Lady Be Good: Lord Love a Lady Series, Book 5 Read online

  A commitment in which Rome wasn’t prepared to make.

  Rome rubbed the back of his neck. He’d promised Wesley a tour of the estate later today but it was early yet.

  As he glanced down at his timepiece, the sounds of music floated down the corridor. It was not a cello but the pianoforte. Rome paused enough to recognize the familiar composition. It was one of Beethoven’s pieces: “Moonlight Sonata,” hauntingly familiar, played with emotion.

  Natalie played the pianoforte often but not with this sort of discipline.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the tune to float over him.

  “I spent many hours at the pianoforte before I left home.”

  He’d heard the yearning in her voice but not paid heed to it at the time. With a force comparable to gravity, the desire to see her drew him to the end of the corridor. Once outside the door to the music salon, not wanting to interrupt, he pulled it open just enough so that he could confirm that it was her.

  She faced him but had her eyes closed. Back straight, she knew the keys by touch.

  Rome knew in that instant that which he’d suspected before. In every sense of the word, this woman—this talented and refined person he’d come to know—was a genteel lady, not Rosie, but Miss Waring. “When you call me Miss Waring, not Rosie, and not girl, you speak to her. To me.”

  What had she told him?

  “I am a servant on the outside, but on the inside, I am still Miss Waring. I am still… me. And there are days when I feel I am losing myself, losing that person inside.”

  Rome studied her from across the room. Had she lost a part of herself when she’d become a servant? Was this why she’d refused him? His heart skipped a beat.

  If that was the case, he wondered, was it possible she could find it again?

  She must have sensed his presence, for she opened her eyes and her fingers faltered. She did not smile at him in welcome, nor did she give him permission to enter.

  He’d treated her horribly the day before.

  “I did not mean to interrupt. You play beautifully.”

  She dropped her lashes. “Your mother was kind enough to give me permission.” When she went to rise, he halted her with his hand, allowing the door to close behind him as he strode across the parquet floor.

  Once beside her, he caught a whiff of her scent. Not floral tones but sweet and clean ones.

  Various sheets of music were propped in front of her. “You have played often throughout your visit?” Unable to resist, he lowered himself onto the bench beside her.

  She eyed him warily but did not get up to leave.

  Instead, she resumed her playing. “I’m surprised you’ve deigned to acknowledge me today. Or did you need me to fetch something from below stairs for you, My Lord?”

  Rome winced. “You made me angry,” he admitted, fascinated to see this side of her.

  Her chest heaved, and he watched as a delicate pink flushed her cheeks.

  “I cannot believe you have the audacity to be angry with me!” she finally answered. The volume of her playing increased. “I have been honest with you from the beginning.”

  “As have I,” he pushed back. “And yet you chose not to believe me.”

  “You refused to listen to my reasons.” She eyed him with a frown, still playing flawlessly. “Why are you here? Perhaps you wish to withdraw your mother’s permission for me to play.”

  “For God’s sake—“

  “Language,” she cautioned him. Genteel indeed.

  She’d spent far too much time with his mother, he decided, upon hearing the familiar reprimand. He wanted to smile but somehow did not think she’d see the humor.

  He cleared his throat. “I am glad Mother suggested you make use of it.” He flicked his gaze downward to where her fingers traveled toward the higher registered keys. “In fact, I wanted to thank you for assisting Wesley at dinner last night.” That lump returned to his throat at the mention of his son.

  So many emotions threatened to overturn his calm. What had happened to the boring and predictable man he’d been over the past decade?

  “It was nothing,” she furrowed her brows as she concentrated on the music.

  “Will you stop a moment and listen to me?”

  She did as he asked but continued staring at the keys.

  “It was not nothing.” Rome’s voice sounded louder in the now quiet room. “He’s scared. Everything familiar in his life has been taken away. I thought to take him back up north, but the home he grew up in belongs to another family now.” He’d discussed all of this with her before and she’d somehow reassured him. Was it so much to want to talk with her today? “At least he’s somewhat familiar with Harlow Point. His grandparents’ cabin sat directly adjacent to the estate.”

