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

  Rose touched the newly curled ends self-consciously. The style was short, but it framed her face and caressed her neck. When she turned her head from side to side, the short hairs barely brushed her shoulders.

  The new style was… freeing. She felt as though she was saying goodbye to her former self, goodbye to Rose. The style was simple and perhaps a little rebellious.

  “Well, what do you think, Ursula?” Margaret grinned back at her from the mirror.

  “I like it.”

  Instead of driving his curricle, Rome had ordered the barouche readied. If Miss Ursula Waring was to make an entrance into Society, as he guessed Lady Asherton intended, she might as well do it in style.

  With the hood collapsed and pulled by a fine set of bays, the vehicle managed to attract a fair amount of attention on its own. As the horses came to a halt outside of Lady Asherton’s stately townhouse, Rome’s heart skipped a beat at the thought that he would also see Rose again. It had been just over two weeks since he’d held her at the overlook on that cold morning. It had been far too long since he’d made love to her or even kissed her.

  Lady Asherton had responded to his missive stating that both she and Miss Ursula Waring would be more than delighted to drive with him through Hyde Park the next afternoon. Natalie had told Rome about Lady Asherton’s hair-brained idea before he’d left Raven’s Park. The deception concerned him, but he’d he would not give her away.

  His sister had insisted that Rose would likely attract more marital prospects if it was not known that she’d ever been in service. It made no sense to him. Rose had plenty of allure on her own. Too much, in fact. She needn’t pretend or play games.

  Besides that, she was not in need of any marriage prospects.

  “Lord Darlington?” the butler read Rome’s card aloud. “I will inform the ladies of your arrival.” Although the servant comported himself with all manner of propriety, he seemed to study Rome curiously for a moment before turning away, which immediately brought to mind the damn rumor.

  “I do hope that scowl is not for us, My Lord,” Lady Asherton said from the top of a wide and elegant staircase. The widow wore a bright yellow gown and had her hair swept up into a sleek chignon. She really was a beautiful woman.

  The lady behind her, however…

  Rose.

  “Your hair!” She looked… breathtaking; lighter, younger, and yet more sophisticated.

  “Do you like it?” She’d halted at the balustrade, looking somewhat hesitant, but at his words shook her head in what he could only describe as a flirtatious manner.

  Rome swallowed hard. “I loved it long, but… it’s beautiful.”

  “She barely resembles her former self, would you not agree, My Lord?” Lady Asherton glanced between the two of them and commented sweetly, “I do believe that Miss Ursula Waring shall take the ton by storm.”

  Rome’s gaze traveled over the woman who, by all rights, ought to be his. He did not want her to take the ton by storm. He wanted her to be embraced by Society, yes, to enjoy herself and feel as though she belonged, but he did not relish the idea of her being wooed by other gentlemen. Was it selfishness that drove his resistance to this scheme or might it be something else?

  His traditionally cautious nature?

  Perhaps some of both.

  “We shall see,” he muttered, his gaze unable to stray from the new version of this woman.

  She’d added some color to her face, her cheeks, her lips, and her lashes seemed longer and darker than he knew them to be. And the bodice on her dress dipped lower, revealing cleavage he’d only viewed while they were alone.

  “I do hope you didn’t bring a high–flyer, My Lord. We are in the mood for a lazy ride, are we not, Miss Waring?”

  Rose lowered her lashes and he noticed something in the hand not holding the railing: the parasol he’d purchased for her. And covering those hands, the gloves.

  He swallowed hard, realizing that this day may very well represent something she had dreamed about for years.

  “A lazy drive it shall be, then,” he announced. “Although I make no promises once we are inside of the park, and you realize, I hope, that the slower we drive, the more conversation we’ll be required to make?”

  “Is that not the reason a lady goes driving in the park in London, during the springtime?” Lady Asherton laughed as the butler held the door wide. Rome offered both arms to the ladies, but only Lady Asherton accepted his escort.

