A yawning silence engulfed them. It remained until the earl finally spoke in a tone of wonder. “You look so much like my mother. You always have.”
Rose felt her face prickle with heat. At the moment she didn’t care if it made her cheeks look mottled. The earl ought to know all about the tribulations that go with having such a fair and freckled complexion. For after all, it was his own as well.
“The dowager countess?” she asked timorously.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I never apologized to her for… my appalling behavior.” She did feel sorry for it, after all these years. “It was uncharitable of me to flee in the middle of the night like that.”
The earl smiled sadly, lines crinkling about his eyes. It lent him an even further gentleness. Rose liked it.
“Don’t worry on it another moment. You’d just received the shock of a lifetime. Anyone else in your position would have done the same, or worse.”
Rose smiled and folded her hands awkwardly in her lap, doing her very best not to allow her eyes to wander. It had occurred to her that morning, as she donned the lovely walking suit Yusef had procured for her, that if she were to accept his offer, she would have to find her footing in situations such as these. She could do it. She had to.
For despite his strange charms, she couldn’t bear the thought of painting Walter all over again.
The earl cleared his throat as he stared at his fidgeting hand, where his thumb rubbed against his forefingers. “I wanted to thank you for coming here. I never would have extended the invitation, but when I heard word from the bank—”
“You don’t need to send me—” she cut him off, only for him to cut her off in turn.
“Nonsense. Aldersey has a monthly income and so shall you.”
“I mean to pay it back.” Heat prickled at the back of her neck at the mention of her half-brother, the viscount, which meant she was likely on the verge of breaking out in a sweat. Rose didn’t want to sweat, or seem unladylike in this setting.Drat. How did these high-born misses manage? She’d never given it much thought before.
“And I mean for you to have it.” He looked over at her, one eyebrow arched skeptically. “As I mean to recognize you, if you’d allow it.”
Rose looked down at her hands in her lap. She thought of her father last night, chopping vegetables in the kitchen as he had every night of his life. She recalled feeling the strap of her leather case slipping through her hands. Again her anxious heart sped up.
“You are my daughter, after all,” the earl said wistfully. “As you are his. Louis Verdier is a fine man. I hold him in the highest regard. And your mother—” His voice hitched, and he paused before continuing, steadier now. “She only wanted your happiness, wherever that took you. I did my best—at least I’d thought I had—by sponsoring you, sending you to school in London…”
Things could have been different. So different.
“And I must bear the entire responsibility for your ignorance. It was inexcusable of me to have just assumed that you knew.So much of this might’ve been put behind us, if only I’d…” He brought his fist before his mouth, his jaw clenched. When he looked back to Rose, his eyes glinted with unshed tears. “I only pray that it is not too late, and you might accept my apology and allow me, in whatever small way, to remain in your acquaintance, and to be allowed to recognize you as a Driffield.”
Rose breathed in, spreading her hands out on her lap. “I’d like that… except, well, it’s only that I’ve been painting under my name for such a time…”
Then the earl laughed, a sound of joyful disbelief. She looked up slowly. He smiled. Earnest, hopeful. Fond.
“It’s of no import, the name. Just permit me to be your father. Another father. If that’s your agreement, then?”
“Alright. Though I’m not sure how good of a daughter I’d be.” Rose smiled shyly.
“Nonsense. I am overjoyed with pride at you and what you’ve accomplished. I always have been.”
Now it was Rose’s turn to chuckle. “What I’ve accomplished? Surely you jest, my lord.”
He held up a hand, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of these formalities, I beg you. Call me Ipsley, if you must. But I would prefer Papa.”
“Alright.” She felt a slight embarrassment at the idea of using the fashionable affectation. Perhaps she would hold off on it for a while and he might not notice.
At that moment a maid entered, bearing an impressive silver tea service. Rose braced herself for the servant’s surmising gaze, but it didn’t come. The young woman had a gentle smile for them, much like Yusef’s maid Philis who’d drawn her bath the other day, and that was it. No judgment, no scorn. Rose reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“Tea?” the earl asked, then poured a cup after she nodded.
“That’s lovely, thanks.” She accepted it quickly, eyeing the sugar bowl but deciding against it. She wasn’t so sure about developing a taste for small luxuries. Especially as it seemed she’d already taken to greater luxuries like fine linens and spacious bedrooms entirely too much. It seemed… vulgar, giving in all at once. Watching the steam curl out of her teacup, she felt the back of her neck heat once more.
“As I was saying previously, I do my best to stay up to date on the art world. I know you’re a draperies painter for Jurgens, for example. Quite impressive. He’s well regarded and I’ve been lucky to see several examples of his work, and therefore yours. You’ve an excellent eye for texture and light.”
