How to Please a Lady (7 page)

Her hand went to her neck, hiding the bruises from him, and her expression changed, grew hard. “I told you nothing happened and you are not to make presumptions. You are not to speak to a soul about this, do you hear me, Charlie? If you say a word, I'll make certain you're dismissed immediately.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I'm leaving in less than a fortnight, so I hardly think it would matter if you dismissed me, my lady.” He gave her a tight smile, as glad that she had put him in his place as he was hurt by her words.

“Your promise, Charlie.”

“I will not tell anyone. I promise.”

R
ose walked back to the house, suddenly fiercely glad Charlie was leaving. How would she ever be able to look at him again without feeling mortified? He knew what had happened, had seen the duke unbuttoning his pants. It was humiliating. It didn't matter that Charlie was angry with the duke. Why had she broken down like that, throwing herself into his arms? She wished with all her might that she'd just left the stable without saying a word.

Charlie had been so kind, letting her water his shirt, letting her lean on his solid strength. All her life he'd been a quiet presence, someone who represented home as much as her own parents. Those long months she'd spent in finishing school had left her so homesick, just the smell of hay would make her smile and her eyes prick with unshed tears. Wrapped up in the scent of hay was all that was Charlie, who never complained or judged or did anything except make her laugh and teach her how to care for Moonshine. When she'd returned from finishing school and seen him, seen how he looked at her, all grown up, a lady in truth, part of her had felt a bit of a thrill. He never looked at her like that again, because she suspected he knew even more than she how impossible it would be to bridge the gap of their birth. But he was always kind.

And how had she repaid his kindness? By threatening to dismiss him. What a wretched person she was.

She was about to climb up the shallow steps to the veranda, but turned around and headed back to the stable to apologize. She might not have a chance to see him again before he left; it would be terrible to have him go with this between them. When she entered the stable, she saw him throwing great forkfuls of hay into one of the stalls. It was a job the head groom usually assigned to an underling, but Charlie was undertaking the task with ferocity, his shirt clinging to him, his curling blond hair dark along the edges from sweat.

“Charlie.” He shoveled another great bit of straw, then stopped, his back toward her, heaving from the exertion of his work.

He turned his head slightly. “Yes, my lady.”

Impertinent and not at all like him. He was angry, she could tell.

“I came back to apologize.”

Rose bit her lip and watched as he slowly turned around. “Thank you.”

A good and meek servant would have bowed and insisted there was no need to apologize, but though Charlie was a good servant, he'd never been meek. He looked at her, his blue eyes dark, and wiped the curls away from his forehead, revealing his strong brow.

“Will that be all?” he asked.

Rose swallowed. “Yes. No. Oh, Charlie, I won't be able to bear it if I know you are angry with me.”

He sagged a bit, leaning on the pitchfork. “I could never be angry with you. I am angry with what happened. I'm angry I can't hurt the cur for what he did to you. I'm angry because you will marry him and you will likely be unhappy for the rest of your life. And there is nothing I can do about it. I'm angry because I am powerless to help you. I'm so angry, my lady, I can hardly breathe.”

“Oh.”

“And I'm angry that you . . . that I . . .” He let out a breath.

“You're quite angry, Charlie,” Rose said, letting out a small laugh.

“Yes. But not with you, my lady. Do you understand?”

Rose nodded, feeling worlds better. “You look tired, Charlie. When did you last sleep?”

He gave her a smile. “Two days ago.”

“I order you to bed. I can still do that, you know. You haven't left for America yet.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, giving her a small bow.

Rose turned to go. “Have a good rest, Charlie.” She walked back to the house, her spirits slightly higher, but the closer she got, the worse she felt. His Grace would be in their house, for she had not seen him leave and his horse was still in the stable. Would he stay to dine with them? She prayed not, even though they had invited him. Just the thought of trying to be pleasant to the man was enough to make her want to run away. For a fleeting moment, she pictured herself climbing into a carriage and telling the driver to go, go anywhere. To Scotland, anywhere far away. It was a wonderful image, but one as foolish as it was impossible.

