One Perfect Rose (36 page)

Her eyes widened. “Never?”

“Well, I said it to Claudia yesterday.” He smiled. “But the meaning isn't quite the same with one's sister.”

She felt a glow of warmth that started in her heart and swiftly spread through her whole being, driving out pockets of cold shadow that she had not recognized herself. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “At first I didn't dare admit it to myself, and then I didn't speak because I didn't think it was right to burden you more. But the truth was always in my heart. I love you now, and I will forever.”

He kissed her again. “You are my heart and my beloved,” he said softly. “It was worth going to the brink of death to find you, my perfect rose.”

Even as she luxuriated in the warmth of his love, her conscience prodded her. “Since it's truth-telling time, I have a confession to make—I'm not perfect, though heaven knows that I've tried. I did my best to be the perfect daughter, the perfect stage manager. I wanted to be the perfect wife to you, always warm, loving, and reasonable.” She regarded him a little anxiously, feeling foolish but needing reassurance. “I think I could have maintained the illusion if we were only going to be married for a few months, but I can't do it for years on end. I have a temper and I'm selfish and I'll never be perfect. I thought I'd better warn you before your expectations get too high.”

He laughed and hugged her closer so that her soft curves molded against him. A pity that his body wasn't strong enough to express the fierce passions of his mind and soul. How long would it be until he recovered enough to make love to her?

Not long, judging by the way he was feeling now. “I shall modify my statement. You aren't perfect. I'm sure that if I think for a week or two, I shall be able to come up with at least five or six examples of imperfect behavior on your part.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But you are the perfect woman for me.”

London, 1819

Naturally the Duke and Duchess of Ashburton had the best box in the Athenaeum Theater. Rosalind was bubbling with excitement when she and Stephen arrived for the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe's grand opening production of
The Winter's Tale
. Five months of refurbishing had transformed the company's new home into an extravaganza of rich colors, ornate moldings, and glittering chandeliers.

Before taking her seat, she paused by the railing and surveyed the auditorium. Men and women in brilliant evening dress were entering the boxes and milling about in the galleries, laughing and talking over the lively strains of the orchestra. In the opposite box, an assortment of Cassells and Westleys were taking their seats. She waved to her relatives, then to the Duke and Duchess of Candover, who had come to see the troupe that had been their personal discovery.

There were other friends, too, for society had proved very welcoming to an actress who was a French countess by birth and a duchess by marriage. She picked out the Strathmores, the Aberdares, the St. Aubyns, and knew that other couples were in seats not visible to her. “It's a full house, Stephen. With all of your grand friends taking boxes, this has become the most desirable location in London tonight.”

He laughed and put his arm around her waist. “This time there will be no need to go out into Covent Garden during the interval to bring people back.”

She leaned against him contentedly and looked up into his face. It was hard to believe that he had been at death's door five months earlier. Now he was strong and whole, better-looking than any man had a right to be, and—since it was in the privacy of her mind, she could admit it-marvelously virile. Inventive, too, which was useful considering her ever expanding figure.

His pas de deux with death had left another legacy, for both of them had found that every day, every hour, every minute was charged with a special sense of life's preciousness. They had discussed that more than once, grateful and determined never to take each other and their love for granted. She smiled into her husband's eyes. “You're looking particularly handsome tonight, my love.”

“And you are ravishingly beautiful.” He looked as if he wanted to kiss her, but restrained himself since half of fashionable London was watching.

She laughed as she settled, carefully, into her chair. “I'm the size of a cart horse.”

“Yes,” he said equably. “But still beautiful.” He sat on her right and unobtrusively put his hand on her swelling belly, receiving a kick for his reward. “She's active tonight. It must be the Fitzgerald in her responding to an upcoming performance.”

Rosalind chuckled. “
He
is being quite aristocratic and demanding the attention which is his due, like a Kenyon or a St. Cyr.”

