Page 13 of A Rogue's Downfall
“Well,” the earl said, “I shall have to remember my servants’ opinion of me the next time I hear a whisperabout a raise in wages, won’t I?”
Jenkins chuckled and moved off to another part of the hothouse.
She half expected that he would have left during the afternoon, gone back to London without a wordof farewell. That was what she had told him to do,after all. But a casual question to Jessie, when thelatter had come to dress her for dinner, revealed thathe was still there.
“And such lovely rosebuds those two are, my lady,” Jessie said smugly. “Cut them himself, he did. Mr.Jenkins don’t allow no one else even to set foot insidethat hothouse. Fat lot of good the roses do when thereis no one but him to look at them, I always say. Exceptyou, of course, my lady. You are allowed in. And nowhis lordship.”
“Yes, they are lovely,” Amy agreed. “I must press them and preserve them before they pass their best.”
Jessie smiled with secret satisfaction.
She should send word down that she would eat dinner in her room, Amy thought, frowning at the first two evening gowns Jessie held up for her approval,finally settling for the white lace over white satin andthe vivid red sash that matched the red rosebuds atthe top of each scallop of the hem. And yet, instead,here she was picking out one of her favorite dressesand sending Jessie in search of her red slippers. Shewould not cower from him, she thought, as she hadthought the evening before. She would return to herroom after dinner, but she would eat in the diningroom. And she was quite prepared to discuss theweather and the season with him again if he feltobliged to keep the silence at bay.
She did not feel as unhappy as perhaps she ought. She had spoken the truth to him and freed herself ofsome of the pain of the past year. She had freed herself from some of the oppressive sense of guilt andsin that had hung over her all that time. What she haddone was wrong. There was no doubt in her mindabout that. But it had not been ugly. She was gladthat she had admitted that. She was glad that she hadrealized it. And glad that she had told him, though itmust have been patently obvious how vulnerable shewas to him. It did not matter. It had felt good to admitto both him and herself that what had happened hadbeen beautiful. That it had been the most wonderfulexperience of her life. That their son was the productof beauty.
She did not care what it had been to him. To her it had been beautiful. It had been an experience oflove. Oh, not a very profound love, perhaps, since shehad not known him and did not even now know himwell. But it had been a love that had induced her togive herself, and it was a love that had not died eventhough she had spent a year hating him—and for goodreason. How could he so cruelly have abandoned her?She would not think of it. It did not matter.
Satisfied with her appearance some time later, she turned her steps to the drawing room, where he wasawaiting her as he had been the evening before. Perhaps, she thought, before he left, if she was given thechance, she would throw the final defiance in his teethand tell him the full truth. Perhaps she would tell himthat the words she had spoken to him over and overagain while he had made love to her had been true.And that they were still true. He thought she hadbeen a millstone before? She would be a veritablemountain for the rest of his life. She smiled as hehanded her a glass of ratafia.
She bit her lip hard and willed the tears to stay back out of sight a few minutes later when he led herinto the dining room and she saw the deep red rosebud across her plate. He had paid no heed to herwords then. He was still playing the game. Whateverit was, he was still playing it. She longed—anddreaded—to know what the end would be.
“Thank you,” she said. “Oh, it is beautiful. And it matches my sash and slippers.”
“A red rose tonight,” he said. “Red for passion.”
If her chair had not been pressing against the backs of her knees already, she knew she would have disgraced herself and fallen to the floor. She sat downhastily.
“I shall leave you to your port,” she said, getting to her feet. She had scarcely touched any of the foodthat had been placed in front of her. “Thank you forthe rose—for the roses.” She picked up the longstemmed red rosebud.
“Amy—” he said.
“I shall retire to my room if you will permit it,” she said. “I have a headache.”
He took her free hand in his. “I will not permit it,” he said. “And I do not for one moment believe thatyou have a headache. Sit down.”
She sat, her eyes downcast, her lips compressed. “Our guests would not take kindly to your going offto bed without even bidding them a good evening,” he said.
“Our guests?” Her eyes flew to his face.
“Only two,” he said. “I see from Morse’s nod that they are in the drawing room already, awaiting us.Shall we join them?” He got to his feet, bowed to her,and extended an arm.
“You did not tell me you had invited guests.” Her voice was accusing, aggrieved. “I do not want to entertain guests. If they are your friends, you may entertainthem yourself. I want to go to my room. James—”
“—was given your full attention not very long ago,” he said. “And will not need it again until much later.It is my turn, Amy. There are two men in your life,not just one. You promised me today. Give me whatis left of it. If you still feel as mutinous at the end ofit as your tone and your expression suggest at thismoment, then you may consign me to hell before youretire for the night. I may even oblige you by goingthere.”
He smiled and felt treacherously lighthearted. He watched her lips compress still further and resisted thetemptation to soften them with his own. It was a littletoo soon for that yet. She might reward him with aresounding slap. Besides, Morse, busy at the sideboardwith two footmen, was drinking in the whole scene.From childhood on, the earl had realized that his servants were neither deaf nor blind—nor particularlyclosemouthed. Doubtless, everyone belowstairs wouldbe crowing with delight at the information that he hadkissed his wife in the dining room. They could go tothe devil with his blessing, the lot of them. He suppressed a grin.
“The evening cannot pass quickly enough for me,” she said, sniffing her rose.
He wasted a smile on her bent head. And then sobered. He was sure of nothing. Perhaps he had totally misread the signs all day. Perhaps by tomorrow hereally would be consigned to hell.
“Who are they?” she asked when he paused outside the drawing room.
Morse had excelled himself. The carpet had been rolled back, and the bare floor shone. The grand pianoforte, which usually stood in one window alcove,had been moved farther out into the room. Miss SarahWilliams, the vicar’s daughter, sat at it with her cousinseated at her side, his violin resting on his lap. Theonly light came from the single branch of candles thatstood on the pianoforte. A table covered with a stifflystarched white cloth stood at the other side of theroom, a bowl of fruit punch on it—nonalcoholic outof deference to James—and also a cake. The cake wasa surprise to the earl. It was decorated with pink icingand a sculpted red rose and was—yes, by God it was—in the shape of a heart.
Cook! Dear Cook. She was going to have to endure a hug and a kiss on the cheek tomorrow. He wouldprobably get himself slapped for his pains.
Miss Williams and her cousin rose to their feet.
