Page 59 of His Grace, the Duke
“She just... she didn’t flinch or anything. She held her ground. She fought like a lioness.” The incredulity was written across his face... and the awe.
“I know,” James repeated.
“Damn... I think my cock got a little hard.”
James growled. “George, I swear to Christ—”
George laughed. “Easy, little brother. I enjoy my fingers right where they are, thank you very much. That rabid little cabbage would bite them clean off if I dared to approach. She’s all yours.”
Those three words settled inside James like a punch to the gut. No, she wasn’t. Not even close. James feared there was no world in which he could ever change that fact. She didn’t want to belong to anyone. No cages. No marriage.
She doesn’t want you.
His mother’s words echoed in his mind. Rosalie was attracted to him, certainly. Their physical attraction was more than mutual. He could hardly be in the same room as her and still find breath. She would give him her body, but he wanted more. Needed more. The things he wanted most were the very things she refused to ever give.
George shifted off the sofa, and James was sure he would leave. He glanced up to see his brother watching him with an odd look on his face. He frowned. “What now?”
“You were right... she doesn’t see you. But I do.”
James’ frown deepened as he sat back, holding his brother’s gaze. “You were listening.”
“Your voice carries,” George replied with a shrug. James looked away, staring into the empty fireplace.
“I see you, James... and so does that sweet little cabbage.” James stilled.
“I meant what I said,” George murmured. “She is my ward now. She’s under my protection.” He paused at the door, one hand on the knob. “And I know you care nothing for my advice, but I’m going to give it all the same.”
“Please don’t.”
“She’s knocking at your door, James. Let her in... or let her go.”
George left, and James felt the hold on his walls crumble at last.
Let her in, or let her go.
For perhaps only the third time in his life, James had to admit that his brother was right about something. James had to learn to let Rosalie in, or he had to let her go. So why did he feel so completely incapable of doing either?
28
Rosalie
Rosalie was sweptto the drawing room on Piety’s arm and thrust into the middle of the boisterous house party. For several hours, the group played cards and charades. A young lady was always at the piano, plinking out a merry tune. She was forced to satisfy the curiosity of the other young ladies, answering repeated questions about her odd departure with James from the Michaelmas ball. While she kept the details brief, she couldn’t avoid the judgmental looks cast her way.
After tea, the Nash twins set Rosalie up in the corner with a sketchbook and insisted that she take their likenesses. The twins looked as beautiful as ever, their golden curls arranged in matching tight rows around their oval faces. They were identical down to the last freckle, their big brown eyes framed in long, dark lashes. Rosalie was grateful to be sat in the corner, away from all the prying eyes. She sketched the twins, the Swindon sisters, and Peanut, Piety’s spoiled lap dog.
Just as Rosalie prepared to take her leave, desperate for a few minutes of peace, Piety stood and clapped her hands.
“Right, if we don’t all get ready, we’ll miss the start of the concert!”
***
That’s how Rosalie found herself dressed in one of her new evening gowns, white gloves pulled up to her elbows, the duchess’ pearls at her neck, wedged between Renley and Mariah Swindon at a public concert. Before her, a string quartet played the selected works of Joseph Haydn.
She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Burke or Renley since their return to the house, but she could tell from the way Renley leaned in with a furrowed brow that he knew something was wrong. A row behind them, Burke sat between Blanche and Lady Oswald. Rosalie could feel his eyes on her. Her skin felt so warm under his gaze that she was forced to fan herself with her concert program.
“Are you well?” Renley whispered.
“Perfectly,” she replied, stirring the air with a flick of her wrist.
