“All I ask,” I managed, voice ragged, “is that you take care. If you must go out, take a footman. Or send word. I’ll go with you.”
She glanced up at me. Her lips bruised from our kiss. Her cheeks flushed with her passion. She had never looked more beautiful.
“You’re so busy, Steele — with Parliament, the Lords?—”
“None of which matters more than you.” I took her hand, brought it to my lips. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath my mouth, betraying everything she would not say aloud. “I care for you, Rosalynd, deeply. It would devastate me if anything happened to you.”
Her breath caught audibly. She looked as if she were standing on the edge of something vast and frightening.
“Very well,” she finally whispered. “I promise I will not go out alone. I will take a footman. And I will keep you informed.” Her gaze flicked to my mouth. “Anything else you want of me?”
For a single, reckless heartbeat, the truth rose with brutal clarity.
Give yourself to me.
Not in that room, not in that moment, not in any way that could be spoken aloud—but wholly, willingly, without reservation.
It was the one thing I could never ask of her.
If I did…I would be lost.
“Yes,” I said, common sense asserting itself. “We move forward together. As partners. In every part of this investigation.” It was the only thing I could allow myself to offer her, not the burning need I kept buried.
She held my gaze—brave, wary, stunningly resolute. Then she nodded. “Very well. Together.”
Relief swept through me so sharply it nearly drove me to my knees. I stepped back, forcing my voice into something that resembled composure. “I’ll press forward with what I can concerning Lady Honora’s disappearance. But for the rest, we must wait for Finch. As soon as he sends word, we’ll follow his leads.”
“Yes.” She gathered her gloves, though her fingers trembled slightly. But then, with a soft, almost mischievous smile, shesaid, “Now, please escort me home. I’d like to have my luncheon before my stomach begins to lodge a formal complaint.”
A faint laugh escaped me—the first in what felt like days. I brushed my thumb gently across her cheek. “We would not want that,” I murmured, the tone of my voice huskier than it should be.
As I climbed beside her in the carriage, neither of us spoke. But the silence between us no longer pressed or strained. It was imbued with understanding, with purpose, and with something quieter still—an intimacy neither of us was ready to give a name.
At Rosehaven House, I helped her down. She did not look back as she mounted the steps, but she paused once at the top, her hand tightening on the railing as she gazed back at me.
As she disappeared inside, a thought struck me with merciless clarity.
Rosalynd Rosehaven could easily be the ruin of me.
Chapter
Eleven
Tea at Rosehaven House
The next afternoon, the drawing room at Rosehaven House had seldom looked more peaceful. Afternoon sunlight glowed through lace curtains, pooling over the brocade sofas and polished mahogany tables. The faint scent of orange blossom drifted from the vase on the mantel—an arrangement Chrissie had assembled that morning. It was, in short, the picture of domestic calm.
And then I caught sight of the tea table. It groaned under an overabundance of tea fare, including a mountain of fairy cakes, a tower of currant scones, rows and rows of lemon biscuits, and what appeared to be an experimental arrangement of cucumber sandwiches spelling out the wordWELCOME.
“Good heavens,” I said from the threshold. “What is all this?”
Petunia, perched on the edge of a sofa like a miniature queen, looked up with an expression of practiced innocence. “Tea.”
“I gathered that, but why does it resemble a bakery explosion?”
“One can’t have a proper tea without options,” she replied serenely. “Variety is the mark of refinement.” Her copper curls gleamed; her cheeks were flushed with triumph. Something was afoot.
“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, Petunia,” I said. “And you’ve taken particular care with your dress and hair. Is there an occasion I ought to know about?”