The door to the box opened, and Lord and Lady Herrington stepped in. Claudia looked both younger and softer than she had five months before. “Good evening, Stephen, Rosalind.” Claudia gave her sister-in-law a light kiss. “Congratulations. Your family's theater is going to be a great success.”

Amazingly enough, Rosalind and Claudia had become friends. Not that Claudia couldn't still be caustic, but she was far more relaxed and tolerant than she'd been before. Stephen's doing, from what Claudia had confided to her sister-in-law.

Taciturn as always, Andrew bowed to Rosalind and shook hands with Stephen, then helped Claudia into a chair as tenderly as if she were made of porcelain. His wife gave him a glance that was positively sultry.

Rosalind hid her smile behind her fan. The visible warmth between Claudia and Andrew was another result of the way Stephen had transformed his sister's life.

Stephen murmured in her ear, “I like seeing a couple who have been married for two decades acting like newlyweds. Will we be like that in twenty years?”

“Without question.” Wearing her most demure expression, Rosalind used her fan to mask touching her husband in an exceedingly improper way.

Stephen caught his breath, his eyes going green. “Do you have any plans for later, Duchess?”

“I intend to go backstage to celebrate the night's triumph with the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe.” She gave Stephen a slanting glance. “Then I want to go home and seduce my husband.”

He gave her an intimate smile. “You won't have to work very hard to achieve that.”

Rosalind glanced at the stage and saw that Maria, costumed as Hermione, was peeking out from the wings, her expression blazing with excitement. Seeing that Rosalind was looking her way, she waved, then ducked out of sight.

All was probably chaos backstage at the moment, but Rosalind had perfect faith that by the time the curtain rose, the troupe would be ready to create magic. Mary Kent, Simon's sister, had stepped capably into Rosalind's shoes as a competent actress and an excellent stage manager. She and Jeremiah Jones were planning to marry in May, a week after the wedding of Jessica and Simon.

Stephen asked, “Do you wish you were backstage, waiting to step out and create magic for all of these people?”

“Not at all,” she said with complete sincerity. “How could I be happier than I am now?”

The last guests for the Ashburton box arrived: Lord and Lady Michael Kenyon and Catherine's beautiful fourteen-year-old daughter, Amy, who was shimmering with excitement at attending an adult event.

There was a flutter of greetings. Claudia and Michael were unlikely ever to be close, but now they were at least civil to each other. Rosalind had become very fond of Michael, who was in some ways very like Stephen, and in others completely different.

Her gaze went back to Stephen. He was the linchpin of the Kenyons, the head of the family both in terms of custom and natural authority. It was a tribute to the largeness of his spirit that he had even become friends with his illegitimate half brother, who now went by the name George Blackmer-Kenyon. The physician had followed Stephen's advice and married his gentle widow. Rosalind had seen the two together, and knew the marriage would in time heal the wounds on Blackmer's spirit.

In a flurry of laughter and silk skirts, Catherine kissed Rosalind's cheek, then settled into the chair on her left. She was also pregnant and expected to deliver several weeks after Rosalind. Clearly she and her husband had enjoyed a very satisfactory reunion after he joined her in London.

The musicians in the orchestra pit went silent for a moment. Then they struck up a stirring triumphal march. Conversation died and all eyes turned to the stage.

With a roll of drums, the curtain began to rise, revealing the grandeur of a royal palace. Rosalind leaned back in her chair and clasped Stephen's hand. His fingers tightened around hers, and he raised her hand to press a kiss on her wrist. He murmured, “Let the magic begin.”

She smiled into his eyes. “It already has, my love. It already has.”

I believe as I did as a child, that life has
meaning, direction and value;
that no suffering is lost; that each drop
of blood and every tear counts;
and that the secret of the world is to be found in
St. John's “Veus Caritas est”—“God is love.”

—FRANÇOIS MAURIAC

Don't miss
THE LOST LORDS,
the fabulous new series from Mary Jo Putney!
It all starts with LOVING A LOST LORD…

After an eternity of cold water, numbness, and despair, he was dragged ashore. Emerging from the water he pulled himself from the deathlike trance that had allowed him to survive in the cold water for so long. Dimly he remembered stumbling along with help, sliding into blackness, and then awaking to—perfection.

