “Only on my clients?”
“Most assuredly on them.”
“Well, I disagree.” She gave a small shrug. “Some of them have taught me things as well. They aren’t all villains, Reginald. A few have known quite a lot worth hearing.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of the book.
“And whatever I learn is still mine when they leave.”
He looked at her then.
Rose held the book against her chest, defiant and composed. For one fleeting moment, she seemed impossibly young—delighted simply to find shelves of books waiting for her.
Then her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth.
And she became something else entirely.
A woman who knew precisely where he was weakest.
Reginald took the book from her arms, strode to the front of the shop, and purchased it before she could protest.
Who was this woman?
She made him feel stripped bare and ten feet tall at the same time. He could hardly keep himself from seeking her out, from finding one more reason to be near her.
And somehow, he was beginning to fear there was very little he would not do for her.
Except for the one thing she wanted—for him to change his mind about The Domus.
And in about three weeks’ time, Rose would hate him for it.