Chapter 3
Three
“Itold you there is something wrong with this blend,” Lady Winthrop said, giving her cup an audible sniff before she set it beside her magazine. “Look at poor Rosie. She has gone green from the taste.”
Rosalie looked up from her plate and stared at her mother across the table. Her father was reading The Morning Chronicle quietly, but he nodded as Lady Winthrop ordered the footman to replace the pot with their usual black tea.
“It was my fault, really, for bringing tea back from Milan. What was I thinking? I should have purchased silks like Lady Chipping and had them sent over. But I thought it would be so nice to have a taste of the continent with breakfast, and nothing keeps so well as tea.”
“Evidently not, if it has made Rosie sick,” the baron said, raising his brows behind the edge of his newspaper. “You should go upstairs and rest if you’re feeling unwell, possum.”
“I hate when you call her that,” Lady Winthrop said, laughing.
The footman came and left with the tea. Rosalie watched him leave wordlessly. She knew his departure would mean her mother would resume reading Anna’s letter, and she tried to take a bite of bread to help her digest the contents.
The breakfast room soon filled with the sound of Lady Winthrop’s diction, detailing Anna’s first winter in Scotland with her husband. She vaunted the beauty of the moors by his home in Dumfries, and the hospitality of the locals and the churches they had visited.
“Though none, of course,” Lady Winthrop read aloud, “are so beautiful as St. George’s in Mayfair, where we married, and where part of my heart remains, with you, Father, and little Rosalie.”
“I shall write to her this afternoon,” her mother concluded once she was done, folding the letter and placing it on top of her magazine. “I can include a note from you if you write it quickly.”
It took Rosalie a few seconds to realize she was being addressed. “Certainly,” she said, choking on the words. Her throat had gone dry. She dropped her roll on her plate and reached for her glass of water. “Though I don’t have much new to write her since last time...”
“Well, that can’t be true,” Lady Winthrop said, picking up her ladies’ magazine. “You could tell her about the ball last night.”
Rosalie glanced up, her face turning hot.
“Nothing happened at the ball worth writing about.”
“No?” Lady Winthrop smiled, but the expression turned sour.
She cleared her throat and returned to what remained of her breakfast. “Maybe next time, darling. We received invitations to three dinners yesterday. I agreed to take luncheon with Lady Chipping soon, if you’d like to join, though it will just be her and me. ”
The mention of Lady Chipping brought to mind her nephew and his kiss. Rosalie sucked in a fortifying breath. She had spent the night tossing and turning, replaying the moment in her head. Once the Duke of Hartmere had made his speech, the evening had slowly wound down.
She had not seen the duke beyond that point. He had made no effort to seek her out. Maybe she was overthinking everything, and nothing would come of the stolen kiss except a happy engagement for Emily and Thomas.
“Heavens, dear! What’s the matter?”
Rosalie felt her mother lean toward her and realized she had started crying. She smiled nervously, unsure where the tears had even come from.
“Oh,” Lady Winthrop cooed, rising to take Rosalie in a hug.
“It was my fault for mentioning the invitations. We needn’t go anywhere you don’t want to go.
You are perfectly fine right where you are.
Ignore your silly mother. She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.
But she’ll make things right for you. Your mother has plans; don’t you worry. ”
Her father had lowered his paper and came around to her other side. He patted her shoulder, but their concern only made Rosalie feel worse. She didn’t want to be made to feel like a helpless child.
“It’s nothing,” Rosalie said more emphatically than she intended. “I am just... I miss Anna,” she lied. It was the first thing that had come to mind, even though she was usually a terrible liar. “I just wish Anna were here.”
“We all miss Anna, darling.” Lady Winthrop kissed the top of Rosalie’s head. “But she’ll be back in London before you know it.”
“We could send you up to Dumfries, possum—could sneak you on a mail cart,” her father teased, eliciting a laugh from Rosalie. “You’ll slip right past the officers at the border.”
“Stop it. She’s not going anywhere without me,” her mother chided, only to immediately groan as the footman reappeared at the doors. “Can you not see the tea can wait, Charles?”
“My lady,” the footman stammered. “There is a caller.”
The three Winthrops froze. Rosalie’s father was first to move, rising to a stand. “At this hour?” he cried.
“I am still in my morning gown,” Lady Winthrop squawked, looking down at her silk dress and patting her house bonnet. “Merciful Heavens, who would call at ten o’clock? Send them away, Charles.”
