All of which meant nothing to her, of course.
“Oh? You two are already acquainted? How charming!” Mr. Hartley’s mother spoke, accompanying her words with several childlike claps.
“I wouldn’t have intruded had I known you had a visitor. Mr. Palgrave only wished to pay his respects,” Mr. Hartley explained as he collapsed without invitation onto the couch next to his mother.
Yusef expected such limited manners from Mr. Hartley and his mother, as well as their Sedley brethren; such parvenus couldn’t be expected to know how things were done. But he felt a lick of indignation on behalf of Rose. He leveled a murderous glare at his acquaintance, to which Mr. Hartley returned a confused look.
“If I may?” Yusef asked the ladies, the thrill of the hunt humming through his body. For now that he had her in his sights, he would not relent. Surely time would have tempered her loathing somewhat.
“Oh, sit, Mr. Palgrave, sit. You know we don’t stand on ceremony with friends.” Mrs. Hartley beamed at him.
Yusef glanced at Rose, who was scowling into her tea. She must have felt his eyes upon her, for she glanced up and immediately flushed before offering a curt nod.
He sat in the chair opposite her, forcing himself to tear his eyes away so he might remain a model of propriety.
“Miss Verdier, this is my son, Mr. Hartley, and Mr. Palgrave you already know.” Mrs. Hartley waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
“I suppose you must be a painter,” Marcus said to Rose.
Her brows shot up in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
Christ, her voice. So husky. He could listen to her read newspaper adverts.
“Only that you mentioned art was sufficient enough for your simple wants, as opposed to marriage to me.” Marcus spoke in jest around his grin, but Yusef suddenly felt the very real urge to stake him through the chest with his walking stick. Instead, he merely flexed his fingers just below the stick’s gold mount.
Rose’s eyes darted back to Yusef, her brows knit.
Now, what was that about?Was she embarrassed he’d heard her little speech? Interesting. Yusef committed her words to Mrs. Hartley to memory before they could slip from his mind. He’d examine them later.
“Pray don’t tease, sir. I only came with the intent of negotiating a commission to paint…” Rose hesitated, her lips parted slightly, revealing the small gap between her front teeth. An intense ache struck Yusef, right in his chest.
“Walter,” she continued, “and I had no expectation of matchmaking. Forgive my bluntness; I was simply explaining to your mother that my only desire is to paint, and paint well.”
“Oh, Marcus! You’d sooner remain a bachelor, so that I might go to my grave useless and alone!” Mrs. Hartley huffed, forcefully stroking her little lapdog’s head. The dog seemed not to mind, though its owner’s rough handling of the creature made it look positively otherworldly, all bulging eyes with its ears pulled back in such a manner.
The wry half-smile Mr. Hartley surreptitiously directed at him attested to the veracity of his mother’s exclamation. Perhaps his single-minded attention to politics was not born completely from the desire to put his mother out, but to Mr. Hartley it was certainly an added benefit.
Uninterested in further family drama from their lot, Yusef returned his attention to Rose, even as he spoke to Mrs. Hartley.
“You’ve engaged Miss Verdier, then? Excellent choice. Her work is exquisite. A finer artist you will not find.”
He saw the questioning look on Rose’s face, but he only smiled and looked back at Mrs. Hartley.
“Oh,” said the widow, clearly not expecting his endorsement. “I had no idea you were a patron of the arts, Mr. Palgrave, but I should say I’m not surprised.”
He didn’t have time for this. His fruitless appointment with Mr. Hartley had already run on, and he wouldn’t allow Rose to wait on tenterhooks while her prospective client unctuously praised his good taste. Praise was useless. Unneeded and unwanted, yet flowing freely from all quarters nonetheless. To his face, that is. All it really did was serve as a reminder of what was said behind his back. He’d never truly belong here, in this risible country.
“We shall take our leave and allow you ladies to return to your conversation,” he said as he stood, his voice firm and his manner aloof.
“Of course,” Mrs. Hartley stammered, barely attempting to conceal her disappointment at the loss of her esteemed guest.
As goodbyes were made, he allowed himself one final look, almost to assure himself it really was her, that it was Rose before him in the flesh. She stood as well, then dropped the sloppiest curtsy he’d ever received. It drove him mad; he wanted to reach for her, to claim her lush, insolent mouth with his own.
But instead, he hastened out of the room without sparing her another glance.
Hartley followed, speaking as they walked abreast down the hall. “What do you suppose, will Walter finally get his day in the—”
With a swift dip of his walking stick, Yusef halted the man’s path as well as his words. The MP looked quizzically at him before starting again. “I say, Palgrave, you’ve been acting—”
