Lady Be Good: Lord Love a Lady Series, Book 5 Page 24

  Likely over eighty, the Earl of Willoughby’s back hunched so much that he was forced to stretch his neck upward in order to avoid staring at the ground. He glanced up and he scowled. “You and I need to talk, Darlington. Perhaps at Whites? Tomorrow, eh?” Concern showed in his knowing eyes.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Rome’s expression turned stoic. It must be the rumor again. It had gone beyond a foolish annoyance into the realm of possible danger.

  Rose forced herself to smile when the earl’s clouded eyes landed upon her. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

  “Miss Ursula Waring.” It was Rome who made the introduction this time. She experienced an almost visceral response when he spoke her name. It made no sense, and yet it made all the sense in the world.

  Once the introductions had concluded, their trio strolled along the marble corridor, past several pedestals bearing statues, to the ballroom entrance.

  Rome escorted Margaret to the majordomo who then stood in the threshold and announced them in a booming voice. Margaret sent Rose a reassuring smile, took Rome’s arm, and they disappeared inside.

  Rose swallowed hard, moved forward, and when the herald leaned toward her, somehow managed to give him her name in a voice that wasn’t shaking.

  This was the moment she’d feared ever since Margaret suggested this ridiculous idea. Rose took one step forward, held her breath, and allowed all the spectacle of such a moment to wash over her as the tall and stately servant’s voice boomed, “Miss Ursula Waring.”

  Raising her chin, she entered.

  Candles flickered everywhere: in sconces on the walls, on tables in flower arrangements, and most dazzling of all, hundreds had been carefully placed, and then ignited, in the magnificent chandeliers hanging from an elaborately painted ceiling.

  How could something so deadly also be so beautiful?

  Warmth spread through her, melting the ice-cold she’d felt since their arrival. Without paying heed to the onlookers’ stares, Rose delicately lifted her skirts and descended the rounded staircase to the parquet floor. When she stepped off the last stair, the murmurs in the room registered in her ears at last, reminding her, oddly enough, of the sensation she’d had when Rome pulled her out of the icy cold water. Air flooded her lungs and a sensation of well-being lent her a new thirst for life.

  She was not Rosie. She belonged to no one but herself. If only for this Season in London, barely a few months—if only for tonight—she was Miss Ursula Rosamond Waring once again.

  Her father’s daughter.

  Locating Rome with her eyes, she found him standing beside Margaret but watching her. Was it possible that he’d recognized this in her all along? Since she’d opened the door to her chamber that first night, he’d seen her, Rose, the person rather than the maid.

  The woman.

  He bent his head to say something to Margaret and then strode across the space between them. “Are you breathing now?” he teased as he tucked her hand in his elbow.

  “Oh, Rome. It’s beautiful. All the candles. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He glanced up and grimaced. “Lady Willoughby is known for them.” When he stared at her again, however, his lips parted. “You’re the only light I need.”

  She wanted to laugh, to tap him with her fan and accuse him of flirting. But Roman Spencer, had not been, nor ever would be, a flirt.

  “That gown positively glows beneath these candles.” Margaret approached with two ladies, she announced, that she’d known before her marriage. Conversation came easily enough to Rose. She commented on the decorations, the flowers, the most fashionable modiste, and if none of that sufficed, the weather. She listened and nodded and smiled and thanked those who complimented her hair and dress.

  Gentlemen sought her out as well. Some older, some younger. She was glad she’d already written Rome’s name on her dance card, for within half an hour, the remainder of the dances had been claimed.

  Laughing with Margaret, she turned to be pleasant as two other gentlemen approached. One unfamiliar but the other a face she’d wished never to see again.

  “Lord Linde, may I present Miss Ursula Waring. Ursula, Elias Grayson, an old friend of our family, Baron Linde.” Margaret would not have known that Rose once knew Elias Grayson all too well. He represented the very worst of men, a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel.

