Page 90 of Seductive Reprise
Marcus considered this, then took his first sip with a shrug of his shoulders. He winced, and tilted his head thoughtfully. “I see,” he managed, then set the cup aside, eyeing it warily. “As it were, His Grace’s comments have breathed new life into the legislation, but I highly doubt he can be counted upon to stand for a vote. He’ll refrain, or rather, be conveniently truant if it comes to the floor.”
“Of course he will.” Yusef smirked at Hartley’s bland tastes as well as his father’s expected indifference.
Hartley turned and stared at Yusef, puzzling something out. Finally he spoke with the authoritative enthusiasm of a scientist announcing a new finding. “You’re different, Palgrave.”
“Oh?” Yusef raised an eyebrow, attempting to appear uninterested as the MP contemplated his character.
“Yes,” Marcus said, a sly grin on his face. “You’reoutwardlyamused. How rare is that?”
“Well,” Yusef conceded, reaching for his plate and the lovelybasbousawaiting upon it, “if only there were more to amuse me.” He lifted the pastry and took a bite. Heavenly.
Hartley’s amazement aside, itwasamusing. That the Duke of Marbury would speak out on behalf of the Smoke RegulationAct. Yusef found the humor in it, a man who occupied the hallowed height of society reserved for princes, brought to such banality as speaking out for the masses. And for what? As remuneration to some upstart, radical backbencher. A backbencher who’d provided the duke’s bastard with another opportunity to woo the girl he’d always loved.
At the thought of his wife, Yusef allowed himself another smile. Hartley and Rickard be hanged—he had waited for over ten years, and he didn’t care who saw his affection for her. She was his, and he hers.
As if on cue, the door to the study slammed open without warning. Rose stood there, wide-eyed and donning her smock, covered in a rainbow of drips and smears. His heart leapt. He loved her like this. Wild. Hair falling down. Her mind occupied with higher things than propriety. Or knocking.
She scanned the room, a slight flush rising in her cheeks upon spotting Hartley and Rickard, which set off her darling freckles. She took a deep breath and shook her head with an apologetic smile.
Yusef stood, as did Hartley. Rickard turned.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were entertaining…” She looked once more from Rickard to Hartley. “Friends.”
“Forget them,” he said amiably. “Is there something amiss?”
“No, but I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Interrupt, please.”
She smiled. His heart sang.
The disruption turned out to have come at a fortuitous moment, for Rickard extracted his ill-suited watch and announced he ought to return home, while Hartley admitted he had an afternoon meeting to prepare for. Rose offered her inquiries after Mrs. Rickard and Mrs. Hartley, respectively, before saying her goodbyes. Yusef waited as she bantered with the only two men in England he considered friends, his patiencewaning as he wanted them away. He wanted his wife’s company only for himself, and he wondered if that feeling would ever subside. He immediately got his answer—when the door closed and she turned to shine that gap-toothed smile upon him, her eyes sparkling, he knew it would not.
And then her hand was upon his. Happiness sparked inside him.
“Come,” she said, her voice low and husky. That same feeling hit him again, deepening into something more. With a gentle hold on his hand, she led him through a different door than the one his friends had exited.
“Are you going to tell me what’s afoot?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Did you finish a piece?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ah, something for the next show?”
She laughed. “You’ll see.” With a gentle squeeze of his hand, she added with a note of trepidation, “I hope you’ll like it.”
Finally, after walking a maze of hallways and servants’ corridors, they arrived at the back of their London mansion, where they’d converted the conservatory into her studio. It was absolute chaos, as was her way. Brushes, paints, and fabrics were littered about the room, even on the floor. The glass exterior walls had been knocked down and rebuilt out of thick stone, with wood-framed roof lights and a massive, north-facing window, which gave the room an excellent light to paint by, according to Rose. And Yusef had insisted upon several floor vents so the home’s modern furnace might keep the room warm no matter the season. In one corner stood an elegant carved cabinet, now streaked with drips of paint, the same green as the first leaves of spring.
It was apt. The studio was a new beginning for them both, as Yusef had thrown himself completely into the role of her patronand booster. It was only natural when one had a wife as talented as his. Rose Verdier—not Rose Driffield, not Rose Palgrave, not Rose Ghali.
Rose Verdier.
It had upset the clerk in the registrar’s office, Yusef’s insistence that Rose be allowed to keep her own name. So much so that when the bureaucrat huffed that he would have to inquire with his superior, as it wasmostuncommon, Rose had relented and hastily scribbledPalgravein the massive ledger. But they’d both agreed she should remain Verdier when signing it to canvas.
For she had made a name for herself, however modest, with that first show. And now she would have it, always.
