Seven Nights to Forever (13 page)

“Yes, if you would like that.”

Her eyes snapped back to him. “Really?”

“Would you like me to return?”

“Yes. Please.” Oh dear Lord, and now she sounded like a desperate, lovesick girl.

“Then I will. Tomorrow.” It was all she could do not to lean into his touch as he tucked her loose hair behind one ear. “I promise.”

“I would not object if you left your desk a bit earlier than usual.”

He tipped his head. “An easy enough request. Consider it done. Good night, Rose.” He bowed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Until tomorrow night.”

DUCKING
to fit through the narrow door, James stepped into his town carriage and settled on the black leather bench, careful to keep his legs from brushing the skirt of Amelia’s pristine ivory silk gown. Frankly he was surprised she had chosen to sit across from him—she usually made certain to keep as much distance from him as possible, as if mere proximity would somehow taint her. But then again, they had an audience tonight.

The door snapped shut. The carriage shifted slightly as the footman took his place next to the driver. With a jangle of harness, the carriage lurched forward, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the people and carriages lining the front of Drury Lane.

“The performance was lovely, don’t you agree, James?”

“Yes, quite lovely,” he replied with a tip of his head.

Adjusting the light blue shawl about her shoulders, Rebecca turned to Amelia, who sat beside her, and launched into a discussion about the evening. The honest and uninhibited joy on her face was a sharp contrast to Amelia’s haughty, cool elegance. The light from the small brass lantern hanging on the wall picked up the golden strands in Rebecca’s chestnut brown hair coiled in a demure knot at her nape. The two women could not be more different, yet his younger sister seemed to admire Amelia. He could only hope her foray into the ton would not turn her into a replica of his wife.

Apparently Rebecca’s efforts to sway their father had been met with complete success. An outcome he hadn’t doubted. It had simply been a matter of time before she showed up on his doorstep, her trunks in tow, containing the wardrobe for her first Season. Though he had been a bit surprised when he’d received her note, announcing her arrival, that afternoon. His mind had been firmly on Rose, their night together filling his head and providing a decadent distraction from the papers on his desk. While he had looked forward to his sister’s visit, the reminder that the Season was fast approaching was not a welcome one, jolting him harshly back to the reality of his life. Any hope he had held that he’d still have a few evenings of freedom left before him were dashed with the last line of Rebecca’s note.

An evening in which he had been certain his presence was included. He kept a box at Drury Lane. It was more Amelia’s than his, but he had taken Rebecca a few times in the past. He knew she enjoyed it—she was actually one of the few who watched the proceedings on the stage and did not spend the entire performance socializing and gawking at those in the neighboring boxes. A part of him had been shocked by Amelia’s generosity. That she had remembered Rebecca’s love of the theatre showed she
was
capable of considering someone other than herself.

Split between a desire to see his sister and dreading the thought of the coming hours with Amelia, he had left his office long before the sun had set. Not that he hadn’t planned to leave early, just not quite that early. He had given Rose his word after all. A word he could still loosely hold true to, as it wasn’t yet eight in the evening. He’d see his sister and Amelia home, pick up the fold of pound notes he had left in his bedside table drawer, and then head straight to Curzon Street. To Rose.

Turning to look out the carriage window, he reached into his coat pocket, sliding his fingertips over the smooth ivory knitting needle. The night sky backed the buildings that slipped by, one by one, as he moved closer to her. The buildings eventually gave way to neat rows of town houses and neatly manicured squares as they entered Mayfair. They passed Hanover Square and then turned right on Davies Street.

His head snapped to Amelia. “This isn’t the route home.”

The straight line of her shoulders stiffened. She pulled her attention from Rebecca. She kept her face schooled in a pleasant expression, the same one she wore whenever they had an audience, the same one that fooled even his sister, but her light blue eyes were completely devoid of warmth. “Of course not. We accepted an invitation to dine with Lord and Lady Markson.”

She spoke as though he had reason to have knowledge of their social calendar. Where they went on a given night usually held little importance to him. He had no say in which invitations she chose to accept, nor would he know which ones should be accepted. He had never cared to give the matter much attention. Strict black evening attire fit most every function, so knowledge of the destination was not necessary to dress appropriately.

“But Rebecca just arrived today. The theatre I can understand, but surely she will wish to retire early tonight.” Somerset wasn’t an easy distance from London. Depending on the condition of the roads and the time of her departure, Rebecca had been traveling since at least Thursday in order for her to arrive by carriage on Saturday afternoon. Hell, she must have convinced their father to allow her to depart early for London before James had even received her letter asking for his assistance in swaying their father.

“I have no wish to retire early, James. The journey was an easy one. All I did was sit for days with only Beth for company,” Rebecca said, referring to her staunch and rather intimidating maid. Between Beth and the two burly footmen who accompanied her whenever she traveled, her safety along the roads and at various coaching inns was more than secured. “And it’s only a late supper party. No more than a couple dozen guests.”

Of course his sister would know more about Amelia’s plans for the evening than he did. They had probably discussed it at length that afternoon and likely had been discussing the party for the past half hour, while he had been preoccupied with thoughts of his own plans for the night ahead; the soft drone of their feminine voices simply unable to compete with Rose.