The woman bending over him seemed more dream than reality, yet the warmth radiating from her was palpable. Her eyes were warm brown and a cloud of golden hair floated around her perfect oval face. She shimmered in the lamplight. Wondering if he'd drowned and gone to some other realm, he raised an unsteady hand to stroke those finely spun strands. They were gossamer silk against his fingers.

“You're safe now.” She pulled her long hair back and tied the shining mass in a loose knot at her nape. Her every movement was graceful. “Do you speak English?”

He had to think to answer her question. English. Language. Understanding. He licked his dry lips and whispered, “Y…yes.”

“Good. That will make things easier.” She slid an arm under his shoulders and raised him enough to drink. He swallowed thirstily, thinking it strange how much he craved water since it had almost killed him. And it was humiliating that he was so weak that he couldn't even drink without help.

When he'd had enough, she took the glass away and gently laid him down again. She wore a night robe, and though it covered her thoroughly, her dishabille was deliciously tantalizing. “Such green eyes you have,” she observed. “They are striking against your dark complexion.”

His eyes were green and the rest of him, dark? He shifted his gaze to his right hand and examined it. The skin was medium tan, a half dozen shades darker than her ivory complexion. He realized that he had no idea what he looked like, beyond tan and bruised. Or what he ought to look like.

She continued, “Can you tell me your name?”

He searched his mind, and came up with—nothing. No name, no place, no past, just as he had no sense of his own body. That had to be
wrong
. Panic surged through him, more terrifying than the cold sea that had nearly drowned him. He was nothing, nobody, torn from his past and thrust into an unknown present. The horror of that echoed through every fiber of his being. Struggling to master his fear, he choked out, “I…I don't know.”

Seeing his fear, she caught his cold hand between her warm palms. “You've endured a considerable ordeal. After you rest and recover, you will surely remember.” She frowned uncertainly. “Can you have forgotten that I'm your wife, Mariah Clarke?”

“My…my
wife?
” He stared, incredulous. How could he possibly forget being wed to a woman like this? But even though he didn't remember their marriage, his fears diminished as he compulsively clenched her hand. “Then…I am a most fortunate man.”

She smiled warmly. “Rest while I go for tea and broth. I've sent for someone who will know how to treat that blow to your head. With luck, she'll be here soon. By tomorrow, you will likely remember everything about yourself.”

He raised unsteady fingers to the ragged gash that ran down the left side of his skull. He had so many aches and bruises that he hadn't noticed any in particular, but now that she mentioned it, his head throbbed like the very devil. “Tea would be…welcome.”

“I'll only be gone a few minutes,” she promised as she whisked away.

He stared at the ceiling after she left. He had a
wife
. He hated that he remembered nothing about that vision of loveliness who had saved his life, nor about being married. It was easy to imagine kissing her, and a good deal more. But of actual memories he had none. It seemed damned unfair.

He spent time during her absence searching his mind and memory and trying not to knot the sheets with nervous fingers. He recognized objects around him. Bed. Blanket. Fire. Pinkness in the sky outside. That would be…dawn. Oddly, a second set of words shadowed the first.
Palang. Kambal. Aag
. He was quite sure the words meant the same as the English ones that came to mind, so he probably knew a different language, though he had no idea what it might be.

But he had no personal memories. Again he fought the rising fear. The emotion was a screaming, vulnerable awareness that he was alone and so helpless that he didn't even know what might threaten him.

Strangely, deep inside he sensed that this was not the first time he had been torn away from himself. Perhaps that was why his fear was so great. But he couldn't remember anything about that other situation, whatever it might be.

He had survived that earlier loss. This time he had a wife who told him he was safe. Surely she would look out for him until he was strong enough to look out for her.

For now, he remembered the most basic fact of all: that he was male and Mariah Clarke was female.