  Elias dragged his gaze lazily down the length of her gown. “My pleasure.” When he finally deigned to meet her eyes… nothing. If he recognized her, he did not show it.

  He’d charmed her, whispered words of commitment and adoration into her ears less than one year ago. In the end, she’d come to understand it had meant nothing to him but…

  Rose swallowed hard and uttered an apology that she had no more dances left for him to claim.

  “Another time, perhaps.” He studied her and then frowned, as though he’d come across a puzzle he could not solve. He shook his head, however, dismissing it as of no matter.

  Relief was her only emotion as he turned and moved along to the next lady standing with her chaperone, not sparing Rose another glance.

  Last year, she had considered herself a fool. She hated that he’d caused her to feel unworthy. And all for a man who could not even recall her face.

  She’d made a lucky escape.

  Rose couldn’t help but compare his person, his character, with Rome’s; a stark contrast in all the ways that mattered. She exhaled, feeling free, feeling complete.

  Margaret encouraged her toward another party of guests and Rose had to force her thoughts away from Rome to concentrate on remembering everyone’s names.

  An impossible task, for certain.

  All the while, she felt Rome’s calm and steady presence less than ten feet away. Of course, ladies would approach him, and he was pleasant enough in his manner, but he was never effusive or overly friendly to them. And he never let her out of his sight.

  Margaret, who finally seemed to tire of so many conversations, grasped Rose’s wrist and leaned in conspiratorially. “The rumor has gotten out of hand. He’s going to have to do something soon.”

  Rose slid her gaze from face to face, from one gathering of invitees to another. Margaret was correct. Something was… off.

  The room fell silent just then, however, as the majordomo announced the opening set. Lord and Lady Willoughby had finally entered and the musicians, who had been making tuning sounds with their instruments, fell silent. Couples began lining up, taking their places, while those not dancing crowded the edges of the floor.

  Rome turned to her and all was right once again.

  “My set, I believe?” He winged his arm, which she took boldly and then he led her to stand beside the other ladies in the line. Facing him, tiny bubbles of delight made it so she could hardly keep herself from grinning foolishly.

  Tonight, she would dance with the most handsome of men at a Ton Ball.

  His eyes caressed her, making promises she was afraid to believe. When he smiled, she dropped her lashes but then lifted them again and nodded. Rome’s nearness emboldened her, reminded her that she should be true to who she really was. No one and nothing would change that fact.

  The music commenced and, confident in the steps, Rose circled the lady beside her. She then stepped forward toward Rome, who bowed, whilst she curtsied, and then back to the line. His gaze remained fixed upon her and although they danced alongside at least twenty other people, they might as well have been the only two people in the room.

  She did not need to waltz with him. He embraced her with his smile.

  Forward and back, they went their separate ways, only to return to each other over and over again. The dance reminded her of their friendship, the uncertainties of love.

  “You enjoyed that,” he commented, some thirty minutes later, while leading her back to Margaret’s side.

  “So did you.” She laughed back. “Do not dissemble with me, My Lord.”

  Something about him touching her in public, holdi
ng her hand, if only briefly assured her that the night, although magical, was all too real. Her cheeks were surely flushed, and her feet barely touched the ground.

  “Miss Waring,” his eyes met hers. The gravelly tone in his voice sent a shiver dancing down her spine. “I never dissemble with you.”

  “Never?” She glanced over to meet his gaze.

  Because he’d once told her that he loved her.

  “Never.”

  His feelings had not changed.

  She went to speak but her mouth had suddenly gone dry. If only she could be alone with him, she could tell him she’d changed her mind. She could tell him that she, herself, had changed.

  But the moment was not yet right. The place was too public, too loud. And there wasn’t enough time. She’d promised the next dance to some other gentleman.

  The Supper Dance. She’d ask to walk outside instead, and then she would confess her feelings.

  “I never dissemble with you.” Her heart skipped a beat.

  “I think that I shall melt before the end of the night.” Margaret stepped up to their side, waving her fan frantically. “Shall we find the lemonade?”