She would marry the duke.

 

“I can't marry the duke.” This she announced to her mother five minutes before they were scheduled to go down to dine. She might have said “the sky is blue” for the reaction her mother gave her. “Did you hear me, Mother?”

“I'm glad you stopped in before luncheon, dear. I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Avery.”

“Charlie?”

Her mother gave her a tight smile. “That's what I want to talk to you about. He is a servant, not a friend. You are to call him either Mr. Avery or groom, certainly not by his given name. His Grace mentioned that he thought you were a bit too familiar with Mr. Avery and I can now understand his concern.”

“His concern?” Rose looked at her mother in utter confusion.

“He felt Mr. Avery was entirely too impertinent today and suggested I dismiss him immediately. Of course, I will not. That being said, however, I would have given it consideration if Mr. Avery wasn't already leaving.”

“Mother, I've known Ch—Mr. Avery—since we were both children. I've always called him Charlie.”

“No longer.”

“I call my maid by her given name.”

“That is entirely different. Certainly I don't have to give you a lesson in how to treat servants. You are being purposely obtuse, Rose, and I don't like it.”

Rose dipped her head slightly. “I apologize.”

“As for that ridiculous statement you greeted me with earlier, it doesn't warrant discussion. Shall we go down to luncheon?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Oh, don't look so gloomy, Rose. It's hardly becoming, and the duke has decided to stay for luncheon so that you might spend a bit more time together. He is being quite accommodating and I do wish you would do the same.”

It would be just the four of them, as all of the lingering guests from the ball had departed that morning and her brothers had returned to their own homes or, in the case of Marcus, London. When she reached the footman who stood outside the dining room, she took a bracing breath and schooled her features into something more pleasant than the terror she knew was in her eyes.

Luncheon was tolerable, only because she sat across from the duke, who was seated at her father's right. The two men were occupied in a discussion about hunting, and Rose let them talk, giving her meal undue attention. She could hardly bear to look at the man without her entire body convulsing in a shudder. What if he wanted a stroll in the gardens after they were finished eating? What could she say? Just the thought made her want to run from the table. This would never do. She was not an overly timid girl, and yet around this man she acted like a frightened mouse. All during the meal she rehearsed in her head what she would say to him, for she planned to let him know that his behavior was abhorrent and that there would be absolutely no more unseemly acts on his part.

After luncheon, once her father and His Grace had returned from their cigar and they were all gathered in the main parlor, Rose gathered her courage. “Mother, would it be possible for me to have a moment of privacy with His Grace?”

“Of course,” Lucille said, and nodded to her father. The two departed posthaste, leaving her behind with the duke, who chuckled beneath his breath, at what she had no idea.

“How delightful that you've requested some privacy, my dear,” he said, his tone silky.

They both still stood, having risen when her parents departed, and Rose took a step back, horrified that he had misinterpreted her reason for a private interview. “Your Grace,” she said, keeping her gaze level and her voice strong, “there is something I need to discuss with you.” He inclined his head, bidding her to continue, an amused look in his eyes, as if he found her seriousness utterly charming. “I find your behavior these past two days unacceptable and disturbing.” Her cheeks heated just at the thought of what he'd made her do. “It will not happen again. Not before our wedding. It is more than improper; it is sinful.”

He stood there, looking at her with that terrible hooded gaze and half smile, but said nothing.

“If anything untoward should happen again between now and our wedding day, I will inform my mother, and she will most assuredly tell my father.” There, she'd laid down the gauntlet. She stared at him, proud that she'd found the courage to confront him. Rose had considered his reaction, guessing he would be angry or sullen. But he seemed merely curious. He propped his chin on one fist and tilted his head slightly.

“And then what do you suppose would happen?”

