Page 53 of Seductive Reprise
Rose hadn’t even realizedwhat was happening until Yusef climbed up into the carriage after her, the door slamming shut behind him. But what was there to say? Ask him to let her out, so she could walk home? Inthisget-up? She felt like she belonged at a costume ball, never mind how stylish it supposedly was. She made a mental note to apologize profusely to Ruth the next time she saw her, and to sweep and dust their shared lodgings in penance. Clearly she couldn’t manage to turn herself out properly without her roommate’s help. And it would be foolish to cling to her pride at this point, for what pride did she have left to speak of?
She’d taken the Earl of Ipsley’s money. All to buy this horrid gown and ridiculous hat. She swallowed and reached up to tug at the ribbons hanging below her chin, desperate to get the thing off. The carriage moved forward in a lurch. She did not know what to speak of first—the humiliating way Silas had behaved, or the mortifying insult his patroness had levied upon Joseph. The patroness whom Silas had cast Rose aside for.
She was forgetting to breathe, she realized. She forced one deep, gasping breath, then another.
When she finally felt above water, she looked up at Yusef on the seat opposite. Not alongside her like last time.
He was staring out the window, his dark eyes brooding, with one hand held lazily before his mouth. The fading light filtering into the carriage lit his heavy features beautifully, lending a sultry and soporific effect. She was finally alone with him. Rose wet her lips, wondering how to begin to remedy the situation they now found themselves in. All she’d wanted was to be admired. To be desired. She worried at the straw hat in her hands, running her fingers along the brim.
She hadn’t wanted Joseph insulted to his face. Stupidly, she hadn’t anticipated that possibility at all. Selfishly, she’d only thought of what she wanted, and how she might be perceived.
“I’m sorry,” she finally groaned. “That did not go as I’d hoped.”
He turned toward her, his face closed off and remote. For a long, terrible moment he did not speak, and she worried she’d have to continue fumbling about for the proper kindness to undo what she’d subjected him to.
But then he steepled his hands and asked, “And how, exactly, did you hope it would go?”
She blinked. “You’re cross.” With a deep breath she set her hat aside. “You ought to be cross.”
“Oh?” He sat back and waited for her to go on.
“That awful Mrs. Upson,” Rose muttered, as she allowed her gaze to drift to the window. “What a wretched woman.” How Silas could tolerate her, she could not fathom. Even still, though… he had a patroness. And a showing in a proper gallery. Agnew’s, even! Envy gnawed at her. She gently traced invisible drawings upon the windowpane with one finger. “I wonder how she came to find him. Mr. Gall, I mean. He was always lighthearted and free. Dressed rather ragged.” Rose halted atthat, not wanting to call further attention to her own garb. “It’s so…” She sighed, and dropped her hand. “I cannot sort it out.”
“What is there to sort? He’s an artist, he needs to eat. She’s a woman with more money than sense. And taste, for that matter. It’s a tolerable match. Besides, how would those poor rubes know which artists to admire if it weren’t for Mrs. Upson and her ilk setting out the slop before them?” Joseph scoffed.
For some reason the casual summation cut at her. She nearly winced.
“But surely there is something more to it! If one means to devote their life to art—”
“Money makes the mare go,” Joseph said, a smug smile on his lovely mouth.
“No, truth speaks for itself! Beauty is self-evident in all forms, no matter what a supposed patron of the arts decides,” she countered, a bit huffily.
She didn’t like it. Rose had no desire to rehash this argument with him. Not after the last time, just before their bond was broken. And not tonight, of all nights, when she’d already swallowed her pride once. She leaned closer to the window. She could see the lamps had already been lit, even amid the slightest remainder of ambient light, the sun’s last gasp of the day.
She straightened up.
“Where are we going?” she asked with a start, as she hadn’t considered a destination when Joseph had ushered her into the carriage. She hadn’t even thought to protest. Her mind had been a terrible muddle.
Joseph reached for his walking stick, which had been leaning against the bench.
“I thought you’d never ask.” His stern tone was countered by a devilish gleam in his eyes, so warm and languid. He gave his walking stick a little twirl.
“And?”
“I’m taking you home.” Rose opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could protest. “No, not Lambeth. Have no fear on that count. A proper home. My home.”
“Oh,” she breathed, suddenly very aware of how alone they were, and what had happened the last time she’d ridden with him in this carriage. The cotton of her new dress felt so thin over the worn lawn of her chemise, hardly appropriate for an evening chill. She crossed her arms, and they rode in silence for a long period.
Her mind raced, worried about what exactly he intended in taking her to his house like this, as if she were some dollymop, and just how much she desired such a scandalous outcome. The sun set completely as they rode, casting them into a darkness offset only by the feeble light the interior lamps provided. Rose knew Joseph well enough to know he wouldn’t breathe a word until he wanted to. So rather than protest, or reignite their dreadful old disagreement, she waited, her body tensing in anticipation.
Blessedly, the traffic finally let up, and they began to move through the streets with ease. Peering through the window, Rose could make out massive, tidy mansions, uniform in their stately white edifices. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, and she felt as if in a dream, being here with him, in the night, in a ridiculous confection of a gown.
How many nights this summer had she lain awake, thinking of exactly this? How many nights before, when she was young and untried, had she imagined him atop her—golden and sensual, dragging lazy kisses along her neck while his fingers grazed her ribs as they drifted up her side?
It had been years since she’d counted herself as a maiden, but even still, Rose flushed when the footman opened the door to the carriage. Both he and the servant at the front door said nothing, keeping their eyes averted. Her experience with fine houses waslimited—largely to brief visits to Icknield Court and Flixton Hall—and she knew little of the ways of the staff at such households, but she assumed Joseph would settle for nothing less than the most discreet in the profession. And to confirm that supposition, she entered the house to find herself amid utter silence, with no one to intrude upon the moment, no sound to be heard except the soft scuff of her new silk slippers and her own low gasp.
The entry hall was magnificent. How could such a colorless and trite exterior contain such a fantasy of a room? And not fantastic in the same vein as Mrs. Upson’s ostentatious display of jewels—big, boisterous, and tasteless—but wondrous in its subdued recreation of natural beauty in an enclosed space. The ceiling, which seemed higher than she imagined possible, presented the night sky, held up by rich alabaster pillars. Glittering with constellations that, without having to compete with the hazy London air, were brighter than the true thing.
