Chapter 2

Chapter Two

T wo men stood, arguing quietly, both of them tugging on a tray of food. When the man facing her saw her appear, his face lit and he let go of the tray and hurried past the other man.

"You must be Rosie!" He was surprisingly cheerful. "I'm Finch." He gave her a little bow. No one had ever bowed to her in her life. What was she supposed to do? "I, well… I do pretty much everything around here. Not that you'd guess that from the lack of appreciation I get." He gestured with his head toward the other man, who was now approaching with the tray.

It was the man from the brothel. He loomed over Finch, his stern gaze sending a message that Finch reluctantly received. She had forgotten just how large he was.

"We'll continue this later, then." With a little huff, Finch turned and retreated down the hall.

Rosalyn backed into the room, allowing the man to enter. His broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway as he came through. He closed the door behind him, and only then did it occur to her that perhaps she should have armed herself.

"Good morning," he said with a brief smile. He placed the tray on the table beside the large armchair. Somehow, in the daylight, he didn't feel quite so intimidating. Obviously, he was powerful, but the anger from last night seemed to have dissipated.

"Please, have a seat." He gestured toward the chair and moved out of her way. "You must be hungry."

She hadn't realized until he said the words, but she was, in fact, ravenous. As she settled into the plush leather chair, he grabbed the wooden one from in front of the writing desk and situated himself across from her.

"Finch may not be the best cook, but I'm quite certain he hasn't poisoned your food." There was warmth in his smile as he nodded toward the tray, and it confused her, but she began to eat anyway.

Not the best cook was stating it kindly. The toast was charred, and the sausage was so tough, it more closely resembled shoe leather than food. In fact, everything on the tray was barely edible, and only that because she hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. How was it that a man who lived in this place would be served such unsatisfactory food?

"Finch is your cook?" she asked, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. She set the now empty plate aside and quickly took a large gulp of tea, trying to wash the abysmal taste from her mouth. To her amazement, the tea was incredible. She took another sip, just to be sure her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. It was perfection.

The man chuckled. "He does the task of preparing meals on occasion, but I'd hardly call him a cook."

Rosalyn couldn't bring herself to argue with that statement. Instead, she said, "This tea is delicious." She sipped at it again.

"Yes, well, I may put up with terrible food, but I draw the line at improperly brewed tea. Serving me a pot of bitter swill just might get him thrown out on his ear." He ended the statement with a wink, that for some reason, made her draw in a quick breath.

She laughed nervously, not entirely sure whether he was joking or not. How did he make her feel so off balance?

"So, Rosie." Rosalyn cringed inwardly at the use of the name Madame Bustier had christened her with. Apparently, no man would want to bed a Rosalyn. It felt a bit churlish to correct him after all he'd done for her. Besides, perhaps Madame Bustier was right. He might not want her as Rosalyn.

"I suppose I should start by introducing myself. My name is Patrick, and this is my home."

Rosalyn didn't know what to say, or if she should say anything at all. She settled for a subtle nod and a smile that hopefully didn't appear forced.

"Well, now that you're fed, I'm afraid we need to get to some even less pleasant business."

Rosalyn nodded. Her mouth had gone dry, and even if her brain was able to conjure some words, it was doubtful her lips would cooperate. They were in his bedroom for heaven's sake, what had she expected? That he had brought her here just to feed her and have pleasant conversation? Her eyes flicked nervously to the huge bed.

"No, not that kind of business." He held up his hands in a reassuring gesture. Apparently, her thoughts had shown on her face. "I only meant that we need to talk about things, which may be of a personal nature, and if I'm to help you, you'll need to be completely honest with me."

Well, talking sounded better than what she'd thought was about to happen, regardless of the topic. "Very well." Her voice cracked slightly.

He closed his eyes, and as he shook his head, the sunlight that shone from the window danced through his hair, transforming it from just plain brown, into a kaleidoscope of reds and golds, and for some reason she itched to run her fingers through it. A deep chuckle reverberated within his chest. "I'm not making it sound any better, am I?"

She fidgeted nervously with the fabric sleeves of his robe, still not sure if she was supposed to say something or not.

