Page 11 of Seductive Reprise
“The Sedleys? I would sooner endure them and all their progeny for an eternity than entreat the Duke of Marbury.”
Hartley dropped his hand, twisting the paper about.
Yusef watched it, desperation warring with the dignified façade that was so ingrained in him it had become second nature. What he wouldn’t give to see her smile once again, to see her look at him the way she once had, as if he deserved her awe.
For once in his life, Yusef didn’t wait. “Fine.”
Hartley broke into a grin.
“But I make no assurances. Only the promise that I will…” Years of self-control fell away, and he sighed. “Try.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Hartley stood, and dropped the paper into Yusef’s waiting hand.
He closed his fist around it, his heart thudding.
“I suppose you wouldn’t tell, but why her?” Hartley ventured, his features blank, knowing he’d get nowhere but willing to gamble with words.
“It’s a personal matter.”
“You know, there are those who occasionally share a morsel or two of their personal matters with friends.” Hartley brushed off the sleeves of his jacket.
Yusef narrowed his eyes. There were few he considered true friends. And usually that was born from years of trust. Hartley might have been invited inside his inner circle, but he hadn’t proven himself yet. Still, Yusef didn’t find him a hateful, hoggish boor in the way so many of his set were.
“We knew one another in our youth,” he allowed.
Hartley raised his brows, considering this revelation. “She didn’t appear to harbor much fondness for you, I have to say.”
Yusef stood. “I’d rather you not say. Especially if I’m to persuade the Duke of Marbury to your…” he paused, making a polite sort of sneer, “cause.” Just the thought of speaking with his father was enough to make him want to retch. Not to mention his sisters.Half-sisters, he corrected himself.
Hartley held up his hands in forfeit before taking his leave.
Yusef strode over to the wall of paintings. After several minutes, he unfolded the paper in his hands, his heart racing. She was worth it. She was worth all of it.
Chapter Four
She dreamed of himagain.
It was always the same. He was young, as in her memories of their time together; not like the hardened, imposing man who’d stood in Bess Hartley’s morning room as if he owned not just it, but the entire neighborhood. In the dreams they were happy, chasing one another through palatial homes and across lush, green estates, riding horses and rolling down hills. None of the dreamscapes could she identify, exactly, but they all felt familiar. And when she woke, the yearning was overpowering, the hurt bleeding forth from a reopened wound. A wound she’d erroneously thought healed.
Rose frowned and scrubbed a hand over her face. Her entire body was hot and restless. She turned her head toward the door and listened. The telltale sound of footsteps in the other room informed her that Ruth was up and about. Desperate to free herself from these dreams and the constant intruding thoughts of him, she ran a hand down her neck, between her breasts, but then paused. It wouldn’t do, imagining Joseph and touching herself when her housemate was mere feet away. Even if itdid release her tension for the time being, it was better not to encourage herself to think more of the poncy, handsome, self-satisfied bastard.
Instead she got up, the ancient, sagging bed creaking under even her thin frame. It was barely two steps from the bed to the opposite wall. Her limbs felt heavy as she splashed her face with the stale, cold water from the day before. She reached for her rose water out of habit, then remembered it was empty the moment she lifted the small bottle from the washstand. With a sigh, she set it back down. It’d been months since it had run out, and still she couldn’t bear to part with it, nor could she afford to replace it. Her one allowance for vanity. After shucking on her dress, she quickly twisted her thick red hair up into a loose knot, avoiding the small mirror resting behind the washbasin and the disappointment it so reliably provided her with. There was precious little else in the room for her to rest her eyes on, though, so she settled upon her Dalziel engraving of a Millais piece she’d tacked on the wall. A couple on a small pleasure boat, as viewed from behind.
Silas had always scorned her love for “woodpeckers” like the Dalziel brothers, whose engravings adorned books, magazines, and adverts.Pap for the masses,he’d say. But to Rose, the illustrations said so much about life, especially life in the city.Thiscity, busy and bleak though it may be. She frowned around the hairpins in her mouth. She hoped she would not encounter Silas at the sketching society today.
Once dressed, she left her room, closing the wailing door as gently as she could.
Not that it mattered.
Ruth turned to glare at her accusingly from her position in front of their pathetic excuse for a fireplace, holding a crooked toasting fork with two pieces of bread speared precariously upon it.
Smaller and finer-boned than Rose, Ruth had the appearance of a small bird, albeit a bird with tired shadows under its eyes. In any circle she’d be considered a dainty beauty if not for her beakish nose. Still, she kept herself very neat—her fine yellow hair always perfectly parted down the middle and handsomely braided and coiled, her dress always clean and pressed. Rose envied her appearance every time they crossed paths, wondering just how she managed to keep herself put together. What could the secret be?
“Tea’s ready,” Ruth said plainly, having moved beyond blaming Rose for the horrid noise her door made. She withdrew the toasting fork and stared at it, waiting for their breakfast to cool.
It wouldn’t be long, Rose thought glumly. Although it was summer, at this early hour there was still a bite to the air; the walls of these tenements seemed to exude frigidity regardless of the season. How she dreaded the winter months, when no amount of coal could keep the chill from their rooms.
The steam curling from the chipped brown teapot beckoned to her.
