Page 35 of Seductive Reprise
Rose decided to get straight to the point. “Your pink gown, the one with the silk faille flowers?”
Ruth looked to her, suddenly alert. “What of it?”
“Well,” Rose drew out, her fingers dancing along the edge of her sketchbook, “I was wondering if I might… perhaps… borrow it?” Seeing the suspicion on Ruth’s face, she hastily added, “In a few weeks’ time? For just one night, I promise. A dinner.”
“A dinner,” Ruth said, dubious.
“The lady who commissioned me to paint her, uh,” Rose’s eyes darted about the room, not wanting to see Ruth’s reaction to the words, “her dog.” She swallowed, and focused on the largest hole along the baseboard, into which they’d crammed newsprint as tight as they could. “She’s having a dinner party, for… for the dog, and she’s asked me to attend as well.” Now she looked back to Ruth, not surprised to find her glowering in disbelief. Rose spread her hands out, palms up. “And the thing is, I haven’t a lick of sense about what to wear.” The heat of shame tore through her, a hefty price for such a confession.
“Well, it’s not my pink frock, that’s for sure,” Ruth snorted.
The heat intensified, her cheeks flaming.
“You’re far too tall, for one thing—your legs’ll be on display for all and sundry. And for another, you’ve that hair. No, it’s not the right pink, not one that suits.”
“Oh,” Rose said meekly.
Ruth cocked her head, contemplating Rose’s situation despite her irritation. “Perhaps a green… though beware of those ParisGreens. It’s arsenic they use, I’ve been told. No need to go out that way.”
“I take it this is a refusal, then.”
Ruth stood up slowly, with another world-weary sigh. “Of course it’s a refusal.” She went for her door, but paused on the threshold, cocking her head. “You’ve never asked to borrow a dress of mine before.”
“I haven’t?” Rose said flatly, unconvincing even to her own ears.
“I never thought you—” Ruth pressed her mouth together and shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. But if you’re serious… I would help you find something.”
The heat in Rose’s face mellowed to a gentle warmth at her roommate’s tentative offer of assistance. She croaked her thanks, though a bit belatedly, as the door was already closing. Still, Ruth had to have heard.
But even with Ruth’s more practiced eye to aid her, how would Rose afford anything of quality? She imagined the dinner party, where she would arrive in her same old rags, poorly laundered and hanging askew from her bony frame. And thenhewould be there, all golden and polished and seeing her for what she truly was: a lump of unwashed dross.
She sighed, dropping her head into her hands. Is this what had truly been bothering her all along—why she couldn’t shake her thoughts of Joseph? And here she’d assumed it was because she’d spent too many nights alone, her needs persistent even after she’d seen to matters herself.
Was it that he’d been right, and she’d been wrong?
He’d once sneered at her desire to make her own way, to shun any leg up her birth father and his name, never mind his coffers, might have lent her. Her eyes darted to her valise, squashed sadly upon the table where she’d haphazardly thrown it hours ago. Her traitorous imagination immediately concocted thefantasy of a gown—silk, in the startlingly bright and dangerous Paris Green that Ruth had mentioned, trimmed in gold—and seduced her with that image of what the Earl of Ipsley’s pounds might purchase if she’d only grant herself the luxury. She was his responsibility, was she not? The fantasy Rose was impeccably put together, not a hair out of place, not a speck of dirt marring her dress. Her cheeks weren’t pale and hollow, but pleasantly round and flushed. Then she heard Joseph’s voice, from years ago.Why are we to pay for their mistakes, their “indiscretions?” And with what? Our misery? Our entire lives?
No. She needed to stop thinking this way. She bit her lip.
Even if she was the Earl of Ipsley’s bastard, she was still her father’s daughter. The father who’d taught her the value of a hard day’s labor, scrubbing the pine floorboards on his hands and knees after a day on his feet serving customers, wiping down tables, and assisting the grooms in the stables. Who’d played the concertina for her as a little girl while she tripped through a solo polka.
She shot up with determination and retrieved the cheque from her bag. She paused as her romantic fantasy made one last plea—the imaginary Rose, refined in her new gown, finding herself alone in a ballroom far finer than anything that belonged at Mr. Hartley’s house. What would it feel like, to be in command of the room, rather than hanging awkwardly in the wings in order to avoid notice? Joseph would lead her to an alcove somewhere and make some pithy remark about the poisonous nature of her dress, fingering the gold fringe along the low neckline, his gloved finger brushing against her skin. And then…
Her brows knit. With a rare ferocity, Rose tore up the cheque.
The small scraps fell about her skirts and to the floor. She glumly realized she’d need to pick them up, lest Ruth notice. And she always noticed.
Sighing, she got down on the dusty floorboards and set to the task. Perhaps tomorrow would bring better news. Perhaps her latest piece would sell.
She sat back on her heels, frowning at the torn paper piled in her cupped hands.
If only Joseph hadn’t been so handsome. If only he hadn’t kept his promise by writing to her throughout those two years. If only he hadn’t made her fall in love with him, only to tear it all to pieces.
Chapter Twelve
Somehow he’d managed toget by for weeks without sight of her. When he’d first returned to England a couple years ago, he’d paid no real heed to the passage of time. But now he counted the days between glimpses of her, and realized the month was slipping away. Before one could scarcely realize it, summer would be nothing but a warm, fleeting memory.
Not that it mattered. Things like the seasons and the weather failed to interest Yusef. For he had no power over them, and he’d rather people think he was above such pedestrian concerns.