“I'm sure my father would . . .” Her voice trailed off, because she truly couldn't imagine what her father would do.

He surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed. Pulling out a handkerchief, he dabbed at his eyes as if what she'd said was so delightful it had brought him to tears of mirth. “Oh, dear, my sweet little innocent child. Your mother knows.”

“What? No, she doesn't, I—”

“She may not know the particulars of our passions, but she definitely
knows
. Or at least hopes.”

“What do you mean?”

He walked up to her and laid a hand beneath her chin, like some benevolent uncle. “What mother of your acquaintance would allow her unmarried daughter to walk unaccompanied to such an isolated spot as your lovely lake?”

“She trusted you,” Rose said, but even as she said the words they sounded somehow false to her. She
had
thought about that, had wondered, but had accepted her mother's explanation without question.

“Trusted. Hmm. Odd way of showing trust, if you ask me, my dear. By allowing you to walk out with me quite, quite alone, she ensured you would be essentially compromised by me. It was, let us say, a bit of an insurance policy. Your mother is not a stupid woman and I am certainly no fool. But I want you as a wife. I want access to that delectable little body of yours and that hot little mouth.” His gaze drifted lazily down to her lips. “And don't for a second believe your mother didn't know precisely what she was doing, what she was allowing. Count yourself lucky, my dear, that I do enjoy the anticipation of taking you on our wedding night. Such a lovely tradition.”

Rose felt bile rising up in her throat. “You are loathsome.”

He laughed again. “I appreciate a girl with a bit of fire,” he said, but then his eyes grew hard. “Just be certain not to overdo it. A wife must obey her husband without question. That is all I ask.” He looked at her and chuckled. “How distressed you look. Like a child who's had her candy taken away.”

Rose fought not to cry. Or scream. “I would ask that you refrain from improper behavior until our wedding, Your Grace.” She hated the way her voice sounded, hated that what he'd said about her mother sounded like the truth. Her mother would do anything to ensure this wedding took place, and Rose now suspected she would get no help from that quarter.

“Very well,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'm off to London and it is unlikely I'll return much before the wedding. Will you miss me, my dear?”

When she remained silent, he laughed again, but his eyes narrowed and Rose sensed he was angry beyond measure.

 

“Mother, I am curious.” Rose sat on her mother's bed, watching as she brushed her golden hair, now slightly dulled by strands of gray.

“About what, dear?”

“About why you allowed me to walk alone with His Grace. It was highly improper, duke or no.”

Her mother let out a sigh and placed her brush on her vanity. “I see nothing improper about an engaged couple taking a walk.”

“But it
is
improper, and you know it. Was it because you feared he would break the engagement?”

Her mother let out a laugh that was decidedly false. “How silly you've been lately. One moment claiming you don't want to marry at all, then complaining about propriety. You would be ruined forever if you broke this engagement.” Lucille turned to look at her daughter. “You do know that, don't you? You are aware of what your life would be like should you break this off?”

“I don't want to break it off,” Rose said, her cheeks flushing with her lie.

“I should think not. Once you are married, this will all seem inconsequential. You will be a duchess.” She sighed. “Sometimes I have to pinch myself to think my own daughter will be a duchess. Every girl dreams of such a match. I did as a girl. Of course, an earl is very fine for most girls, but I was the daughter of a duke. It was a bit of a set down for me. But I was one of five girls and the youngest, and my mother took the first proposal without a single thought what it would mean to her own daughter.”

Rose had heard the story many times over the years but had never heard such a bitter note in her mother's tone. “Did you not love Father at all?”

Lucille laughed. “You are so young, Rose. No, I did not love your father. I suppose I admired him a bit. He was handsome and this estate is lovely. I don't know what this modern talk is about love.”

Rose, looking down at her slippered feet that dangled from her mother's bed, said, “I understand what marriage is, Mother. I never had any illusions I would love my husband. But I thought perhaps I would not be repulsed by him.”