Emerson helped her into the carriage, then sat on the seat facing backward as the door closed and the carriage rocked with the replacement of the steps. He studied her in the dark, which made it impossible to see her expression. “You’re not sobbing, are you?”
“He certainly didn’t hesitate to do your bidding, did he?” she said by way of answer, laughter shaking her voice.
So, not crying.
He shrugged. “Why shouldn’t he?” He stared in her direction, wishing his eyes were better suited to the gloom. “What is your given name?”
“Rose.”
“A rose by any other name…” he murmured.
Her small laugh erupted. “Has thorns,” she informed him.
“Do you mind if I call you Rose?”
“Only if I am allotted the same privilege.”
“My name is Emerson.”I am not smitten.“Do you have children, Rose?” He liked how easily her name fell from his lips.
She stared out the window. “I was not so blessed.”
The ride to her home was indeed a short one. No time for even one small kiss. A good thing perhaps because Lord knew if he got his hands on her, he wasn’t sure he could stop with her delectable mouth.
The carriage slowed then again, rocked with the driver’s actions. The door opened, and Emerson started to rise, but Lady Stanford stopped him. “I can take it from here, Mr. Whitmore.”
“Emerson,” he corrected. “But your ank—”
She shot him a smirk.
He responded with one of his own and stepped outside quickly and pulled her into his arms. “You seem to believe yourself in charge,Rose,” he whispered in her ear.
The door opened just as he reached it. “My, my. Such efficient servants you employ, madam.”
“My lady?”
“I’m fine, Winston,” Rose said. “Up the stairs, Mr. Whitmore. First door on the right.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say two flights up.”
“It was tempting, but I would likely never get you out of my home.”
The house was dark. Clean but dark. Upstairs, first door on the right, Emerson swooped inside and dropped his package ona small divan. This wasn’t the drawing room, he decided. He spotted a pile of black draperies in a corner.
“For mourning.”
He glanced at her to see her watching him. “You’re in mourning? I was confused by your red dress.”
She rose from the settee and sauntered to a small table with spirits. She poured out a couple of glasses of something. “Ishouldbe. I’m”—she curled her fingers in the air—“‘flouting my duty.’ A direct quote from one of my sisters. About the time my temper rises, I’m stayed by her other remarks on how my late husband did not deserve me.” She picked up the glasses and strolled up to him and held one out.
“Thank you.” He took a sip and nearly choked. Hiding a wince, he made a mental note to send over a case of his finest stock of French brandy. “And did he?”
Her glass was poised at her lips. “Did he what?”
“Deserve you.”
“Most definitely not.” She spoke with that upper crest hauteur he’d noticed the night of the masquerade.
The statement had him wanting to beg for more information, but now was not the time. “This material you are in dire need for…”