  “Oh,” Rose exclaimed as she stepped outside in front of them. “It is beautiful! And it is going to draw a great deal of attention. Perhaps I ought to remain—"

  “It’s perfect,” the woman beside him declared. “Absolutely perfect.”

  Rome handed each of them into the comfortable seats and then climbed in himself. In a surprising turn of events, Lady Asherton lounged sideways on the backward-facing bench, making it awkward for him to sit beside her. With no other choice, he dropped onto the seat beside his Rose.

  Miss Waring, that was, Miss Ursula Waring.

  Rose opened the lace parasol and angled it out the side of the vehicle, effectively hiding her face. She jumped nervously as the driver turned the barouche onto the street.

  “We’d hoped to see you sooner, My Lord.” Lady Asherton seemed to be eyeing him closely. “But I will not complain, now that you are here.”

  The lady was not playing the coquette with him. He was no young pup that he did not know the difference between friendly indifference and subtle flirtation. But what then? By all rights, he was supposed to be courting the widow.

  “I appreciate your understanding, My Lady.”

  “Tomorrow night is the Willoughby Ball. May Miss Waring and I depend upon you to escort us? It’s always so much more enjoyable when a lady isn’t forced to arrive without escort.”

  “Ah, but of course. It would be my honor to convey both of you. Will you reserve me a dance? Or two?”

  Lady Asherton flipped open her fan and waved it below her chin. “We’d be more than happy to, would we not?” She stared meaningfully at Rose.

  “Oh, but—”

  “You may partner Miss Waring for the first set and the supper dance.” she declared. “I, My Lord, do not intend to dance.”

  She most definitely was not flirting. She was acting almost as though she was Rose’s chaperone.

  She knows.

  Had she realized all along and only pretended to welcome his suit? She’d brought Rose with her to Raven’s Park. And now to London. She’d insisted the drive include Rose, and now she was filling up her dance card for her.

  “But of course.” Was it possible he had an ally in winning Rose’s hand? “I shall be most honored.”

  Chapter 23

  Society

  Hordes of elegant individuals crowded Hyde Park forcing their driver to slow the vehicle to a crawl as they entered the fray. The slower pace tempted Rose to request that they turn the vehicle around instead. It was not yet too late. If she was going to change her mind, now was the time to do it.

  But Margaret was already waving at acquaintances and marveling at how much she’d missed such outings. Birds flew about and chirped in the trees, flowers bloomed, and all around them, ladies shrouded in confidence and poise chatted with one another and flirted with nearby gentlemen.

  The maid inside of Rose cowered in terror. She wasn’t ready for this.

  “Lady Asherton! So wonderful to see you this year.” A plump motherly-looking woman in a black landau waved eagerly in their direction. Rose drew the parasol lower upon her head when she realized who the lady was.

  “You are looking lovely, as usual, Mrs. Tiddle.” Lady Asherton nodded. “Miss Waring convinced me it was time to reenter Society. But wherever are my manners? Mrs. Caroline Tiddle, may I present you to one of my dearest friends, Miss Ursula Waring of Land’s End. Mrs. Tiddle’s husband was Lord Asherton’s solicitor.”

  Penelope and Mrs. Tiddle had made their come outs the same year. Rose had followed the t
wo debutantes around at least once a week for the entire Season.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Waring.” The woman’s eyes seemed curious, but she quickly flicked them back to Margaret. “My condolences on the passing of your mother.”

  Margaret thanked her, and then the vehicles, moving in the opposite direction, separated. Next rolled up a tall curricle with a very young-looking man and an even younger-looking lady dressed in pastels. It seemed that Margaret’s absence from Society over the past few years had done nothing to lessen her popularity.

  Over the next hour, Rose was introduced to no less than fifty people as they made the circuit, and although she recognized at least half of them, not a single person’s face registered recognition of her.

