Page 7 of Seductive Reprise
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you said Edward.” Rose tilted her head, wondering whether the kindly looking man in a feathered flat cap possessed the same anxious manner as thecurrent earl, who had been wringing his hands as his eyes darted about the room, surveying his guests.
“No. Your—” He halted so awkwardly that the spell broke once more. His tone was now cool and removed. “The current earl. The 11thone.He’sEdwin. This is Edward.”
She came back to earth, now searching Joseph Palgrave’s face instead of Edward’s antique portrait. There was something about the flexing muscle in his jaw, the vacant stare in those dark eyes.
“How do you know the earl?”
His eyes narrowed and he stepped back, turning to wander the room idly as he spoke. “You suppose I don’t belong here, do you?” His voice was hollow, betraying a deep offense.
She flushed. “No, nothing like that! It’s just, you speak so familiarly that I…”
He sighed, looking at her with an expression of extreme annoyance. “My father and Ipsley are friends,” he said, pausing to drink his own champagne. “From their school days. They’re extremely close.”
Rose took a swallow as well and fiddled with the stem of her coupe. Had he assumed she was referring to how… different his appearance was in relation to everyone else? How his skin was so rich and warm, his eyes so dark? She ran her mind about, wondering what she could say to assure him that hadn’t been the case at all.
But instead she blurted out, “And you? Do you attend school?” Flushing, she took another deep drink. She must sound the most awful bore.
“Of course.” He meandered back to her, his expression neutral.
“Oh,” she said, and turned back to look at the Holbein, wondering how she might learn more of the artist and his importance. Perhaps she could ask Miss Curry on Sunday.The thought of the sad little charity school and its miserable, perpetually frowning teacher made her heart sink, as it occurred to her that Joseph Palgrave no doubt studied whatever he wished at his fine school. The entire fantasy seemed to have collapsed upon itself, the magic fading away the moment she’d asked about his acquaintance with the earl.
“I hear the countess passed away this year.” Unable to help herself, she poked at the touchy subject, anxious to repair whatever had broken between them, if only she could uncover the point of his soreness.
“Did you hear that?” He glanced at her, an unfriendly smile teasing at his lips. Even so, she had a hard time looking away from his mouth, for she found herself wondering how those lips felt.
“Yes. My mother told me only this morning.”
Her mother had been quite wistful, explaining the earl’s current circumstances as she fixed Rose’s hair. Unthinking, Rose pulled her braid over one shoulder and began fiddling with its tail.
“Torn up about it, was she?”
Rose dropped her braid and frowned at him. “Well, it’s a sad thing, isn’t it?” When he didn’t respond, she finished her drink with one final gulp. Her head felt light, and she worried she wasn’t thinking clearly. He spoke with such authority, while she felt quite at sea. She bit her lower lip, hoping he wasn’t teasing her.
He released a sigh. “I apologize for my crude manners, Miss Verdier. I’ve not enjoyed my time here in Worcestershire. And I dare say that has nothing to do with you.”
She looked up to find him before her, his thick brows knit, his eyes open and earnest. “P-p-please,” she stuttered, the flush from the wine warming her face and chest, “call me Rose.”
He smiled as if she’d said the most quaint and charming thing in the world. Rose knew she hadn’t, but never mind that. The handsome, golden prince had returned; once more she was fluttering through a dream.
“Then you must call me Joseph.”
“Alright,” she breathed, and he took her empty glass from her, depositing both of them rather haphazardly on a small table nearby.
“We probably have some time before they’ll be expecting your presence once more,” Joseph said as he looked out from under his thick lashes, grinning devilishly at her. “Where would you like to go?”
The next hour passed so quickly, as they flitted from one secluded corner of the house to another, that Rose felt bereft when it ended and they quietly reentered the drawing room one at a time. The room was much louder than when they had left it, and filled with raucous laughter.
They’d explored the orangery while speaking of their respective hobbies—sketching for her, of course, and riding for him, in addition to his studies. Rose did her best not to gawk at the glass ceiling and walls. Then, in the empty chapel, he’d asked her to tell him all about her days, what life at the coaching inn was like. She’d tried to respond in kind, inquiring into his life, but Joseph had deftly shifted the conversation, instead asking if she’d been to London and then regaling her with stories when she responded in the negative. Rose drank it up. Never before had anyone seemed so fascinated with, well,her. Certainly not anyone so impressive as him.
Smoothing her frock as she tiptoed back to her designated spot at the edge of the room, she caught sight of her reflection in the massive mirror that looked taller than both floors of the coaching inn. She was struck by what she saw. Her eyes lookedpleased and her cheeks were pleasantly flushed, not the usual mottled red her mother bemoaned.
Rose felt pretty. Not plain, as she usually saw herself. Swallowing a smile, she ventured a glance at Joseph, who had taken up sentry near two tittering girls who could’ve been sisters—for they shared the exact same hair color, laugh, and secretive look upon their faces—but sadly, she did not catch his notice.
“Ah! The lady of the hour,” a thin but pleasant masculine voice called out.
The Earl of Ipsley approached her, his arm extended. Rose’s heart kicked up again as she felt all eyes upon her. She dropped a low curtsy as her mother had instructed, her eyes finding Joseph’s as she rose. His face was expressionless.
She didn’t know why it should hurt, but it did.
