Page 60 of Seductive Reprise
How awed she’d been, those months ago, when the Earl of Ipsley had deigned to visit them at The Bit and Bridle, in their mother’s private parlor, where her prized earthenware figures of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert stood sentinel over thefireplace. How the earl’s staid façade had cracked a bit at the mention of her mother, as he blinked his eyes and tensed his jaw.
Rose had thought it touching, the empathy he’d displayed. But…
“No,” she breathed. She had frozen—turned to glass, ice, stone, whatever material, it didn’t matter. But she was immobile as those pottery figures in the parlor back home.
“Tell me, Rose, did your family ever receive money from a generous benefactor? A monthly stipend, perhaps?” Joseph now wore a pained expression, his tone grim as he closed the distance between them.
Rose tried to answer, but only a strained choking noise came from her dry throat as she recalled the unexplained windfall of new boots and new curtains for the bedrooms. A new wagon when the axle had split.Had we ever wanted for anything?No financial disaster ever went unsolved, even as their friends and neighbors barely skirted ruin.
“Why is it that while nearly every other coaching inn has shuttered, your father’s not only remains, but thrives?”
“No,” she said again, her voice hoarse. She finally willed herself to move, to try to escape the conclusion she did not want to reach. Shaking, she walked backward in a daze, until she felt the couch against the back of her legs. She collapsed onto it.
“Didn’t you ever wonder,” Joseph said coldly, standing before her, “why your hair is…” He swallowed, then continued, “Such a lovely orange-brown color, and Ipsley’s hair is—”
“Stop!” she gasped. “Please, stop. Pray do not say it! Do not say such things!” Her breath came quickly now, her voice capable of nothing more than pathetic wails of words as she fought valiantly against her mounting realization. It couldn’t be true. Itcouldn’t.
“He’s your father. And everyone knows it. Save you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she cried, shaking her head. “My mother would’ve told me!”
“Would she? Or is this yet another thing she left for others to tend to?”
Rose gasped, covering her mouth at such an indictment. But it was true. Her mother had always had a delicate constitution, even before her illness. Once Rose was big enough, she’d taken over most of her mother’s duties at the inn, working alongside her father while her mother remained in their private rooms, reading or stitching. She felt a stab in her chest. Her father was not her father? Did he know this?
“But my father—”
“I’m sure he was aware. Or he’d never have allowed Ipsley’s interest in your success.” Joseph sat next to her, his words so hard, so logical. “Doubtless anyone in his position would feel the same. It’s your due, your birthright.” He reached out to stroke her cheek.
Rose recoiled.
“No.” She stared ahead, her fist tightening around the poor handkerchief. “It’s not… there’s no birthright, nothing owed. It’s not true. It’s not. Someone would’ve said…”
“Don’t be daft. Anyone could see it. You look nothing like your father and everything like Ipsley, down to his height—”
“Stop it!” She shot up from the couch, her pulse thudding in her temples, her hands shaking. “You’re mistaken. You must be mistaken. It’s because of his interest in art, in encouraging young artists.”
“Damn it, Rose.” Joseph stood and grasped her arm, pulling her toward him. “It’s not a matter of talent. You know it’s true. You’ve known from the moment I asked you to recall that memory.”
Rose stared at his hand on her arm. How could this be real? How could she have lived her whole life so naïve and foolish?She’d thought herself different, with a skilled hand and a clever eye. And now?
She was a duty, a burden. The result of some sordid dalliance between her mother and the earl. And her father—what did her father truly think? She choked back a sob.
“What was it?” Joseph asked, loosening his grip, now with a tenderness to his words. “What did she say to you about visiting Icknield Court?”
Rose tried, but no words came. Two fat tears spilled from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Eventually she gathered herself enough to swallow and whisper, “She said that, since the countess had died… I would finally be welcome there.”
He pulled her into his arms. They stood there for God knew how long—Rose silently crying, her arms hanging loosely at her sides like a doll, and Joseph holding her, stroking her hair. He smelled so wonderful, and it occurred to her that perhaps the world had not ended. Perhaps she could still be Rose Verdier. She lifted her hands to Joseph’s shoulders, leaning forward onto him. He was here with her, and he knew who she was. Didn’t he?
“You should always be welcome at Icknield Court,” Joseph said, interrupting the silence with curt indignation. “It’s just as much your home as it is Aldersey’s, the humorless git.”
“Aldersey?” She pulled back, frowning.
“Ipsley’s son and heir. Viscount Aldersey. Your half-brother.”
Her stomach lurched at the wordbrother. “That’s not… no. I’m not an earl’s daughter.” Her anxiety surged, and she placed a hand over her stomach in a fruitless attempt to quell it.
Joseph glowered. “What do you mean? Of course you are.”
