Chapter 4

Chapter Four

P atrick was exhausted by the time he returned home. It was only a few hours before dawn, and he was not looking forward to spending another fitful night in the chair in his study. He poured himself a drink and sank into the soft leather chair. Perhaps it would do. Finch appeared in front of him, holding a tray.

"Finch, you know I don't usually eat when I come home."

"I know," he said with a nod. "But trust me, you will want to eat this."

Patrick raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but then he inhaled the aroma. He nodded his head toward his desk and Finch carried the tray over.

"Where is this from?" he asked as he raised the first bite to his mouth.

It was incredible. The beef was so tender it hardly needed chewing, and the potatoes were nothing short of divine.

"From your own kitchen, my lord." Finch gave him a teasing grin.

"Don't be ridiculous, Finch. You've never made anything this good in your life."

Finch pressed his hand to his chest in a show of feigned indignation, but then he smiled. "I didn't say I made it, I said it was made in your kitchen."

"She can cook?"

"Yes she can." Finch nodded, but there was something not quite right in his smile.

"What are you not telling me?"

Finch shuffled his feet and fidgeted with his thumbnail. "I don't know what you mean."

Patrick leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. "Finch?"

Finch swallowed audibly, but still said nothing. Patrick moved to stand, but as he placed his hands on top of the desk, Finch sputtered into an explanation.

"I… She… I…"

"Spit it out, Finch."

Finch stared fixedly at his fidgeting thumbs. "She went out to the shops," he said quietly.

"I assume you accompanied her?"

Finch swallowed again and shook his head. Anger tightened Patrick's chest. He had just barely rescued the poor girl from a brothel, he sure as hell didn't want her wandering off alone. It wasn't safe.

"You had one job, Finch!" Patrick shouted. "I trusted you to watch over her for a few hours while I was away."

Finch nodded quickly. "I know, I'm sorry."

"What kept you so busy that you couldn't at least have gone with her?"

"I…" he paused, taking a deep breath. "I wasn't here." Patrick waited silently for the rest of the explanation.

"I had a drink with someone, but it was already scheduled before you brought Rosie home. I couldn't just not show up," he pleaded.

"She could have been hurt, or worse out there on her own, Finch." Patrick slammed his palm against the desk and Finch jumped. "I should sack you for this. Without pay or a reference."

Finch finally looked up from the floor, his eyes wide with panic, but before he could speak, Rosie rushed into the room, hastily tying the sash at her waist. At least she was wearing a robe of her own tonight, rather than his that drowned her.

"It's my fault! Please don't be angry with Finch. He did nothing wrong." She placed herself between them, her hands gripping the edge of Patrick's desk.

So much for being scared and timid. The corners of his mouth twitched, nearly turning up in a smile. He nodded at Finch. "Go."

Finch nodded dejectedly. "Am I sacked then?"

Patrick shook his head exasperatedly. "Of course you're not. Now get out of my sight!"

Relief flooded Finch's face. "Yes, my lord!" He scurried from the room.

Rosie looked back and forth between them twice, her eyes growing wide. "My lord?"

Of course, to her he was just Patrick, which is how he wanted it to stay. He certainly didn't want her subjugating herself to him and calling him my lord. He hated all of that, and tried his best to leave it behind when he'd left home and opened The Raven's Den with his friends.

"Just ignore him," he said with a sigh. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, inviting her to sit. She hesitated, looking around nervously, but eventually sat. He followed suit and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"Thank you for the stew," he said, inhaling its aroma. "It's delicious." He took another bite, closing his eyes in bliss. When he opened them again, she just sat, like a terrified rabbit, clearly unsure of what she should do. Where had all that courage gone?

Patrick placed the spoon back in the bowl. "I'm sorry I woke you. I shouldn't have shouted when I knew you'd be sleeping."

She shook her head. "I was waiting up for you, actually."

"Waiting up for me?" Patrick felt the ice around his heart begin to thaw with those words. No one had ever waited up for him before, aside from Finch.

