Page 80 of Seductive Reprise
“That’s it, that’s all?” Cold fingers of despair closed about Yusef’s neck, a sensation entirely unknown to him prior to this morning. “I know you’re a man of few words, but for the love of God, Rickard, I’m in hell.”
“I’m thinking,” the rougher man growled. Then, with an incredulous chuckle, “Always knew you were an entitled bastard. Never figured you were a bloody aristo to boot.”
“Is that a joke, Rickard?” Yusef hissed at his supposed friend, the only soul he’d ever dream of sharing his predicament with.
“Of course it is,” he said, with the ghost of a smirk.
Damn it all.Yusef groaned, feeling as if he were being gutted. “I had a plan, a lovely, wonderful Fabian strategy, to win her over with seductive attrition, carefully selected gifts…”
“And she is…?” Rickard interjected.
“Miss Rose Verdier.” Yusef ceased his horrid, self-pitying moaning long enough to collect himself with a deep breath. “An artist. A damnably good one, too.” He left a great deal unsaid: A frustrating bint. Enough spirit for two. Clumsy, though it only added to her charm. No care for promptness or her own personal security. Those freckles, and her hair—meant to catch the sun, not to be wasted in the perpetual gray of England. And her mouth… her mouth and the gap between her teeth…
Warmth bloomed in his chest. He held onto it as long as he was able before ruefully adding, “Fat lot of good it does her, though. She hasn’t the faintest idea of how to go about the business end of things. She’d rather die penniless and alone in some garret than accept assistance in any form.”
“So not the daughter of some gentry, grandee, whatever the hell.” Rickard’s brow furrowed.
“She grew up in a coaching inn,” Yusef said blandly, choosing to also withhold the whole sordid history of Rose’s parentage. No use complicating matters for Rickard when he was doing his best. Yusef briefly wondered at how strange it must be, to be an apoplectic mess barely capable of rational thought.
But then the irony of the situation struck him, for after one poorly considered gesture, a bungled rescue and a theft, and Rose’s flight to the countryside, Yusef himself could hardly function. He removed his hat, tossing it onto the seat next to him so he might run a hand through his hair. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he mussed it, not when Rose was troopingalong a crowded train platform all alone—possibly still crying—and hopping on some awful third-class carriage without a worry for her well-being. Or for him, apparently. The thought of it pained him and he sighed again, the mask crumbling even further.
“Get a hold of yourself, man.” Rickard shook his head, adding in a mutter, seemingly more to himself, “Never thought I’d see the day.”
The carriage passed several interminable blocks before Rickard finally spoke again.
“Alright. Here’s a thought. Does she have a sister?”
“No,” Yusef said, his hopes deflating. He experienced the curious sensation of his heart falling through the floor of the carriage and onto the filth of the street below, to be pounded into a bloody pulp mixed with horse dung.
“Fuck. Doyouhave a sister?”
His curiosity flickered to life, only to be chased by a dark cloud of dread at the thought of Florence. “As a matter of fact,” Yusef said, “I do.” His eyes darted to Rickard’s. “Two, actually.” He sat up a little straighter, trying not to show how eager he was to hear what was germinating in Rickard’s mind.
Rickard nodded solemnly. “Right. How’s this…”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It wasn’t the sameroom as on that fateful day when she’d first met Yusef, but it was the same house. Icknield Court. It was quite impossible to avoid the maudlin nostalgia settling upon her. Rose took a deep breath, trying to focus on anything besides her memories. The earl had asked her—no, begged her—to come.I beg you come visit, even for the briefest of meetings. That had been the exact verbiage of his letter. He would not be cross with her. Besides, her father hadn’t a bad word for the man. Rose felt slightly reassured by her father’s good opinion of the Earl of Ipsley, but even still, her hands were shaking.
It was a large room, cleverly painted to seem airier than it already was, with apricot panels backed by a darker, almost orange peel sort of shade. Faux columns, likely of molded plaster, stretched from floor to ceiling. The furnishings were upholstered in cream, which seemed to her the ultimate hubris of wealth. In one corner sat an unimpressive but adequate bronze bust, and in another, a crouching cherub carved from marble that failed to capture her interest. A decent painting hung over the fireplace, a market scene set in some Near Easternland. Even with her ignorant eye, she wondered if the artist had ever set foot in whatever country he’d attempted to capture. For while the costumes were fantastic, most of the women were half-nude and strumming lyres, the market was altogether too symmetric, and there was what seemed an absurd abundance of free-roaming camels. Yusef would know.
And just like that, her imagination took off. She thought of Yusef lacing his fingers through hers as they stood in the desert sun, gesturing to some ancient ruin with that silly walking stick of his. She wet her lips, as if she could almost feel the dry heat. He’d take her wherever she asked. Of that she was certain. And there was so much beyond the shores of this country she longed to see.
A strong wave of guilt hit her, pushing the desire to the back of her mind. She swallowed and forced her eye away from the painting, deciding to instead focus on the white fireplace, an elegant thing carved with classical motifs of swags and medallions upon the mantelpiece. She reached out to trace their lines with two fingers when the door opened.
Rose yanked her hand back as if she had been burned. Her heart pounded.
The last time she’d seen the earl had been that night. The awful night when Yusef, then Joseph to her, had so cruelly laid out the way of things.
“Ah, the Adam fireplace. Lovely piece, that. I always fancied the Ionic legs when I was a boy. Used to pretend it was an ancient temple my tin soldiers guarded.”
Rose knew she ought to turn and face him, and then curtsy, but she felt rooted in place, staring at the two carved columns that supported the mantel. Finally, with all the force she could muster, she clenched her fists and spun about to give a frenzied curtsy, her eyes cast downward throughout.
“Miss Verdier,” the Earl of Ipsley said, his voice low and gentle. “Please, do sit.”
“Thank you,” Rose murmured, and she finally glanced up. He was tall and thin, as she remembered, though now she saw it not just as a characteristic of his, but as something they shared. His hair had thinned considerably since their last meeting, though, and what remained was no longer the shining red of hers, but fluffy and white. Then there was his face. She saw herself in his features, and it startled her.
She sat down.
