Page 25 of Seductive Reprise
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
With a smile she gave up on her fieldfares, and slowly turned her horse to face him.
“Not to sketch, if that’s what you mean.” She grinned mischievously, her brows quirking up as if challenging him.
Her response knocked him positively askew, and he fumbled for words, but found himself capable only of straightening his posture and adjusting his grip on the reins.
“Disappointed?”
He swallowed before answering. “I’ll manage somehow.”
“Good,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.
They rode all afternoon, laughing and conversing amiably when not competing in mock steeplechases. After a few hours they stopped and dined on the simple fare she’d stashed, emptying her traveling bag of its provisions. Slowly he forgot himself—the self-serious student, the spoiled, uptight bastard of a duke, the young man who didn’t quite belong—and he became just Joseph. The chill hanging in the air deepened, and eventually they could no longer feel their noses. Rose said they must go back, to which he demurred, but she laughed and swatted him on the shoulder as she rode past, heedless of his protestations.
Joseph followed, feeling warm all over. Aside from his nose.
He rode to the inn every day after that. And though it seemed her father could never spare her, she somehow always managed to sneak away. And then they’d be off, gallivanting across the frigid, barren landscape, alone in a world of their own making, trading jokes and stories as easily as they shared the same stoppered bottle of cider she always packed. His heart skipped whenever he smelled the acrid whiff of smoke from the inn’s fireplaces riding on the crisp air, for it meant they were either meeting or parting.
And then the last day of his father’s visit to Worcestershire was upon them. Joseph knew they would depart the next morning, but he still hadn’t broached the subject with Rose. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how he could go back to being Joseph Palgrave, the bastard son of the Duke of Marbury. And not just any bastard—anexoticone. “Exotic,” of course, standing in for whatever it was people truly wished to say.
Joseph pushed it from his mind as he lay upon a tatty woolen blanket, Rose’s head resting on his stomach. They had joked about how ridiculous it was, lolling about in the chill like this, pretending winter was a mere suggestion rather than a biting reality. He played with her hair, twisting the locks about his fingers as he regaled her with the ludicrous tale of the time Florence cast aside an entire season’s wardrobe because one of her friends had convinced her the colors didn’t suit.
“No!” Rose gasped, then covered her mouth before exploding into a fit of giggles. “All of them? Every gown?”
“Her maid was very handsomely attired that year, no doubt.” He reached toward Rose and gently pulled her hands away from her mouth, wanting to see her smile. He’d become rather fond of it this past week; seeing it made his heart ache in the most delicious way, and he wanted to sear the image of it into his mind. He was quite the masochist, he’d found. For even as they’d come to an unspoken agreement to allow such familiarities as resting together like this, or holding hands, he still hadn’t kissed her.
“No, she likely sold them. Wouldn’t you think?”
“You don’t think Hannah had a use for eight heavily trimmed silk evening gowns?”
Ignoring his joke, she rolled over onto her back, folding her hands atop her middle as she stared at the cloudy sky. “I can’t believe your father would indulge such…”
“Lunacy?”
“I was going to say outrageousness.” She wrinkled her nose. “Myfather would never,” she added with a snort.
His hand froze in midair, a shining red lock slipping from his fingers. He could tell her. He could tell her right now. If he’d asked himself a week ago about the prospect of divulging to Rose the circumstances of her birth, he’d have been sanguine about the idea.From one bastard to another.
But now?
It seemed harsh. Too harsh, especially for this iteration of himself—the Joseph who was a fool for a low, purring voice, red hair, and a lush pair of lips.
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
Rose sat up with a start, confusion and anger transparent on her face.
“What? You never said anything, not a word!”
“I’m saying it now, aren’t I?” he drawled, hauling himself up from the blanket. It had done little to keep the chill from the ground away; his entire back was frigid.
Rose bit her lower lip, so fiercely that he wished she’d stop. That lip was too beautiful to mar. She locked eyes with him, unshed tears glistening in hers, the unspoken worry passing between them.
Would they ever see one another again?
Of all they’d spoken of these past days, they’d both avoided any mention of the future. As if they knew it would be nothing but castles in the air. For despite his bastard birth, he was still the son of a duke. A duke that recognized him. Perhaps it would be different if someone would pull the wool from her eyes, and she might realize that their situations were not so dissimilar. She might allow that daffy earl to properly take on his responsibility to her and recognize her as one of his own. It would solve everything.
But Joseph didn’t speak of that.