"I'll get straight to it, then." He took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest. "Firstly, I hope I was correct in my assumption that you had no wish to remain at Maison Rouge."

"I…" She paused. Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks at the memory of their first encounter. Before now, she hadn't had time to feel anything other than terrified. But now, sitting across from him, wrapped in his robe, shame filled her stomach like a lead weight. It roiled, threatening to cast up the food she'd just eaten. Of course she hadn't wanted to be there, but the answer wasn't that simple.

"A simple yes or no will do." His voice offered encouragement rather than impatience and she raised her gaze to meet his.

"No. I had no wish to be there."

"You see? We'll get through this. Next question." He smiled briefly. "Do you have any family who will take you in?"

Rosalyn shook her head. Tears began to fill her eyes. She'd like to think her mother would take her in, if not for the wretched man she was married to, but perhaps even she was too appalled by Rosalyn's behavior. She looked down into her lap just as one tear crept over her bottom lid and slid down her cheek. His hand came to rest on her knee and even through the layers of fabric she could feel the warmth of him on her skin. It sent an unfamiliar fluttering sensation to her stomach. Startled, she looked up at his face, once more. His eyes, the color of light caramel encircled by a deep bronze ring, were filled with such kindness. She could lose herself in those eyes. But why?

"I can't pretend to know what you're going through, but I can see it's extremely difficult." He sat back in his chair again, but his eyes never left hers. "I promise to do my best to keep you safe, but in order to do that, I need to know more about you and this situation."

Who was this man, with his smiles, winks, and comforting touches? And where was the intimidating beast from last night? Rosalyn nodded. She wiped her tears, took a deep, steadying breath, and straightened her spine. This man had rescued her from what would surely have been hell, and had since been so kind to her, the least she could do was answer a few questions without all these added theatrics.

"How long have you been at Maison Rouge?"

At least she had a straightforward answer for that. "Two days."

That seemed to surprise him. His eyebrows lifted and he nodded as he studied her. "So you really were the new girl."

Rosalyn nodded. "I suppose you could say that." She sipped at her tea.

"Was I to be your first, then?" Rosalyn barely avoided spewing tea everywhere, but in her haste to swallow, it went down the wrong way. She coughed and sputtered, the cup rattling against its saucer in her lap.

He jumped to his feet and moved the dishes to the side table. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head and coughed the last of the tea from her lungs. "I'm fine, thank you." Finally able to catch her breath, that was almost true.

"You don't need to answer that. I apologize." He sat on the edge of his chair this time, apparently afraid he might have to jump back out of it again at any moment.

"Would you be comfortable giving me a brief account of how you ended up there?"

Why not? He'd found her in a brothel. It wasn't as if he believed her to be a virtuous young lady, after all. "It's quite simple, really." She shrugged. "My father… stepfather… found me in a compromising situation."

His brows sank into a vee and he tilted his head to the side. "That doesn't really answer my question."

She sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath, but despite her determination not to shrink from the truth, she still couldn't bring herself to look into his eyes as she spoke the words. Instead, she trained her eyes just over his left shoulder. "He wouldn't have a trollop living under his roof, and since I'm obviously a whore, at heart, I might as well do the thing right." She shrugged. "He drove me to Maison Rouge, and after disappearing inside for a half hour or so, he returned and ordered me out of the carriage."

Patrick's eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked on the side of his jaw. There was the man from last night. Anger suddenly radiated from every inch of him, and her heart began to pound in her chest once more. She swallowed nervously. Had he expected a different answer? Had she offended him? His fingers curled into fists, even as he closed his eyes, presumably trying to calm himself.

"Your father?"

"Stepfather," she corrected.

"Regardless," he growled. "Call him what you will, he still holds the responsibility of a father."

"That man. Your stepfather. He took you to a brothel, and just left you, never to return?"

Rosalyn simply nodded. The man had certainly never been anything resembling a father to her. Patrick dug his fingertips into his forehead, massaging the muscles before turning his head sharply to the side, sending a ripple crackling down his neck.

"What about the man with whom you were caught? Do you wish to marry him?"