  “No need. I’ll bring you both a glass,” Rome offered with a bow. Watching him skirt his way through the guests, Rose secretly admitted to herself that surely, this feeling inside must be joy. Uninhibited, unadulterated, utter, joy.

  She needed to tell him.

  She loved him.

  She believed in him.

  She believed in herself.

  “Rosie! Rosie! Is that you girl?”

  A shrill voice pierced the air. As though Rose had been teetering on the edge of a cliff, with love and hope on one side and bleak despair on the other, boldly spoken words toppled her balance.

  Rose did not have to turn around to know the voice of the woman calling wildly at her from across the room. Lady Riverton.

  Penelope’s mother.

  “What on earth are you doing here, and all dressed up? Oh, my, Lady Stanhope! Look, won’t you? My daughter Penelope’s maid was dancing with Lord Darlington! Penelope is a Viscountess, now. Married Danbury last year.” And back to Rose. “Where did you get those pearls, girl?”

  Instinctively, Rose reached a hand up to her neck to protect the elegant necklace. But that she could protect her dreams as easily.

  Margaret caught Rose’s eyes, her own widened in horror. How did we forget about Lady Riverton?

  The murmurs of the guests hushed as curiosity and then comprehension seeped through the room. Miss Waring, the lady they’d been introduced to as one of them, was not of their ilk, after all, but a servant––a servant who had lied about who she was.

  An imposter!

  Ladies who had only recently been gushing effusively over Rose’s gown now scowled and gestured in her direction.

  Margaret clutched Rose’s arm as Baroness Riverton arrived to stand before them.

  “My lady,” Margaret said in a hushed tone, in an attempt, Rose surmised, to convince the other lady to do so as well.

  But Rose knew Lady Riverton would not pass an opportunity to be the center of attention. Especially at Rose’s expense. The baroness had never accepted Penelope and Rose’s unique employer-employee relationship. She’d never failed to pass up on an opportunity to chastise Penelope for being overly friendly with a servant.

  “What is the meaning of this, girl? Why are you not in Land’s End, attending to my daughter? Dressed up all fancy like this. Answer me!”

  Rose stared at Penelope’s mother, vaguely noting that the feathers in her hair bobbed frighteningly close to the flame leaping from one of the sconces, but she couldn’t seem to make her mouth move.

  She was underwater again, cold, numb, and trapped in the mud at the bottom of the lake.

  “Miss Waring is my companion.” Margaret sounded as though far, far away. She spoke cajolingly, as if it was still possible to diffuse the situation.

  “Miss Waring! Ha! She is a mere servant! Where is Lady Willoughby? You’ve made a mockery of her hospitality. Lady Asherton, I’m ashamed of you as well.”

  Penelope’s mother had never had the good sense to know when to hold her tongue. Margaret was a countess, whereas the older woman a mere baroness.

  Exposed and unsure of what to do, Rose’s gaze searched the crowd of guests. Where was Rome?

  But there was no hand to pull her to the surface.

  Lady Willoughby appeared at that moment, her husband at her side. “Is something amiss, here, Edith?”

  “This girl’s an imposter, Catherine. You must have her removed immediately!” Lady Riverton’s face had turned an almost purplish shade in her outrage. “She’s my daughter’s maid, of all things!”

  Locked in place by uncertainty and fear, Rose held her breath. Surely, she would shatter into a thousand pieces if she spoke.

  She might as well be naked. Her heart cracked and the joy she’d known fleetingly gushed into the unknown. Emptiness replaced hope.

  And to fill the void, a heavy surge of pain reeled up inside of her. It was the pain that unlocked her fear. She would not cry in front of them. She would not allow them to witness her ultimate humiliation.

  Managing a deep breath, she turned to flee.