She nodded. "I wished to speak with you."

"Very well."

"You should eat that first," she said, looking at the bowl of stew. "Before it gets cold."

"Very well," he said again. He certainly wouldn't argue with that. He "Mmmm'd" with every bite he took, each one slightly louder than the one before it. By the third one, she finally smiled, and after the fourth, she even allowed a quiet laugh to escape. A laugh that made something flutter in his stomach.

Finishing the last of the stew, careful to scrape up every last drop, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed the bowl aside.

"Thank you," he said, looking into her eyes. Some of her fear had eased, but the sparkle that was briefly there quickly began to fade.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

"No." Patrick shook his head. "No, no, no. It's Patrick. Just Patrick."

"But—"

Patrick held up a hand to stop her, which he immediately realized was a very lordly behavior. "Please. In this house, I am not ‘his lordship'. Even Finch only says ‘my lord' when I'm threatening to sack him." He winked, trying to ease the tension, but it didn't seem to help. She simply nodded.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be angry with Finch. This is all my fault."

"No, you haven't done anything wrong." Patrick felt like a lout. He wasn't really even angry with Finch. He just had an inexplicable need to keep Rosie safe. She had no one and nothing, and it was the least he could do for her. With that thought a question occurred to him. Where had she gotten money to buy the ingredients?

"I stole money from Finch," she said, as if she could read his thoughts. Patrick was relieved. He really didn't want to get rid of Finch. He was beginning to feel like he was on some sort of emotional pendulum.

He was just about to tell her it was alright, but then she continued. "Somehow I managed to convince myself that the good outweighed the bad, and that you'd be willing to overlook what I'd done if I could just make myself useful." The words continued to spill out of her, so Patrick just sat quietly, allowing her to get it all out.

"How am I supposed to pay you back for everything?" There was desperation in her voice. "The gowns, the money you paid to Madame Bustier, the… everything." A tear sprang from the corner of her eye and wrenched at his heart.

Patrick left his chair and came around to her, perching himself on the edge of the desk. He lifted her chin gently with his finger and shook his head. "You don't owe me anything, Rosie."

The words didn't seem to comfort her, though.

"Why are you doing this? How many other women have you ‘saved'?"

Patrick chuckled and dropped his hand to rest beside him on the edge of the desk. "I don't know why I brought you back here, Rosie. I just knew you didn't belong at Maison Rouge." Patrick shrugged. Guilt landed like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps Ash was right about brothels, and they should all be better than to visit them for their services.

"Then why haven't you… you know?" She chewed on her bottom lip.

Patrick scrubbed his hands over his face and let out a long sigh.

"Am I really so unappealing?" she asked quietly.

Patrick half choked. "Unappealing? How could you possibly think that?"

"Well," she shrugged. "So far, you've demanded I cover myself and avoided me as much as possible. You chose to sleep in here, rather than share a bed with me. What else am I to conclude?"

"Oh, Rosie." He crouched down beside her so that he could gaze into her eyes and was instantly lost in their depths. The colors ruffled like peacock feathers around her pupils. A lock of copper hair had escaped its plait and curled softly beside her cheek. "It is because you are so appealing that I chose to sleep in here last night."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. Her lips parted slightly and he simply couldn't stop himself any longer. He pressed his hungry mouth to hers as gently as he could manage in his urgent need. She startled and he forced himself back.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" But before he could finish the apology, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. It took every inch of Patrick's resolve not to crush her against him and ravish her mouth, but she was tentative, and he allowed her to explore at her own pace. It was as if she'd never been properly kissed before. But how could that be? The question was enough to remind him that he was supposed to be keeping her safe, not ravishing her in his study. Not to mention, he was quickly erasing her choice of going to Raven House. Ash would be displeased that he had even kissed her. They didn't have relations of any kind with the ladies who worked for them.

Slowly, he pulled himself away. He stood and stepped back to put some distance between them.

He took a deep breath to slow his frantic heartbeat.

