Page 50 of Seductive Reprise
“Alright then,” she murmured.
A small victory, but a victory all the same. The hope in his chest burned brighter.
Chapter Seventeen
He hadn’t even kissedher that day. Rose had wanted him to. Not on her hand, but a good, proper kiss. Long and thorough.
Of course, she recognized that it was a ridiculous want, for he’d agreed to meet her on Regents Street, during the day, in full view of whoever might be out and about. He even acquiesced to her request that he allow her to make the long journey back on her own, accepting her refusal of his company and his conveyance. A muscle in his jaw had flexed when she balked at the idea of a cab. Worried that she treaded on thin ice, she finally allowed him to pay her fare on the omnibus.
And while her feet had been grateful as the crowded vehicle pulled away, reeking of people and their daily toil, her heart had positively ached as she watched him there, unmoving and imposing as the Colossus of Rhodes, staring the entire busload down as if daring them to look at her crossly.
Even with their outing now days behind them, and Silas’s reception looming before her tomorrow, it was all she could think of.
How she wished she’d accepted Joseph’s offer of a ride home, so that he might’ve kissed her in his carriage, with those strong hands on her head, pulling her in. With her lightheaded from the scent of him and the safety of his hold on her.
Rose groaned and rolled over in her bed. It was past noon, she guessed, but she had remained abed as it was Ruth’s half-day. Though her housemate would no doubt return at any moment, full of censure for the mess of dirty mugs Rose had left out, with cold and wet wrung-out tea leaves stuck to their bottoms like wrack plastered to the shore. She’d meant to tidy up, but the night had gotten away from her as she sketched by the dim lamplight, and she hadn’t remembered until Ruth’s angry slam of the front door roused her from a deep sleep in the early morning hours.
As if on cue, the lock rattled, followed by the usual prelude of sounds that alerted her to Ruth’s return.
This time, though, she rapped on Rose’s door.
“What?” Rose called out, her body seemingly incapable of movement. For if she got out of bed, she would have to dress, and begin to prepare for the following day. For the abject humiliation of Silas’s first proper one-person show.
At least Joseph would be with her. A slight relief accompanied the thought.
Ruth banged harder at the door.
Sitting up, Rose shouted now. “What?!”
“May I enter?” And then, after a moment and a sigh, Ruth added, “Please?”
“Fine.” Rose exhaled and ran her hands over her hair, feeling for tangles.
The door flung open to reveal Ruth, still in her bonnet and gloves, holding a half-peck-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. Her expression was impassive as usual, but a curiositydanced about her eyes as she looked from Rose to the package in her hands.
“Mrs. Fryer gave me this, told me to pass it on to you.” Ruth held the bundle out matter-of-factly.
Rose threw her legs off the bed in her scramble to reach it.
“Said she’s seen neither hide nor hair of you in three days—very suspicious like, mind,” Ruth added in a peevish tone.
“Thanks for the warning,” Rose said absentmindedly. She examined the parcel, but its exterior gave away nothing. It was a neatly wrapped box, tied up with twine.
“Oh. You’ve also another one of these,” Ruth reached into her skirts and produced a familiar-looking envelope. “Right on time, as per usual,” she added, mostly to herself.
Rose snatched it away, giving it one brief glance to confirm that it was more of the Earl of Ipsley’s unwanted correspondence before tossing it upon her bed and returning to the mysterious package. She had already undone the twine when she realized Ruth was still standing in the doorway. She looked at her, one eyebrow raised.
“What? Go on then, open it.” Ruth shook her head. “You and your moods. One would think …” She trailed off as Rose peeled away the plain brown paper, revealing a pale blue paperboard box embossed with silver flourishes. “Oh,” she said airily. “That’s the Crown Perfumery’s wrapping.”
Rose didn’t recognize the shop name, but she held her breath as she lifted the lid. Inside was an elaborate emerald-green bottle, complete with a glass stopper fashioned in the shape of a crown, nestled elegantly in silk alongside a pair of dainty soaps wrapped in paper and tied off with silver ribbon. A notecard lay upon them.
Ruth leaned forward and sniffed. “Roses,” she murmured. “Lovely.” She glanced up at Rose, and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Rose felt paralyzed, not trusting herself to speak lest she say something crude and ungrateful. Or even worse, something fawning and blushful. The familiar feeling of wanting to melt into him, of being too overcome to do anything but be held, washed over her. She stared at the folded notecard, frozen in place.
Ruth drew it from the box without asking, her brows lifted and lips pursed, keen to know everything Rose would not reveal. She studied it for a moment before looking back at Rose, one eyebrow lifting as her chin tipped upward.
“And who, pray tell, would send something like,” she said as she extended the notecard out, held upright between two slender, elegant, gloved fingers as if it were filthy, “this?”
