Page 37 of Seductive Reprise
“What?” Yusef turned once more, looking at Hartley as if he spoke madness.
“Walter,” Hartley said in a dismissive tone. “Pale blue satin, ruffles at the…” He frowned, rubbing his chin as he reasoned out how to describe a dog’s apparel. “Cuffs, I suppose. Just cascades of ruffles. And at the neck, too. There was a straw boater as well, but he wouldn’t comply with that.” He shook his head, as if he had only just realized his mother’s behavior was utterly bizarre.
Yusef looked back.
Rose had noticed him. Their eyes met, and her cheeks colored. Yusef did not look away. God, the spirit in her eyes, the fullness of her lips. He’d burn down the entire countryside, including Icknield Court, if she so wished. If only she’d wish for something besides her own misery. A vise tightened around his heart.
“Anyway, it seems the portrait and the clothes haven’t been enough to keep my mother off my back,” Hartley groaned.
Rose clutched her hands in front of her. She had finally looked away, brightly addressing Dr. Collier as he approached her and the draped canvas. Envy cut at Yusef.
Hartley rambled on. “I’m positive that the poor Miss Venables has been dragged here against her will as some sort of marriage prospect for myself.”
“Are we exchanging intimacies now, Hartley?” Yusef resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. Instead he watched Dr. Collier, as if he might warn him off with the singular power of his glare.
“No, it’s entirely one-sided, assuredly,” Hartley responded dryly, before continuing on, “though someone must have slipped to Miss Venables that you’re a duke’s bastard, for she’s been mooning at you since you arrived.”
Yusef finally let up on staring at Rose and the larger man, his head swiveling like a falcon’s, neatly catching the young Venables girl staring at him. She startled, then hastily twisted around to scurry across the drawing room as if she’d been burnt.
“Awfully nice of you, Palgrave,” Hartley chuckled. “Serves my mother right,” he added, almost to himself.
By the time Yusef had extracted himself from Hartley’s clutches, the entire group save Mr. Stokes had surrounded Rose in a semi-circle. A desperation to admire her, to watch her speak of her work, nearly compelled him to join the rest. But he was greedy. He wanted her full attention, her eyes on him alone. And he couldn’t demand it, not when she had the portrait and a gaggle of prospective sitters to attend to. But he was a patient man. He had the entire evening. And while Yusef could not understand why she insisted on beggaring herself, he at least understood how to conduct a business.
So he found himself sidling across the drawing room, idly adjusting his serpentine cufflinks as he narrowed in on Mr. Stokes.
The bastard stood several inches over him, but being of average stature had never fazed Yusef. Wellington and Napoleon’s war horses stood a mere fifteen and fourteen hands, respectively, and their speed and endurance were unmatched.
“Mr. Palgrave,” the MP greeted him blandly, as Yusef expected. Given the care he’d taken to keep that name out of his business dealings overseas, there was little reason to think that Stokes would have the faintest clue of his years in the opium trade.
With a glance over at the rest of the group, he caught the reassuring glint of Rose’s red hair. Then he turned back to his quarry with a wolfish grin.
“Mr. Stokes. It’s a pleasure to meet one of the esteemed champions of the Pharmacy Act,” he said.
At least he would not be without entertainment as he waited for Rose’s attendance.
Ruth had been as good as her word and more, helping her find an old gown at a Marshalsea pawnbroker and making alterationsto it in the evenings. She even fixed Rose’s hair. Rose didn’t know how she would repay her housemate for such a kindness, enabling her to attend the party looking far more respectable than she’d hoped for.
The evening dragged on, and Rose did her best to remain pleasant, accommodating questions and conversation from all corners. The kind doctor seemed keenly interested in the process of portraiture, returning to her several times with new inquiries about how long a sitting was, how she went about laying out the canvas, when he could expect the finished product were he to choose to sit, and did she paint miniatures? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of another commission, and she smiled her largest smile and stilled her anxious hands, lacing her fingers together and holding them before her. During the meal she’d been seated across from Mrs. Venables, who seemed to think of portraits as vain, but she mentioned that her granddaughter had been keen to be painted as of late. On her right had sat the doctor, who’d escorted her into dinner, and on her left had been Mr. Stokes, who appeared harried and distant, frowning at his plate for much of the meal.
Joseph had not yet spoken to her outside of a nonchalant acknowledgement, nodding his head and offering a bland “Good evening” as they were being seated.
She ought to be relieved, but didn’t feel it. Hadn’t she expressly instructed him to treat her as he would any other acquaintance? Didn’t she want him to retreat from her life, allowing her to continue on without the constant, nagging reminder of who she was and where she’d come from? Of the pain he’d caused her?
But then she’d feel his gaze upon her and look up, her breath catching, every inch of her skin tingling with awareness. And they’d lock eyes across the drawing room or the dinner table, the conversation around her melting into a nonsensical din asshe considered him, thinking of the scattered moments they’d shared together as well as everything they had not.
Perhaps it was because of the setdown Silas had given her, casting her out of not only his bed, but their group of friends and Jurgens’ studio besides. And perhaps it was because life had become so mean without the relatively comfortable living that painting draperies had offered her. The pay had been decent enough, and there was a joy in the anonymity of working alone, in private, with no endless prattle from the sitter. Or the sitter’s owner, in this case.
Or maybe it had just been Joseph himself—the handsome cut of his jaw, the golden glow of his skin. The way he commanded the room even as he hardly spoke, his entire demeanor speaking to a quiet, barely tapped power. How when she witnessed the chill of his hauteur, she knew that only she was in on the secret of his concealed warmth. Or perhaps it was the sight of the young Miss Venables, seated next to Joseph and smiling sweetly at him, laughing inordinately at whatever comments he made.
Whatever the reason was, Rose was beginning to allow for the possibility that she might be able to find it in herself to, at least to the tiniest degree, forgive him.
It was all she could do to look away from him as he escorted Mrs. Hartley out of the dining room.
“So, er, you’ve met Mr. Palgrave before, I take it?” the doctor, her escort, asked, offering her his arm once again.
“What?” Rose tried to feign confusion, but the doctor’s studied gaze told her she’d failed. Perhaps they’d been too obvious, staring at one another like the two lovesick pups they’d once been.
Dropping the act, she took his arm and focused on the backs of Mr. Stokes and Mrs. Venables instead. “On occasion. Our paths crossed once or twice in the past, in Worcestershire. His familywas friendly with—” Her voice hitched but she recovered. “With the local lord.”