  Which was reassuring, but also… unsettling. She glanced around and noticed a few maids sitting on the back of vehicles or walking behind their mistresses, heads down, wearing clothing designed to make them appear invisible.

  Every one of them was somebody’s daughter or sister. They had feelings. Each had reasons to smile and reasons to cry. But in the eyes of this world, they only mattered in that they nodded and did their employers’ bidding. Did they not deserve to be acknowledged just the same as the ladies they fetched and carried for?

  “A resounding success!” Margaret declared as they exited the park. Although No. 25 Culross Street was nearly adjacent to the park, the driver had exited on the opposite end and so they had a ways to go before arriving home.

  Rome had been sitting beside Rose, quietly for most of the time. On a few occasions, he’d discreetly taken hold of her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. For instance, when they met the Duchess of Monfort and her sister-in-law. The Duchess was Penelope’s cousin, Abigail, and Rose had met her on more occasions than anyone else.

  Even Abigail, the Duchess of Monfort, failed to recognize her.

  “A visit to Gunter’s before I return you to Culross Street?”

  “Not today, My Lord,” Margaret answered quickly. “Lady Sheffield, yes, Lady Sheffield is going to… um… show me the latest knitting technique. Miss Waring, however, would be more than happy to accompany you.”

  “I was unaware that knitting was such a progressive pastime.”

  This was the first Rose had heard of a pending visit from the grande dam.

  Margaret shook her fan at him in mock rebuke. “Are you well versed then, My Lord, in the mechanics of knitting?”

  He smiled in some sort of satisfaction. “I am not, and my most abject apology for finding humor in such an industrious pastime.”

  “Apology accepted.” Margaret smiled smugly, causing Rose to glance from one of them to the other. Was she missing something here?

  Rose should not be spending any time alone with him. He was chocolate in human form. And as for eating additional sweets today, the modiste would have conniptions if her waist expanded any further. She’d obviously jinxed herself when she’d declared that she got away with her passion for pastries, for in the short time that she’d been in London, she must have gained half a stone.

  But the prospect of not only spending time alone with Rome but also having an ice at Gunter’s was not one she would allow to pass.

  Looking far more relaxed than he had a moment ago, Rome turned and smiled in Rose’s direction. “Do you like the ices at Gunter’s, Miss Waring?”

  “You have had them, haven’t you?” Margaret queried.

  “I have.” And she craved them from time to time. Was that what he’d become to her? A craving? A guilty pleasure that would ultimately serve her no good?

  “My favorites are strawberry and lime. I don’t suppose you could bring one back for me?” Margaret suddenly looked regretful upon contemplating the delights she’d chosen to forego.

  “Why don’t you just come with us? Leave a message for Lady Sheffield?” Rose suggested. It wasn’t fair that Margaret should miss out.

  “I will do my best to transport one of each flavor back to you unmelted,” Rome inserted before Margaret could respond.

  Unexpected warmth flooded from Rose’s head to her toes. He wanted the two of them to go alone.

  And tomorrow evening, she would dance with him.

  Twice.

  Was it possible he hadn’t given up on her? She couldn’t allow her thoughts to drift in such a direction. Her time at Raven’s Park, and now, here in London, seemed to be transforming some of her beliefs about herself.

  But they might be an illusion. As she’d told Rome that day in the music room, all of this was only temporary.

  The driver turned onto the short street where Margaret’s house was set and then brought the barouche to a smooth stop. The manservant posted on the front step dashed across the walk to open the door.

  Margaret waved at them from the door as they pulled back into the street.

  As they drove away, Rome’s hand settled amongst her skirts, enfolding hers warmly. “I had my doubts about this charade but now that you seem to have pulled it off, I believe it only fitting that you celebrate.”

  His touch both comforted and confused her.

  “I was certain that Abigail—the Duchess of Monfort—would recognize me right off.” She turned her hand and he slid his fingers between hers. Even wearing gloves, the intimate gesture stole her breath.