  But Rose held herself stiffly, almost as though she’d built a wall of some sort around herself.

  He missed her, damnit. “Please, Rose, won’t you talk to me?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. He should not have bothered her.

  “No.” The sound of her voice surprised him. And then she turned to face him. “You were not wrong. It was good of you to bring him here. Your parents… they will find their way with him. As will Natalie and your brothers. As you have begun to do.”

  His heart began beating again. “I hate that he is a bastard. I hate that I cannot give him my name.”

  “But you will give him everything else.” Her calm words cut off his doubts. It was exactly what he’d vowed in his own mind over the duration of the journey from Wales.

  Tall windows lined the wall and he stared outside. The sun was shining but he knew it would be brisk. He’d missed this. Simply talking with her.

  Footsteps sounded in the corridor. The household was rising. “Will you walk outside with me?”

  “We should not be alone. Rome. It is different here. We cannot—”

  “A path circles the lake. We will only walk.” He fully expected her to refuse him.

  Something he ought to be quite used to.

  She did not move from the bench and her eyes took on an unusual shine.

  “Will you forgive me?” he added. “For my behavior yesterday?” It had been stupid on his part.

  She blinked away what he thought might be unshed tears. “You hurt me. I did not expect that.” And then she lifted her eyes to meet his. “Not from you.”

  She might as well have shoved a knife into his heart.

  Rome took her hand that was closest to his and lifted it to his lips. Touching her felt right. He inhaled her scent, feeling more whole than he had in weeks.

  “It will never happen again,” he vowed. “I promise.”

  She searched his eyes, and then, as though coming to a decision, withdrew her hand from his and slid off of the bench.

  “I need to fetch my coat.”

  He exhaled. “I’ll wait here.”

  “You need a coat too,” she said over her shoulder as she slowly approached the door.

  “I’ll wait here.”

  He watched her walk away, unwilling to move. Afraid, almost, that if he did, she would not return.

  There were things he needed to tell her. Questions that needed answers.

  He did not rise from the bench until the door opened again.

  She’d changed into a pair of warm boots and wore the same coat she had worn at Summers Park. The same one she’d worn the day they’d gone to the gamekeeper’s hut together. But a different scarf. Her scarf had been red that day, when he’d buried his face in it and his cock had been buried inside her.

  “You did not get a coat for yourself.” She frowned.

  “This jacket is wool.” He felt warm enough in her presence. Hot under his cravat, in fact. He wanted to talk with her but that didn’t mean he’d grown impervious to her other attractions.

  “I don’t want you to fall ill.”

  He dismissed her concerns. “I’ll be fine.” He took her hand and pulled her toward an exit
that most visitors did not know existed. One of the windows was, in fact, a door.

  When they stepped outside, he wasn’t sure if the invigoration he felt was caused by the cold or by her. The air stung his cheeks, but he ignored it. The black of his jacket would absorb the heat of the bright sun. “This way.” A nearby path wound around the house and would eventually lead them to the manicured forest.

  He pulled her behind him until the trail widened. By the time they were able to walk abreast, he’d nearly forgotten all that he’d wanted to say.

  Simply being with her, as it had since that first night in her chamber, lent him a certain peace. It was new, and yet familiar. How many times had he walked with her like this? Conversation wasn’t necessary. She allowed him to simply… be.

  And yet time was not on his side.

  They had been hiking at a brisk pace, through the trees, to eventually ascend one of the rolling hills that surrounded Raven’s Park.

  “I’m going to have to marry, Rose.” He did not look at her as he spoke. “That damn rumor has taken on a life of its own. One of my father’s investment partners is threatening to back out of a project they’ve been working on for months. If he does…” He shook his head.

  “Ha!” she said from behind him. “It could not be more untrue.”

