“Ha,” he scoffed, running a hand over his immaculate hair with a devil-may-care grin. Her heart constricted. He wasquitehandsome. And he apparently knew it.
“You leave first. See? Out that door.” He jerked his head to the right, toward the opposite wall, where a massive door sat ajar, just enough so that a person could slip silently through. “Just wait in the hall, and I’ll follow. If anyone catches you before then, tell them you, ah, required the… were searching for the…” He stumbled, realizing what he was about to say, his perfectly controlled face now frozen in embarrassment.
Rose smothered a giggle. If only he were to hear the way her friends so casually referred to the bog. Would he be scandalized? She relished the thought. For some reason she wanted to fluster him, to watch his strict composure come apart.
He shook his head. “Anyhow. No one will find you, and if they do, cast the blame upon me. Just say I put you up to it.”
Rose’s heart hammered in her chest. “But my demonstration—”
“Won’t happen until this lot are good and soused. You can count on that.” He spoke derisively and with the confidence of someone who’d endured these sorts of things for years.
She glanced back at the room, at the ladies in their massive crinolines, the gentlemen bored and lolling about in large, loose jackets or standing at the windows, gesturing toward the rolling fields stretching in all directions around Icknield Court. And then she looked back at his large eyes and wide lips, and she felt hypnotized. Her response felt as though it came from someone else inside her, speaking with her voice.
“Alright.”
She made for the door, excitement humming in her veins as she sidled through the groups of adults with barely a notice.
Who was she, even? Truly this was not Rose Verdier, the plain, awkward daughter of the proprietor of The Bit and Bridle.This was someone else entirely. A brave, bold, sophisticated lady making her way freely through the world, plotting assignations and refusing to let anyone stop her from keeping them. Her heart leapt as she slipped behind the door, finding herself in a narrow gallery lined with doors on one side and windows on the other. The rush of elation made her want to run to the end of the hall, her braid and skirts whipping about her. Instead she made a fanciful skip over to the window, catching the reflection of her pleased smile in the glass. Her eyes traced the drive she’d come in on, watching it shrink until it disappeared in the distance. Rose knew exactly where it ended, joining with the ancient Icknield Way. She could hear her father’s deep tones in her mind, speaking of the old highway that was the inn’s lifeblood and this mansion’s namesake. Where would she go, if she could leave all of it behind? London? Paris? Even farther afield? The world suddenly seemed open before her in a way it never had before.
“Right.” A male voice cut through her thoughts, sending a momentary rush of fright over her. But it was only him. “Anything interesting out there?” he joked.
She turned to find him extending a coupe of champagne toward her, a smug grin on his face. “Here. I nabbed these for us. Far better than the punch. Ipsley keeps a tidy cellar.”
“Oh. I’ve never had it.” For a moment the spell faltered, and Rose returned to where and who she was—a village girl sneaking off and sipping purloined wine with some fancy lad she didn’t even know.
“Then I’m even more glad I snatched it,” he said with a casual lift of the glass, so clearly pleased with himself.
Rose raised it to her lips; the bubbles tickled her nose. She decided she would not sully this memory with any more worry. The champagne tasted divine. So crisp and dry.
She looked to him again, only to find him studying her, his face serious. Instead of blushing, or worrying about whether he’d noticed her freckles, Rose laughed. A slow smile bloomed across his face, and she watched, reveling in the beauty and absurdity of the moment. She might never have such an adventure again; surely not with someone so handsome, anyway.
“What?” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What amuses you so?”
She giggled once more, then shrugged. “I can’t say. This, perhaps,” she said as she gestured to their surroundings, even though the hall they now stood in paled in comparison to the room they’d just fled. “Sneaking about, drinking champagne with…” She paused and bit her lip as her heart kicked up again. “With new friends,” she settled on, supposing it was not as presumptuous as stating plainly that he—gorgeous as he was—was paying her court. To yesterday’s Rose, the entire situation was an impossible work of fiction.
Then those dark eyes hardened, and he lowered his gaze to her mouth.
Fie, she dismayed. He must’ve noticed her gapped teeth. She pressed her mouth shut and looked down to the glass of bubbly golden liquid in her hands. And then his hand was upon hers. Something sparked inside her.
“Come,” he said, his voice low. That same airy feeling hit her again, this time in a pleasurable wave. With a gentle hold on her hand, he led her down the hall and through a door, into a room so sumptuously done up in red velvets and gilded paper that she gasped in astonishment. But they did not tarry, and exited as quickly as they’d entered. After winding down another hall, he let go of her hand, then halted in front of another door.
“The portrait gallery,” he said, arching a brow. And then he flung it wide open.
Rose could scarcely believe what she saw. Each wall was covered from nearly floor to ceiling with darkened canvases in opulent carved frames, more paintings than she’d ever seen in her life. She had assumed the room the earl was entertaining in must have housed the bulk of his art collection. But this was something else.
“They’re so fine,” she whispered to herself, walking forward as if in a daze, spinning about slowly as she took it all in, from the way the artists depicted clothing and fabrics, with the light reflecting off the folds of a doublet or a gown, to the meticulous brushstrokes that gave the subjects’ hair such a lifelike appearance. Why, even the distant backgrounds in each painting were beyond any landscape she’d ever laid eyes on.
And then his gentle touch was on her wrist again, while his other hand came to rest on her waist.
In that moment, Rose did not know how she would be able to return to her normal life, knowing such beauty, such talent… such a feeling as a handsome boy’s hands on her body. She swallowed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as he turned her about, leading her to a small piece on the opposite wall.
“Here. Edward Driffield, the first Earl of Ipsley. The current one’s named after him.”
It was an amazing likeness, such that even a neophyte like her could appreciate it. It felt as if the man stood before her in costume, so perfectly had the artist captured his manner and bearing.
Rose studied the work, repeating the name absentmindedly. “Edward Driffield?”
“Well, Edwin Driffield.”
