Page 76 of Seductive Reprise
Then she collapsed on the bed, which whined under her slight weight. It didn’t bother Rose, for she felt like crying in much the same manner. She maintained her composure, though, and merely sighed, bringing her hands up to her eyes.
“Oh, Pep,” she murmured, “what am I to do?”
She spoke rhetorically, for she knew what she’d come here to do. To speak with her father, and, when she felt able to, the Earl of Ipsley. But first, now, to lick her wounds, to try to forget that she’d lost a valuable commission. She hadn’t even had it in her heart to write to Mrs. Hartley. Not yet.
Once she had done all that, perhaps then would be the time to send word to Yusef. Her heart ached at the thought of him,and desire sparked at the memory of him the other night. His skin smooth and golden, his thick black hair tousled—and he was happy. As was she. But she couldn’t answer him, not now. For how could any of it work? They may have been born of similar conceits, but they lived worlds apart. And to think that she would abandon everything that made her who she was for a life of luxury? Then there was the way he’d tried to brush off the thievery, as if she need not work. And it was truly unfathomable that he would ever forsake the fine, refined life he led because she felt discomfort at stepping into the role of the wife of such a person. Square pegs would sooner fit into round holes.
She heard the click-clacking of Pep’s nails against the wooden floor, and before she knew it the dog had joined her on the bed, licking at her face while her tail wagged in double-time.
Rose scratched behind one of the dog’s ears. “See? Not so bad, am I?” It only encouraged the scraggly little thing more, and she bowed down to frantically poke at Rose’s side with her nose, sneezing as she went.
Rose laughed, and decided that she quite liked dogs. Even Walter. Which reminded her again of the cylindrical leather case, probably hanging in some pawnshop for more than the value of the painting it held. She swallowed and shut her eyes at the rush of sorrow. It seemed that only misery had befallen her this past year. So many setbacks, so many missteps. The only bright spot had been Yusef, as fraught as the entire affair had been. Her body warmed at the thought of him. Could she be following the wrong path? Should she yield, and put aside her stubborn pride?
Unfortunately, she didn’t get a chance to answer her own question, as her father actually did require her assistance. For even though the inn was bereft of travelers and lodgers, when evening fell it brought nearly the entire village with it, looking to quench their thirst for both drink and conversation. At first Rosefelt a fish out of water, but by the fourth round she’d pulled from the keg, she’d settled right back into the routine, glad for the steady business for her father’s sake.
Blessedly, she had no time to think of troubling subjects like dukes and earls and their bastards. The night wore on, the work continuing without respite, the conversation boisterous and lively, cut through every few minutes with raucous laughter.
That is, until she deposited several cheese and onion pies at a table in the corner, then turned around only to nearly crash into a large, oafish man coming in the front door.
Rose shifted her balance and stepped back. “Oh my goodness, I beg your pardon,” she said.
The man held his hat in his hand and stared at her, astounded.
“Rose? Rose Verdier, as I live and breathe!” He let out a low whistle of surprise.
She looked up and realized who it was. “Elmer Blundell,” she said, tucking the now empty tray under one arm.
“What’s all this? Aren’t you a city gal now? Or have you finally put it all behind you?” He looked her up and down, spending a bit too long on the down part for Rose’s taste.
“Yeah, well.” She was grateful she’d the foresight to keep her fancy new garments tucked away upstairs, donning only an apron, a plain skirt and oft-mended blouse for the evening. Rose shifted the tray, holding it against her chest like a breastplate, her arms crossed over it. “Just home for a visit, aren’t I?”
Elmer chuckled, shaking his head. “Still on your high horse, I see. Too good for the likes of us.”
“What?” She lowered the tray, as well as her defenses.Is that what everyone here thinks of me? Or… do people know about… my father?It was an old fear, and a long-forgotten one. A worry she’d once left behind as easily as the yellowed lithographs tacked up on the walls in her old bedroom.
“Nah, it’s alright.” He clapped a massive hand on her shoulder, an earnest look on his face. “Got the shop now, and a missus too—good as done, aren’t I? Water under the bridge and all that.” He offered her an affable smile. “Always knew you were headed for grander things. Take care, then.” With a disinterested nod, he clambered over to the counter, seemingly unaffected.
Rose hustled off into the kitchen, mouth pursed in thought as she went. She drew in a deep breath, the heat of the kitchen intensifying its rich smells: lovely rosemary, savory roast, sweet steamed pudding.
“What’s wrong?” her father asked from his spot at the heavy, cracked wooden table where he toiled, a stack of carrots to one side of him, and a bowlful of half-finishedmirepoixon the other, so far mostly celery and onion. “Who is tending the room?”
“Victor is out there. And that girl from two farms over,” Rose said as she wandered in, feeling somehow more maudlin than when she’d arrived earlier that day. She sat down on a worn stool, defeated.
“The Hylton girl.”
“Right,” Rose said, not caring two whits about the girl other than that she earned her wages. She stared at her boots. “Did… does Elmer come here often?”
“Who?” Her father sniffed, then it dawned on him. “Ah, yes.” He set to chopping again. “The butcher. He comes often enough.”
Rose flexed her fingers against the empty tray she still clung to, thinking.
“Don’t worry, the boy is married now. He stopped asking after you ages ago.”
She bit her lip, weighing whether or not to go down this road. Finally she decided she must, even if the business of the inn would not abate for another two hours. Victor and the Hylton girl seemed more than capable.
“Do people talk about me?”
The chopping stalled, but Rose found herself unable to look up and meet her father’s eye. So she stared at the fireplace, watching the flames lick the cast iron pot that hung from a curved metal arm. Chopping soon resumed.