  God help her if anyone overheard her adamant defense of his sexual preference.

  “You first heard of it from me,” she pondered his dilemma aloud. “It was spoken of mostly amongst the servants. I am certain of that.” They stood beside one another, staring out at the view. “Perhaps it was an outrider who mentioned it to me? Or a footman. Perhaps if we could identify the source, we could put a halt to it.”

  The source no longer mattered. At this point, his best hope was to pour water on the fire, so to speak. And the only way he saw that happening was if he married.

  “I’m so sorry. I cannot imagine why anyone would do something so cruel.”

  “It is done.” Good lord. It simply needed to stop. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I don’t want my son to hear of it. He’s been through enough.” Would Wesley ever come to trust him if he heard such a rumor? This concern worried Rome far more than the damn investors.

  “He cannot hear of it,” she asserted. Rome opened his eyes again and caught her scowling ferociously.

  He’d not expected her to become angry on his behalf. It wasn’t necessary. Far greater inequities existed for her to rage against.

  Their gazes locked but then she turned her face away from him again. “Lady Asherton and I are going to leave for London on Monday. I will send word if I discover anything that might be of assistance to your… situation.”

  Ah, yes. London.

  “She informed me of her decision last night.” Like a glutton for punishment, he’d wanted to keep Rose at his parents’ estate for as long as possible now that he was here. “And you shall experience all London has to offer. You are no longer a lady’s maid.” He drank in the sight of her, if only her profile. His chest tightened at the proud lift of her chin.

  “It is only temporary.”

  “It looks good on you.”

  At his words, she sent him a halfhearted smile. “Only for the Season.”

  The urge to brush his lips along the curve of her cheek nearly choked him. Rather than give in to it, he lost himself in the warmth of her eyes. “I miss you, Rose.” He’d not intended to admit so much to her. Neither of them had brought up his proposal again.

  “It was good that you went to Wales. It’s obvious he needed you.”

  But at the time of his departure from Summers Park, Wesley hadn’t been foremost in his mind.

  “I imagine so.” Her rejection still stung. “And you? You do not regret your answer?”

  At her silence, he stepped forward and wound his arms around her from behind. “It does not have to be this way. Look at you. You are wrong, Rose. I would not hide you away.”

  But she shook her head. Even so, she turned in his arms to face him, her own working their way around his neck. “I missed you too. But… it is for the best.” She buried her face in his chest.

  “Damnit, Rose.” How could she deny something that felt so perfect? He lifted her chin and the sadness in her eyes set his resolve.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter 22

  London

  “This isn’t necessary!”

  “As you’ll be accompanying me, I absolutely insist you wear nothing but the latest fashions. Besides, it wouldn’t be half as much fun getting poked and prodded alone.” Margaret lifted her hands in the air at the same time the seamstress at Rose’s feet urged her to turn to the side.

  They’d been in London for over a fortnight and just when Rose believed they had enough gowns, hats, gloves, pelisses, and shoes for the Season, Margaret thought of something else. Or she saw a new design and just had to have one, which meant that Rose did as well.

  This was most definitely not the same woman who’d rejected the parasol and gloves in Exeter over Christmas.

  “It’s been so very long,” Margaret had told her. “It’s as though I had forgotten how to enjoy myself.”

  And how could Rose argue with that?

  Margaret had even begun adding a spoonful of sugar to her tea. She’d chastised Rose for it once, and Rose had insisted Margaret try it for herself. She’d jokingly sworn Rose to secrecy, touting that if word were to get out that she practiced such a frivolous habit, she’d never be taken seriously by any of her friends again.

  Upon arriving in London, Rose had been somewhat overwhelmed by the majestic exterior of the townhouse that Margaret’s late husband had bequeathed to her upon his death. Even Margaret had seemed impressed when the carriage slowed to a halt in front of the Georgian-styled building set less than half a block away from Hyde Park.