“Lord and Lady Markson’s supper party is an ideal event for Rebecca’s first introduction into Society.” He had to give Amelia credit. She managed to speak to him without her lip curling in disdain. The woman was fit for the stage. “An intimate affair before the start of the Season. And there will be a few eligible and quite suitable gentlemen in attendance, Lord Brackley being one of them.”

Brackley?
The man was almost double Rebecca’s age. A fact James only knew because the man had visited their box during one of the intermissions. James hadn’t paid him much notice except to ensure he behaved appropriately toward Rebecca, which he had. But regardless of his age, Brackley was an unmarried earl, and therefore fit his father’s requirement that Rebecca marry a titled lord.

This was why he had tied himself to Amelia, after all. She possessed all the right connections and an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the ton. She knew who would be suitable and who would not, and could provide the all-critical introductions to the former. With Amelia as her sponsor and as her sister by marriage, all Rebecca would need was the massive dowry from their father to wipe away the stigma of trade and assure her acceptance into Society.

The girl was all sweet kindness, a replica of their beautiful mother they had lost as children. Any man should count himself fortunate to have the opportunity to take her to wife. She shouldn’t need anything other than herself, but that was the way of the aristocracy. One’s own personal merits mattered little, when compared to blood, connections, and bank accounts.

Rebecca leaned forward, her hands clasped on her lap. “Please, James. I do so want to attend.”

How could he deny her, when her excitement was so clear on her face? She had been looking forward to this for years, and he couldn’t very well refuse her first supper party simply because he had his own plans for the evening. Not that his opinion truly mattered. He could feel Amelia’s gaze on him, feel her annoyance over the fact that he dared to question their destination. She set their social calendar. That he would serve as a mute escort was a foregone conclusion. Well, the Season had not officially started yet, but . . .

The expectant smile lit up Rebecca’s face. He adored her, honestly he did. The only thing that had made the theatre even begin to approach enjoyable had been her presence. But he would much rather spend time with her outside of the ton.

He kept the sigh of resignation from filling his chest. “Of course we’ll go to the Marksons’, Rebecca, if that is what you wish.”

One more delay, but as he closed his hand around the ivory in his pocket, he took solace in the knowledge that he could still look forward to seeing Rose afterward.

CLAD
in stockings, chemise, and stays, Rose contemplated the gowns in her closet. Her hair, almost dry from her bath, hung loose about her shoulders. Servants had already taken away the porcelain tub, but the humid air was still thick with the scent of roses.

An early evening bath in her bedchamber. A decadent luxury for certain, but she had not been able to resist. The fire in the grate warming the room as she had lazed in the hot water, savoring the anticipation of the coming night. Of being with James once again.

Dressing for the evening had always been a chore. But not tonight.

She grabbed the skirt of the mauve gown and pulled it from the others. No. He’d already seen her in that one. The violet? Her lips twisted in a grimace. Her fingertips skimmed over gauzy amber muslin, soft gray velvet, settling on the navy silk.

I usually prefer blue.
James’s voice drifted through her head.

A smile curved her lips. She took the dress off the peg and held it up. Simple and unadorned, designed to draw the attention to the swells of her breasts and not the gown itself.

Perfect.
But she would need Jane’s help. The gown was the only one in her wardrobe with buttons down the back. Without a regular lady’s maid, it was a necessity to have gowns designed so she could easily dress herself, not to mention get out of them herself. Not all gentlemen relished the role of lady’s maid. But the modiste had protested that buttons would ruin the simplicity of the plunging, heart-shaped bodice. Rose had not been able to help but agree.

She pulled the bellpull located beside the bedchamber door, not the one within arm’s reach of her bed. That one would cause a burly footman to burst into her rooms. A safety precaution, for use in the event of clients who decided not to be on their best behavior.

Too impatient to wait for Jane, she slipped on the gown. Reaching behind, she held the back closed with one hand and studied her reflection in the oval mirror above the dresser. The dark fabric coupled with her dark hair made her skin appear as fair as palest ivory. She avoided black fabric—it washed her of all color. But the rich navy contrasted perfectly with her skin.

A knock soon sounded on her sitting room door. With the gown hanging off her shoulders, she opened the door. It didn’t take Jane but a few moments to do up the back, her nimble fingers making quick work of the small, fabric-covered buttons.

“Anything else?” Jane asked.

“No, not at the moment, but I’ll ring later for a pot of coffee. No need to bring sugar or cream.”

She locked the door behind Jane and hurried back into her bedchamber. Which slippers to wear tonight? The navy, of course, to match the gown. Lifting the hem, she slipped her feet into them, and then paused. Perhaps white stockings were not the best choice. The hem pulled to her knee, she lifted a leg and contemplated the stockings. Black would not do. It would seem like she was trying but failing to match the navy. She should have thought to purchase a navy pair when she commissioned the gown. Perhaps tomorrow she would drag Timothy to Bond Street. If James liked the gown as much as she anticipated, then he may want her to wear it again for him.

The white would just have to do. In any case, the silk was so fine and sheer it rather blended with her skin.

After brushing her hair that had finally dried from her bath, she pulled open the top dresser drawer and poked around in the copper tin of pins and ribbons, looking for . . .

She closed her eyes. The memory of her hair tumbling down her back and of James’s pleased smile materialized in her mind. Had he merely forgotten to return the ivory knitting needle, or had he intended to keep it?

Her feminine vanity wanted to believe the latter. That he had wanted to keep some token of her. Silly notion. Practical, grown men did not do such things. Still . . .