Rosalyn felt the color drain from her face and she swayed.

"I will take that to mean no." He let out a long sigh. The silence that followed was awkward, made all the more so when she raised her cup to her lips to take another sip of tea, only to realize it was empty. He gave her a kind smile.

"Allow me." As he poured, there came a knock at the door. "Ah, that will be the dressmaker."

"The what?"

"You can't very well stay in my robe forever. I am going to want it back eventually." He gave her another of his winks that made butterflies flutter in her stomach.

What was wrong with her? She should be mortified to be sitting in a strange man's bedroom wearing only his dressing gown, and instead, she sat smiling daftly. Until she remembered one big problem. "I have no money!" she blurted.

At that he burst out laughing. "I didn't figure you were hiding a reticule under that peignoir."

Rosalyn's cheeks burned at the reminder of just how much of her he had seen.

"Forgive me," he said, cringing slightly. "That was not well done of me." In all her life, she'd never had a man apologize to her, at least not that she could remember. What was this world she had ended up in? He walked across the room and opened the door. A woman with a tanned complexion and dark hair, immediately sailed through, followed by two girls aged somewhere around fifteen. Both of them had their arms draped with multiple gowns. Bringing up the rear was Finch, carrying what must have been a fairly heavy chest, from the look of exertion on his face. He set it down with a thud.

"Careful with that, Finch. You don't want to upset the tigress," Patrick warned. The woman threw her head back and laughed.

"As long as he finishes up that necklace I've been waiting for, I will forgive him." She patted Finch's cheek which had turned bright red.

"Enough with the flirting, you two," Patrick interjected. "Ella, this is Rosie. Rosie, Ella." He gestured between the two of them. "I'm sure Finch will be able to help you with anything you might require. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to leave you ladies to it while I get a bit of rest in my study."

Did that mean he hadn't slept because Rosalyn had been in his bed? No wonder he needed to rest. Before guilt had a chance to really set in, however, her thoughts were interrupted by Ella's voice.

"Right, let's get that robe off of you so I can see what I'm working with."

Rosalyn's eyes flicked instantly across the room to Finch. Was this what life was going to be now? Undressing in front of strange men whenever she was told to? She looked to Ella for some kind of answer.

Ella smiled and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about Finch, love, he's just one of us girls."

Rosalyn looked back at Finch. What was that supposed to mean? He was definitely not a girl.

"Now, Ella," Finch said with a nervous laugh. "The poor thing has had quite enough of a shock without you adding to it. Why don't I go make you ladies some tea?"

Before the door had even clicked shut, Ella reached in and untied the sash at Rosalyn's waist. She pushed the heavy robe off her shoulders and didn't even bat an eye at the embarrassing garment beneath before handing it off to one of her assistants, as well.

Rosalyn fought the overwhelming urge to cover herself. This was the second time in two days she'd stood naked in front of a woman to be appraised. This time, however, she was met with a kind smile, unlike the derisive sneer Madame Bustier had worn.

"Yes, we will definitely be able to fit you into something suitable today," Ella said as she waved for one of her assistants. The girl hurried forward.

"Let's make you more comfortable, shall we, Miss?" The girl held up a chemise and Rosalyn gladly allowed her to slip it over her head.

Being covered by the fabric definitely helped, but she was put even more at ease by the nonchalant way they went about their tasks. It was amazing how efficient the two girls were. They had her laced into a corset in half the time it would have taken her to do it herself.

By the time Finch returned with tea, Rosalyn was wearing a dress made of cream-colored chiffon embroidered with roses, and a matching red velvet sash. It fit her surprisingly well. Ella insisted it was a hair too long, but it would get her by until some of the others could be altered to fit. It looked perfect to Rosalyn. Too perfect, in fact. She'd never owned a gown that wasn't second-hand and mended multiple times, let alone one that wasn't stained from kneeling down to tend the gardens or fireplaces.

What did it mean that Patrick was having her fitted for fine gowns rather than servant's apparel? What was he expecting of her? She didn't like not knowing and wanted to track him down and beg for some kind of answers, but she couldn't bother him now. The least she could do was let him get some undisturbed rest.