  She’d been there once before, she explained to Rose, but she’d been so despondent from her husband’s passing that she’d not taken note of any of the details.

  As the days passed, they’d fallen into a routine of sorts, walking in the park every afternoon just before tea and reserving their mornings for shopping.

  They would veer tomorrow, however, as London’s finest hairstylist, Monsieur Jean Luc De Lacroix, would arrive shortly after the nuncheon to work his magic on both ladies’ less-than-fashionable coiffures.

  Margaret had decided that if Rose had her hair cut, there would be less chance of anyone recognizing her as Penelope’s maid.

  Furthermore, the Stanhope agency would send two of their best lady’s maids to No. 25 Culross Street promptly at eight o’clock the following mornings to serve while Margaret and Rose resided there. With only two days left before the Willoughby’s Ball, the official launch of the Season, they still had plenty to accomplish.

  The pseudo-charade for Miss Ursula Waring would begin on that night.

  “A missive for you, My Lady.” Margaret’s most proper butler stood at the door. “From his lordship, Viscount Darlington. He asked that I give it to you without delay.”

  “Bring it here, Chadwick.” Margaret gestured toward the pins. “In fact, hand it to Miss Waring to read,” She shrugged in Rose’s direction with both hands held out, making her body into the shape of a T. “Do you mind, Ursula?”

  Another change Rose had yet to accustom herself to. Even her own parents had never called her by her given name.

  Feeling rather as though she was opening something she would rather not read, Rose cracked the seal and scanned her eyes along the script. The handwriting reminded her of a box of chocolates.

  “My dear, Lady Asherton,” she began aloud. “Please accept my most abject apologies for not coming to London sooner. Business and personal matters required my attention at Raven’s Park. I arrived at Burtis Hall late yesterday and would be honored if you would allow me to escort you for a drive tomorrow at the fashionable hour. If I do not hear any objection from you, I will come round tomorrow afternoon to collect you. Yours, Darli
ngton.”

  The gown Rose was wearing seemed to have tightened around her chest. He was going to do it. He was going to marry Margaret in order to put an end to the dangerous rumor.

  Margaret.

  Rose had yet to hear of anything untoward about the viscount, but as Miss Waring, she hadn’t spent anytime downstairs, where gossip was ripe.

  Margaret’s gaze met Rose’s eyes. “He came.”

  “You will allow him to court you, then?” Rose asked. “Please, not so tight,” she begged the lady pinning the dress behind her.

  “It looks lovely, though.” Margaret eyed the high waist of Rose’s gown. “You will join us, of course. Anything else would be most improper.”

  “Oh, but Monsieur Jean Luc—”

  “Will be quite finished with us by then. It’s a perfect opportunity, really. Most everyone is in town already and the park will be teaming with Society’s finest. By the time we’ve made a pass or two, everyone will be clamoring for an introduction to my dear friend, Miss Ursula Waring.”

  Rose smiled weakly. “If you say so, Margaret.”

  The well-known hairstylist did not make any major changes to Margaret’s long hair but whatever it was that he did made it appear shinier, smoother.

  He showed no such restraint when he turned his attention toward Rose. In fact, she wondered if she was going to have apoplexy as she watched long strands of hair fall onto the floor. With the first few snips of his scissors, she had to force herself to breathe. When tears threatened, Margaret placed a glass of wine into her hand.

  “It’s going to be beautiful,” Margaret reassured her.

  Rose had not had her hair cut since… She could not remember when, although, for most of her adult life, she’d kept it hidden beneath a cap of some sort.

  She took a long gulp of the wine, and then another. The warmth that settled inside gradually stopped her shaking, and she began to think more positively about the experience.

  A woman was so much more than her hair, she told herself. She consisted of her spirit, her life, the love and caring she gave to others. She watched in the mirror as Jean Luc clipped, fluffed, and even curled with a heated wand, until the final effect actually had her smiling. Discarded strands of her once long and slightly wavy ebony hair lay abandoned on the floor.