Page 9 of Seductive Reprise
“Very well done.”
She did not know what to make of such praise from such people. But before she could even begin to consider it, the rest of the attendees had crowded around, gasping and calling out for her to draw them next. She shuffled to the side to allow them their view, flustered by all the attention.
Joseph did not move. He would not even glance her way.
“Palgrave. Come now, what do you think? Is it not a fair likeness?” the earl’s friend, Marbury, called out.
Joseph responded with a dismissive raise of his eyebrows. “It doesn’t matter, for I’m sure you’ll inform me of exactly what my opinion should be.”
Rose flushed at overhearing a conversation that she did not wish to be privy to. She turned to the man the earl had referred to as Marbury.
“Shall I place the sitter’s name on the reverse?” She paused for a moment and weighed the risks of again misusing a style versus forgoing one, then decided she’d rather suffer the former. “My lord?”
“Very well,” the gentleman responded, his face shuttering, all warmth and interest in her work fleeing in the wake of Joseph’s cut.
Rose turned the paper over, ready to transcribe.
“Joseph Palgrave,” the man said without emotion. “Son of Richard Deaton-Palgrave, Seventh Duke of Marbury.”
Duke. The crayon snapped under her fingers.
“Your Grace,” she corrected herself in a whisper.
Chapter Three
“Quakers in Birmingham,” Bartlesaid, tossing a neat packet onto the desk. “Fancy ladies in London.” Another packet landed atop the first one. “Dr. Allbutt in Leeds.” Another smacked atop the second. “And finally, the report you asked for from your MP friend, Hartley.” The fourth and thickest packet hit the stack with a massive thud.
Yusef wanted to groan and sweep the offensive material from his desk, but he instead leaned forward, steepling his hands. “The ladies in London… isn’t Rickard’s wife party to all of…” He waved a hand, dismissing the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills with both a gesture and a reluctance to speak their mouthful of a name. “That rubbish.”
“That’s correct, sir. Though she hasn’t been in attendance as of late, due to her being in the family way.” Bartle thumbed his crooked nose with a sniff.
“Hmm,” Yusef muttered, less to Bartle and more to the stack of information on the agitators and researchers working toward the inevitable banning of opium. At this point he had decided to move on from the trade, but as was his way, he wanted duediligence done to its fullest extent, even though he very much doubted that anything would arise that could change his mind. Nevertheless, he’d asked Marcus Hartley to compile his outlook, from his parliamentary point of view, on whether Britain was likely to permanently sever its connections with the trade, and had apparently received his response in an astoundingly short span of time. He briefly wondered if he should spare a thought for having put Hartley through the almost certainly unnecessary exercise, but Yusef spent very little time considering those beyond himself.
Except for Rose Verdier.
It had been two days, and still he found himself unable to marshal his thoughts and apply himself to any matter but her. The post piled up, unopened. Meetings, postponed. Social calls? He wasn’t taking those, God no. He was in no position. He hadn’t slept, having instead remained sitting in his study, staring at the carefully curated collection of small canvases that crowded one wall. He was a man consumed by his past mistakes and his excruciating need for clemency. From her. For her body, below his. Her hair, wrapped about his fist. His mouth on her exposed neck. Her voice breathing his name. His true name.
He frowned and looked away from the paintings on the opposite wall. A dash of hurt coursed through him, and he welcomed it. He would give anything to go back and do things differently. If only his suffering could accomplish this, then so be it—he would inflict the wound himself, bleed out if need be. Whatever she required.
A rap at the door interrupted his melancholy.
The door swung wider than usual to reveal his other associate, Collins, whose large face betrayed his unhappiness at playing butler. “MP Hartley, sir.”
Yusef stood up, his face serious. “Leave us,” he said.
Bartle and Collins withdrew immediately, leaving the tall Mr. Hartley to amble in on his own, his hair unfashionably shaggy, hands in his pockets. Yusef supposed the man considered him a friend, which pained him to a degree, mostly due to his reputation as a capricious radical. The MP possessed a casual, distracted air about himself, as if he were above any conversation that did not directly lead to the righting of wrongs and the delivery of justice. Even Yusef enjoyed smiling now and again, for goodness’ sake.
And still, Marcus Hartley had been the only person he’d instructed his staff to allow in. Not because Yusef cared to be lectured by the self-righteous upstart. But because he was the only one who could bring news ofher.
“Hartley,” he said with a nod, tamping down the desire to immediately ask after Rose. He instead walked to the sideboard and poured two tumblers of scotch.
“Palgrave,” the MP responded. Spotting the stack of material on Yusef’s desk, his tone changed to one of excitement. “Oh? You’ve read my report, then?”
One eyebrow raised, Yusef strode over and handed the man a drink. “I’ve only just received it.”
“I suppose I did send it over this morning,” Hartley said into his glass, somewhat deflated.
“And wrote it in the space of what? One day?” Yusef took a sip himself. “Your talents are wasted in Parliament,” he sighed.