  Unfortunately, along with joy, grace too had abandoned her. Mortified and intent only upon escape, she failed to lift the hem of her dress. A jerk and then a tear. When she took another step, the dress slid on the slick surface beneath her shoe and sent her sprawling, most conspicuously, onto the middle of the floor.

  The silence that ensued froze her once again. Pain shot through her hands and knees but surpassing it by far, a great weight of mortification.

  Margaret’s arms wrapped around her. “Come with me. You’re going to be all right. This is nothing. No one will notice.” She spoke soothing words as she assisted Rose to her feet.

  Oh, but Margaret was so very, very wrong. Everyone had noticed and they would remember this forever.

  Rose was ruined. Utterly. It would be a miracle if she’d not put a permanent stain on Margaret’s reputation as well.

  “This matter is best discussed in private.” Lady Willoughby’s displeasure dripped from her voice as she frowned at Lady Riverton and then even more deeply, at Margaret.

  Rose could not face them. In the distraction of Lady Willoughby’s disapproval, Rose took flight again. Grabbing handfuls of her dress this time, she pushed away from Margaret and through the crowd. She’d noticed a servants’ entrance behind the orchestra earlier.

  Luck was on her side at last. Having eluded the interrogation, of which she knew she’d come out lacking, she ducked her head in shame, slipped through the discreet exit, and made her escape.

  Trays of silver and glasses lined the dark hallway along with built-in cupboards and a few doors. This side of the world was familiar to her. This was her place.

  Her place was not beneath the flickering chandeliers or dancing with London’s most elite. Her place was not with a viscount. Not with Rome.

  She swallowed a sob. She couldn’t allow herself to think about him now. Anyone could discover her at any moment. They would find her. Would they throw her onto the street? Would she be arrested? She swallowed hard, unable to stifle the guttural sound of sorrow barreling down on her.

  In a desperate bid for privacy, she tore open the nearest door. It was a closet. Stepping inside and closing herself within, she slid to the floor. Hugging her knees and safe at last in the tiny room filled with nothing but shelves of dishes and folded linen, she was no longer able to hold off the shaking, sobs, and tears.

  She’d thought she’d fooled everyone else, but she’d only been fooling herself.

  Was he searching for her? The night had begun with such promise. She blinked at the memory. It hadn’t been wonderful because of all those people out there. It had been wonderful because of something inside.

  Something inside of her.

  And Rome.

  Tears spilled past her lashes a
nd she gulped on another sob. Everything was ruined. He was better off without her.

  And what of Margaret now? Would she find herself the brunt of the Ton’s disapproval?

  The sound of footsteps stilled her and silenced her sniffles.

  She’d made a fool of herself. She ought not to have run. If anyone were to discover her hiding like this…

  “You don’t say?” a male voice rumbled loudly. It was close. Whoever it was must be standing directly outside of the door. Rose held her breath.

  “That’s why that lady jilted him.”

  “Thunder and turf! Darlington? Wouldn’t have guessed that in a thousand years. He certainly doesn’t seem the sort. Where’d you ‘ear it?”

  “From his man himself.”

  “The viscount?”

  “Of course not.” A derisive snort. “My source is better ‘an that. His valet was talking about it.”

  “His man would know. Will they hang a viscount for it, do you think?”

  “Bloody nobs don’t get hanged for nothing.” A guffaw. “But who knows?”

  The conversation continued in that vein but the voices drifted off along with the sounds of their footsteps.

  The rumor had gone too far! The horrifying thought of him swinging from the end of a rope had Rose shooting to her feet. Something had to be done! It was no longer a joke or even a cruel prank.

  Rose wiped her face and lifted her chin. Suddenly, her own troubles didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as Rome’s.

  Chapter 26

  Saving Rome

  The record must be set straight and Rose realized that neither Rome nor any of his family members were in the position to do it. In fact, if any of them attempted to do so, it could possibly make matters worse.

  Rose searched her mind for any possible solution as she paced back and forth in the small space. This was not happening. She would not allow it. He’d done nothing, absolutely nothing to be put in this situation.