"You need to go to bed." He jerked his chin toward the door.

Rosie nodded, her breathing still quickened as she pushed herself out of the chair. "Good night, then."

* * *

There was a knocking sound, but Rosalyn didn't understand what it was. It sounded again, and she slowly came out of whatever dream she'd been in. Apparently, despite the kiss playing over and over again in her mind, she'd eventually been overcome by exhaustion and drifted off to sleep. She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering the warmth of his as they'd pressed against hers.

She tried to call out, but her throat was dry and hardly a sound emerged. She swallowed and tried again. "Come."

The door opened and Finch's head appeared. "Hungry?"

"No," she groaned, dropping her head back onto the pillow. How did anyone function with this kind of schedule?

Finch threw back the curtains and sunshine spilled into the room. Rosalyn pulled the duvet over her head to block out the intruding light.

"Why are you waking me?" she asked through the blankets.

"Ella will be here soon, and I thought you might like to eat something first."

Rosalyn slowly uncovered her face. She squinted through the sunlight at Finch. She felt like she'd been running in a race rather than sleeping, and the last thing she wanted to do was try on more gowns. Silently, she chastised herself for having such ungrateful thoughts. She was behaving like a spoiled child. She folded back the covers and sat up in bed, rubbing her face.

"Thank you," she said, unable to prevent the yawn that followed. Finch's smile was contagious, and the corners of her own mouth turned up when she looked at him. "I would very much appreciate a cup of tea."

He gave a quick nod and hurried from the room. She'd never had someone wait on her like this, and it still felt strange.

The second day's fitting went much more quickly. Two more gowns were ready, and they both fit perfectly.

"Yes," Ella said as she stepped back. She twirled a finger in the air instructing Rosalyn to turn in a circle. "The light blue is definitely the best color on you." She gave an approving smile and nodded toward the mirror. "What do you think?"

Rosalyn agreed wholeheartedly. The gown was beautiful. Too beautiful. It was fit for a proper lady, which she wasn't. She let out a sigh and Ella's smile faltered in the mirror.

"You don't like the blue?" she asked.

"It's beautiful." She turned to face Ella. "But I'm afraid there has been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not…" Words failed her so she waved her hands down the dress.

Ella tilted her head to the side. "Perhaps you could tell me what is wrong with it."

"Well," Rosalyn didn't really know where to begin. "For one thing,"—she held up her arms—"I'm in danger of these catching fire while I'm cooking." She shook the hanging lace for emphasis. "And although an apron would help, these dresses are much more suitable for dancing or strolling than for stirring a pot."

Ella cupped her hands over her nose and mouth and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. When she dropped her hands, her cheeks had grown slightly pink. "When Patrick said he needed dresses made quickly and required my discretion, I just assumed…" She shook her head. "I don't understand. Are you his cook?"

What a ridiculous situation this was. "I don't know," she said with a shrug. "I don't know what I am."

Ella placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Oh Rosie."

A burst of laughter broke through Rosalyn's lips. "Rosie isn't even my name." How had this happened?

Without so much as a word, Ella waved her girls out of the room and then wrapped her arms around Rosalyn. Why? But then almost instantly, the laughter turned to sobs. The tears just came. She'd been holding them back for far too long, and the dam had finally broken. This woman she hardly knew simply held her and allowed her to cry, just as her mother would have done. She didn't tell her everything would be alright or that she needed to control herself and dry her eyes before her face became blotchy. She didn't complain that the tears would stain her dress. She simply held her. Rosalyn hadn't known such kindness since before her mother had married her second husband.

The crying slowly began to quiet and eventually turned into mostly sniffles. Ella steered Rosalyn across the room and eased her into a chair. "Don't move," she said firmly before bustling to the door. She opened it for barely a second, then rifled through a chest on the floor and pulled out a handkerchief.

"There," she said, handing it to Rosalyn.

Just as she seated herself, the door opened and one of the girls hurried in with a tray. As the girl was about to pour, Ella held up a hand to stop her. "I'll be mother," she said. The girl gave her a quick nod and left the room once more.

