“It’s all right,” he said in a low voice, then leaned in, brushing her lips. “You are mistress of your own domain. You look…as beautiful as ever.”
Mistress of my domain.She may not trust him in much, but on this he was right. Adventurous Rose’s spine stiffened. She nodded and patted her hair. “Did you say…beautiful?”
He grinned, then strolled to the bookcases, appearing to browse the titles with his hands at his back. If Winston didn’t enter the room, he would never even know Mr. Whitmore was in her company. Goodness, how cowardly was she?
With a quick glance toward Emerson, Rose smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Enter.”
Winston opened the door, holding the silver tray with a card.
He entered.
Swallowing her pride, Rose straightened. “What is this?” she asked, taking the card.
“Lady Brockway and her daughters, Ladies Irene and Cecelia, to see you, madam. Lady Brockway said she was here on your invitation.”
Rose had only penned the invitation a couple of days ago. “Of course, Winston. Show the ladies in and order more tea.” With one hand, she indicated the service on the table. “This is cold. Add tarts. As I understand it, Lady Cecelia is quite fond of them.”
Winston inclined his head, picked up the used tea service, turned back for the door, and nearly stumbled. Ah. He’d seen Emerson. She wouldnotsmile. Just as quickly, he recovered and latched the door softly behind him.
“He hates me,” Rose stated.
Emerson faced her. The look in his eyes was most discerning. “Then sack him.”
She really should. “You must leave,” she hissed.
Too late. The door opened again, and Winston ushered in her guests. Lady Brockway was tall and her daughters lovely.
Emerson sauntered over as if he hadn’t heard her demand.
Lady Brockway pulled up. “Oh, I hope we’re not intruding?”
“Of course not,” Rose said. “Please sit. Winston is arranging for tea right this minute. May I present Mr. Whitmore of Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse?” There was more than one way to play this scenario, she decided. “Mr. Whitmore is a major benefactor of Hope House.” She turned a sharp smile on him that he, again, ignored.
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Brockway.” He never used that sort of charm on Rose, she fumed, resentment flaring.
“Thank you, Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Brockway said with that braying laugh that betrayed her nervousness. “These are my daughters, Irene and Cecelia.”
Irene, all grace, dipped a perfect curtsy. If memory served, Rose believed her age at ten, perhaps eleven. Cecelia’s curtsy was less refined, and Irene shot her sister an admonishing look.
“We’re here to show Lady Stanford safeguarding lessons,” Cecelia informed him. She was some three years or so younger than Irene, Rose believed.
Left speechless, Emerson blinked.
Rose grinned and took her seat. “I cannot wait to hear all about it.”
Winston entered with tea, and Rose poured for her guests.Allher guests.
“This I’ve got to hear,” Emerson muttered.
“It’s quite fun,” Cecelia informed him. “You get to dress like a boy and hold your fists up.” She stood and jumped into said stance.
Irene winced. “Please excuse my sister, Lady Stanford and Mr. Whitmore. She is still very young.” Irene spoke as if she were one of the matrons of Almack’s.
Lady Brockway patted her older daughter’s hand. “Irene tends to forget on occasion she is not Cecelia’s mother.” Her gaze went to Emerson then back to Rose. “The fact of the matter is, as we discussed at Ryleigh’s dinner, my husband instructs my daughters on how to defend themselves should they end up in some untenable situation.” She shuddered, leaving Rose rather curious. “It is my belief that Irene and Cecelia could enlighten you more fully than I on how your Hope House women could benefit.”
“I…I see,” Rose stuttered out, shocked beyond a more intelligent response.
Cecelia turned to Emerson. “I could showyou!”
