“Dear me. I’d thought my presence here would encourage Marcus when it came to such matters, but…” Mrs. Hartley sighed, closing her eyes as if it pained her to even think of it, whatever it was. Rose wasn’t quite sure. The lady spoke to her with such familiarity, discussing her son, his domestics, and his lack of prospects, as if he and Rose were acquainted. New money, she supposed, with a measure of relief. Although she wouldn’t turn down commissions from nobility, were they forthcoming (which they certainly weren’t, and would likely never be), running in those circles could produce personal complications. Complications she would much rather avoid. Forever, if she could.
Rose was keeping her eyes trained on Mrs. Hartley with what she hoped was an understanding look when a slight knock at the door heralded the arrival of further refreshment.
Mrs. Hartley ignored the blushing maid who scurried in with a tray, and instead tilted her head as she seemed to consider Rose for the first time.
Rose could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, which she knew would mottle her pale, freckled complexion.As plain as a pikestaff, Silas had so casually remarked the last time it had been her turn to sit for their circle of fellow artists. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at anyone’s canvas after that.
Thankfully, her ire at the memory chased away any desire to affect a false modesty, and she boldly reached for a delicious-looking pastry, golden and lightly glazed.Hang it all. Let Mrs. Hartley think her unmannered and uncouth. She was starving, and had no more patience left for smarminess.
Which is why her mouth was crammed full of a melt-in-your-mouth lemon cake when Mrs. Hartley’s next words stunned her.
“Why, you might even do for Marcus. You’re a tall girl. We Sedleys are not small, not by any measure. You’re unmarried, and you’re here, which I suppose rates you above nearly all the ladies in London.” She patted the dog on the head before looking back up to Rose and asking, in all seriousness, “Have you any interest in politicking?”
Rose’s eyes must have been as wide as saucers. She chewed, pretending to consider the older lady’s words, when in reality she was trying not to choke on the pretty baked good that had suddenly turned to sawdust in her mouth.
“Mmprph,” she managed.
Unfortunately, the noncommittal sound only encouraged Mrs. Hartley to continue. The lady’s eyes roved over Rose’s body as if she were inspecting a horse. A broodmare.
“Your hair might put others off, but I have to say I find it rather handsome, especially with that shade. Very rich—not garish, like most ginger-pates. And though you’re perhaps on the skinny side, with those hips you’d have no…” She finally had the decency to appear scandalized, her hand fluttering to her neck as she broached an impolite subject in lower tones. “Complications… with family matters.”
Family matters?!Rose nearly spat out her cake. This was growing perilous. She finally managed to swallow, her heart racing as she reached for her tea. Should she laugh? Should she tell the woman, in no uncertain terms, that she did not wish to hear any more? Or should she just smile politely?
The sound of the door opening again barely registered with her; she was too flustered to pay any mind to Mr. Hartley’s supposedly lazy staff. Staring at the milky tea in her cup, she took a deep breath before responding. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Hartley, I have no inclination toward motherhood. My art, Ifind, is occupation and satisfaction enough for my simple wants. And while I mean no insult to your son, I believe any association between the two of us might impede my ability to commit your Winston to canvas.”
“Walter.”
“Yes, of course,” she sputtered, before returning her tea to her lips.
“What’s this? Marrying me off to the first visitor of the day?” a masculine voice interrupted.
Rose looked up. And this time she did choke.
Standing before her, behind the tall, stern-looking gentleman who’d just spoken—whom she could only assume to be Mrs. Hartley’s son, Marcus—was the man she’d hoped never to chance upon again. A man who entered her thoughts every so often, when the night was too cold or the day too lonely, despite every effort she’d made to forget him.
A fire burned in his dark brown eyes, so intently focused upon her. He was elegant and noble in his bearing, like a falcon eyeing its prey, even as he must have been as shocked as she was. He was older now, and somehow even more handsome than she’d recalled. His thick black hair—though much shorter than she remembered—was set perfectly in place, while his eyelashes were still so full. To her own embarrassment, she noticed his shoulders had filled out, and his arms looked quite appealing in his perfectly tailored coat. The back of her neck suddenly felt very hot. No, she hadn’t forgotten him.
It infuriated her.
“Miss Verdier,” Joseph Palgrave casually drawled, a slight lift of one eyebrow the only hint of the unlikeliness of the encounter. “What a surprise to find you here.”
“Oh? You two are already acquainted? How charming!” Mrs. Hartley gave a little clap of enthusiasm.
Rose took another sip of tea, an attempt to buy her some time to extinguish her fury. Alas, it was for naught. For when she glanced up over the rim of her cup to find him still staring at her, her thoughts spun, and she felt shaky and unsettled. What ought she say? What ought she do?Hell and tarnation.
Of all the people to waltz into this morning room, on this day of all days, it had to be him.
The man who had ruined her life.
In one moment, Yusef had been enduring a screed from Marcus Hartley, the honorable MP for Knockton—a sad little borough in Lancashire—as he raged against all and sundry. In the next, he’d walked through a door and found himself face-to-face with the only thing he’d ever truly wanted in his life. And had neatly lost, so many years ago.
Her. Rose Verdier.
The whole vibrant length of her. Her shining, Titian-red locks and her full, rich mouth. The stunned anger in her eyes as she stared him down. Christ, how he wanted to pull her against him and drink in her fury. Memories of the last time he’d seen her—which would have been, what, ten years now?—at the Duke of Marbury’s annual Christmas affair flooded his brain.
Memories as vivid as if they’d just happened. Of when he’d first spotted her, at the Earl of Ipsley’s country seat—a gangly, awkward girl of fifteen, dressed in her best frock, anxiously worrying her lower lip as she watched the other guests in awe. And of that one dreamlike winter day, when he’d first kissed her. The way she’d felt under his fumbling, youthful hands.
Yusef set his jaw. Surely she hadn’t suddenly fallen into his lap for nothing. He was no longer a headstrong pup, miserable and inept. No, he was the esteemed Joseph Palgrave—to most everyone in this country, anyway; to a select fewhe was Yusef Ghali. Wealthy, powerful, cunning. Impeccable manners. Successful. Worldly. Exquisitely dressed. Extremely well-connected.