  “My thoughts exactly. But she didn’t even blink.” He turned and met her gaze. “None of this is necessary, you know. You needn’t pretend to be somebody else.”

  Was this what had bothered her since the idea had been conceived? “Sometimes I almost believe that,” Rose began, feeling that tight squeezing in her heart. “For instance, when I’m alone with you.” He had a way of being too good to her, of making her trust that she mattered.

  He didn’t answer right away but merely stared at her, and then beyond her, almost sightlessly. “I’m no more than what you see. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.”

  “But you are Darlington. And you will be Ravensdale.” These were facts that could not be changed. “We are in London and both of these facts do, in fact, make you into something more.”

  “And yet,” he glanced down to where his gloved hand grasped hers, “I am flesh and blood. A bullet would strike me down just as easily as any other man. My heart,” he stared into her eyes again, “is just as easily captured.”

  Although they were rolling along a noisy street, vendors shouting from the sidewalks and other vehicles moving beside them in the opposite direction, Rose noticed none of it. In fact, she would not have noticed if the world stopped spinning at that moment. She was caught by the conviction in his voice. And by his eyes. They did not lie.

  He couldn’t truly love her, could he? Was it possible his declaration had not been made on a whim? Unable to bear the emotions charging between them a second longer, she glanced at the parasol in her lap. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe it was all possible.

  Why couldn’t she?

  Not because of his looks; she’d been pursued by handsome men before and learned that handsome on the outside could hide ugliness within. She slid her gaze up to study him. He represented all she’d imagined in a husband as a young girl but then later believed did not exist. Such a dream, she’d convinced herself, was a fairy tale—a fantasy. After all that she’d gone through, especially after Elias, she’d given up on those dreams.

  Was she wrong?

  A spark of something terrifyingly close to hope ignited in her heart.

  And not because he was a viscount, or wealthy, or charming, but because the person sitting beside her was so very genuine, so very precious.

  A shadow crossed his face when she didn’t respond right away.

  “Did Wesley travel with you to London?” she asked quickly, afraid to believe his words but not wanting to sour the mood between the two of them.

  “My mother thought it best he remain at Raven’s Park. Experience a Season after he’s had a year of schooling under his belt.”

  “Your mother is
a wise woman.” Rose couldn’t help but agree, relieved that she’d not angered him. “How is he doing? How was he when you left?”

  “He is… cautious.”

  “Like his father.” Rose couldn’t help but smile.

  He was not an incautious person. She’d heard Penelope laud his serious nature for as long as she’d known of him. But since she’d become acquainted with him, he’d acted impulsively on more than one occasion.

  What if he had not been acting hastily when he’d told her he loved her?

  Her heart leapt at the thought.

  “I think the term my brothers prefer to describe me with, is boring.” He was something one did not find often: a self-deprecating aristocrat.

  “Never boring.” Her voice rose in defense of him.

  They’d pulled up in front of the popular and bustling Tea House. “Ah, here we are.”

  “I’ll set you and the miss down here, milord, and drive around for half an hour, if that’s all the same to you. Unless I can find a place to park, but it doesn’t look promising.”

  Rome had jumped down and leaning inside, offered Rose his hand. “Give us ten minutes, John.” He turned to Rose. “Miss Waring?”

  He’d called her that at Christmas, when she’d been wearing one of her older dresses with an apron.

  She grasped his hand with one of hers, the other still clutching the parasol. If necessary, she could hide behind it, although she was beginning to trust that she would not be recognized.

  “Thank you, My Lord.” His hand felt solid and dependable in hers. Surprisingly, she hardly recognized any of the elegantly clad people milling around the entrance. Tucking her hand into his elbow, Rome maneuvered them to the counter where he ordered lavender and orange for Rose and the two Margaret requested.

  “You aren’t having any?” Hadn’t he learned a thing? She leaned forward and caught the clerk’s attention. “Add another lemon, please. And an additional strawberry.”