The footman hesitated, and the baron bid him closer. He crossed the room and extended a calling card to Rosalie's father. She held her breath as he read it quietly and then looked up.
“This must be a mistake,” the baron said.
“What?” Lady Winthrop asked. “Why a mistake?”
“It’s from... the Duke of Hartmere.”
Rosalie shot out of her dining seat, almost headbutting her mother.
She grabbed the calling card out of her father’s hand, narrowly avoiding giving them both paper cuts.
Her father had told the truth. The duke’s name, his title, and his London address had been printed on a thick piece of cream-colored card.
The Ashcroft coat of arms had been printed on the back: a shield with fleurs de lis in the middle, flanked by birds of prey.
All three of them turned to look at Charles.
“Well, what are you waiting for, Charles?” Lady Winthrop asked, whipping off her bonnet. “Show His Grace into the drawing room without delay.”
Frankly, Rosalie had been dressed so quickly she was not even sure what color she was wearing. Suitably covered, she ran down the stairs where her mother waited at the bottom, somehow completely changed out of her morning gown and coiffed in the matter of ten minutes.
“This will just have to do,” Lady Winthrop said, smoothing Rosalie’s gown and hoisting up her bustier. “Your father is in there with him. I can hear them talking. It really must be His Grace. The duke in our house... How has this happened?”
That was the last question Rosalie wanted to hear. The duke was really here. It had taken every ounce of her courage to leave her rooms once she was dressed. But staying risked raising more questions than appearing would answer.
There was a chance this had nothing to do with her mistake the night prior.
Perhaps one of them had forgotten something at Hartmere House and the duke had decided to return it himself.
Perhaps he had come to inquire about his aunt, or he had been impressed by the bespoke masks they had worn and had come to discuss their sartorial talents.
But more likely, Rosalie thought as her mother led her down the next flight of stairs, things are exactly as they appear to be, and he has come to denounce me for last night and expose my crime to my parents.
She tried to steady her breathing as they approached the drawing room. “Mother,” she said, pulling Lady Winthrop to a stop. “I should not go in with you.”
“And why ever not?” Lady Winthrop asked, lowering her voice before she gave them away.
Rosalie eyed the door and dropped her voice. “His Grace will not want to see me. He does not know me. He must have come to speak with you or Father. It is not right for a woman to be seen so early by a caller in the first place.”
“This is hardly the time to debate the rules of propriety. There is a duke in our drawing room,” Lady Winthrop stressed, silently mouthing the words that mattered. “It would be worse not to go in. Maybe he has come to ask for your hand in marriage.”
“We have never even spoken,” Rosalie argued, backing away instinctively.
Lady Winthrop smirked. “He may have seen you across the ballroom and felt compelled to meet you.”
“Or, more likely, Father left his hat behind, and His Grace has come to return it.”
Lady Winthrop rolled her eyes. “I like my idea better.”
“Of course you would. And yet—”
Rosalie parted her lips to give another reason why she should not greet the duke. But at that moment, the drawing room door creaked open, and her father appeared, still in his shirtsleeves.
“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, then added more loudly, “My wife, Lady Winthrop, and my daughter, Miss Rosalie Winthrop, Your Grace.”
With a look of victory, Lady Winthrop led Rosalie into the drawing room.
To be fair to her mother, the Duke of Hartmere did bear a striking resemblance to Lady Chipping.
They had the same bright blue eyes, the same heavy brow, and the same broad shoulders that worked better on his masculine frame than on hers.
Where Lady Chipping’s hair had turned gray with age, the Duke of Hartmere’s hair was as black as night.
It curled around his ears and tickled the top of his cravat, probably windswept from the drive over to Mayfair.
Rosalie could have fainted dead on the spot.
He was too handsome for his own good. He looked exactly like the rake some people of the ton claimed he was.
They had not received a caller so young since Lord William Howard, and never a caller so handsome and infamous as the Duke of Hartmere.
Startled, she only moved once he started to speak.
“You must forgive me, Lady Winthrop, Miss Winthrop, for disturbing you so early,” he said politely.
His voice sent tingles down Rosalie’s back. His timbre was low and rumbling like a storm, but somehow as crisp as lightning. She nodded in acknowledgment and averted her eyes to the ground, hoping to hide her panic and mortification from him.