"Definitely a time for sweet tea." Ella added copious amounts of sugar to Rosalyn's cup. She stirred briskly to dissolve the lumps and then handed the saucer to Rosalyn.

Rosalyn blanched a bit at the overwhelming sweetness. Sugar was not an extravagance they had usually been able to afford, so she rarely took it with her tea.

"Drink it down." Ella gave her an encouraging smile. "It's good for the soul."

By the time she got to the bottom of the cup, it was beginning to taste much more pleasant.

"Thank you." She set the saucer on the table in front of her. Perhaps it really was good for her. She was certainly feeling a little better.

"Now then." Ella poured her another cup, this time adding about half as much sugar.

"Clearly, I have been terribly misinformed. Is there a reason Patrick didn't tell me your real name?"

"He only knows me as Rosie, but my given name is Rosalyn."

"And yet somehow, that answer only increases the mystery." Ella sat back in the chair and clasped her hands in her lap. "Forgive my possible ignorance, but I've never known a cook to have a pseudonym, and I don't quite understand the purpose." There was a trace of laughter in her voice.

Rosalyn chuckled at the ridiculousness of the situation. Where did she even begin? At the beginning, she supposed. "Patrick and I met under rather unconventional circumstances, I imagine."

Ella simply nodded as if this was all perfectly normal.

"My mother's husband interrupted a rather compromising situation and decided that I was more suited to living in a brothel." The words tumbled from her mouth as if saying them quickly might lessen the wretchedness of them.

Ella swallowed and her brows dipped into a deep vee. "Was there a reason he disapproved of the man so adamantly?"

"It wasn't the man he disapproved of, but me," Rosalyn explained.

Ella shook her head in confusion. "But then why didn't he insist on marriage?"

Rosalyn looked down at her lap as fear wrapped its icy claws around her heart and memories began to fill her head. "It was his son." She bit down hard on her lower lip trying to stop the panic from spreading. Her whole body began to tremble.

Ella's fingertips flew to her lips and her eyes grew wide.

"Oh, my dear girl." Before Rosalyn even knew what was happening, her head was cradled firmly against Ella's bosom and they rocked back and forth.

"Perhaps he was right." Rosalyn stared blankly at the far wall. "I must have done something to entice his son into my bedroom. Perhaps, deep down, I am meant to be a whore."

"No!" Ella crouched down and grasped Rosalyn's chin firmly. "That is not ‘being caught in a compromising situation', that is rape. You did nothing wrong." She squeezed her chin more tightly and stopped Rosalyn's argument before she even began. "No, you listen to me." Their eyes were mere inches apart now. "Are you listening?"

Rosalyn nodded.

"You did nothing wrong." Ella's gaze was intense and searching.

"You did nothing wrong," she repeated. "Now you say it." She lowered her hand to Rosalyn's shoulder and waited, but saying those words was unimaginably difficult.

"I," she prompted, squeezing Rosalyn's shoulder.

"I," Rosalyn echoed, in a whisper.

"Did."

"Did."

"Nothing."

That word was especially difficult for some reason. "n-nothing." No sound actually escaped Rosalyn's lips, but Ella continued.

"Wrong."

Rosalyn's swallow caught in her dry throat. "Wrong," she finally whispered.

"Again." Ella sat back on her heels. "I did nothing wrong."

Rosalyn took a deep breath. "I did… nothing wrong."

"Again." Ella nodded.

"I did nothing wrong." The words came more easily that time, and her voice was mostly steady.

"Again."

"I did nothing wrong," she said more confidently.

"Again." Ella straightened her spine and puffed out her chest.

"I did nothing wrong!" Rosalyn spoke the words forcefully and felt something shift inside her. Fear's grip on her heart began to loosen and an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders.

"Good." Ella smiled proudly and squeezed Rosalyn's hands. She got up from the floor and returned to her own chair. "Now then, where were we?"