Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

T he house was quiet when Rosalyn woke, but it wasn't long before Finch came knocking.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Rosalyn asked when he poked his head into the room.

"Ha!" He waved a hand in front of him. "His lordship doesn't pay me to sleep." He gave her a wink, followed by a giggle.

Why didn't his winks affect her the same way as Patrick's? "Why do you call him that, Finch?"

"To get under his skin, usually." He was carrying a tray of tea and set it on what had become her usual table. "Although, I wouldn't recommend it," he whispered conspiratorially.

Rosalyn laughed. "That wasn't what I meant, and you know it." She took a sip of her tea. "Lord what? Who is he?"

Finch stopped in the middle of making the bed and shook his head. "No. Nope. We are not having this conversation." He tugged at the blankets. "That is something you'll have to get out of Patrick. I value my job, and my hide, too much to share details about his life. He's a very private man."

"Come, Finch. Why is it such a secret?" She turned in the seat to face him and placed her saucer on the table.

"It isn't really a secret, it's just that he left that part of his life behind, and he doesn't like to be reminded of it." He ran a hand over the counterpane brushing out the wrinkles. "And that's all I will say on the matter."

"I guess I'll just have to add that to the things I'd like to ask him tonight." She settled back into the chair again. "Perhaps if I make him another delicious meal, he'll be more likely to open up." She smiled mischievously at Finch. "Will you take me to the market?"

Finch shook his head. "Make me a list of what you want, and I will pick it up for you. Now, I'm going to prepare you a bath. Ella will be here in a little while."

"Ella is coming again?" How many gowns did she really need?

"Apparently," he said as he walked through the doorway. Rosalyn got the feeling he was trying to escape before she could ask any more questions. "List," he said, nodding toward the desk before he closed the door.

Grudgingly, she set to the task. She'd much rather get out and do it herself, but she certainly didn't want to cause trouble for Finch again. One more thing to discuss with Patrick. Perhaps she needed to make a list for that, as well.

Today, Ella had brought her two gowns that were more appropriate for working in and a couple of aprons. They had made cooking so much easier. Since Patrick had enjoyed the beef stew so much, she had opted for a lamb version this time, along with some freshly baked bread Finch had picked up from the baker. Now, she waited. She sat, in her usual spot, wearing her nightgown and wrap, straining to hear any sounds of Patrick's return.

It felt like an eternity before his deep voice finally rumbled in the hall. Her heart skipped a beat at the sound, her stomach fluttering in anticipation. As soon as it was quiet, she hurried from the room and went straight to the kitchen. Finch was already there. He ladled the stew into a bowl and placed it on a tray which held bread, butter, a napkin, and utensils.

He pushed the tray toward her. "Good luck," he said quietly.

"Thank you," she said as she lifted the tray. It would seem they'd developed a bit of camaraderie.

Why did her heart begin to pound as she neared Patrick's study? Was it really just her excitement at starting a new game of Battle? Even she knew it was more than that. She yearned to see his smile, to hear his laughter, and see the sparkle in his eyes when she said something that surprised him.

The door was open, but he was looking intently at something on his desk, so she stopped before crossing the threshold. "Good evening."

He startled and looked up, but his lips turned up in a welcoming smile. "Come in!" He hastily put the papers into a drawer and moved things aside to make room on his desk for the tray. He bent over the bowl and inhaled deeply. "What have I done to deserve this?" He moved the tray directly in front of his seat.

She shrugged. "It's the least I can do."

"May I enjoy this before we start our game?" His napkin was already in his hands.

"Perhaps," she gazed boldly into his eyes. Because he hadn't stood, she had the rare advantage of looking down at him. It made her feel oddly confident.

"Why do I sense more bargaining coming?" He raised a brow.

Rosalyn smiled. "It's simple enough really. I just wish to ask you questions while you eat."

"Done!" he shook out the napkin and placed it in his lap. "Now, sit."

Patrick eagerly picked up the spoon and loaded it with the stew. He closed his eyes, presumably so he could fully savor the food as he chewed. "Rosie," he said after swallowing the first bite. "Bringing you here might be the best thing I've ever done."

Rosalyn's heart swelled. "You are just trying to distract me with flattery, my lord." She knew the moment the words left her mouth that it was a mistake, and unsurprisingly, his smile faltered.

She wanted to bang her head on the desk in her frustration. Instead, she tried her best to pretend she hadn't made that brainless error. She reached into the pocket of her dressing gown, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and waved it open. That got a laugh out of him, thank goodness.

"You came prepared, I see." He chuckled and took another bite of stew.

"Question one," she said, holding up the page in front of her. "What happened to your shoulder?" It was a much safer place to start than questioning his past and why he insisted on no one calling him a lord if that's what he was. Especially after the blunder she had just made.

He swallowed, but rather than answering her question, he simply filled his mouth with another bite.

"Well?" She lowered the paper to her lap. "You said I could ask you questions while you eat."

He nodded and swallowed once more. "You're right, I did. But, I never agreed to answer them." He plunged the spoon into the bowl and took another bite.

"But… but…" Rosalyn shook her head. "That's not fair! If you're going to cheat, then I'm leaving." She stood and started for the door.

Patrick choked and sputtered behind her. "Wait. Please don't go."

Perhaps she could call his bluff and win sometimes after all. She forced her smile away and turned to face him.

"That wasn't well done of me. I'm sorry." He was half out of his chair, his hand reaching out in her direction.

"No it wasn't." She tried to make it sound as much like a reprimand as possible.

"Sit down. I promise to answer your questions."

Rosalyn wanted to do a victory dance, but instead she held her ground. "Go on then," she said, not moving an inch.

Patrick sat back down in his chair and a smile grew on his lips. He held up his hands in surrender and gave a slight nod. It was his way of acknowledging her win. "I was stabbed," he said finally.

Rosalyn waited, but he only nodded toward the chair. He wasn't going to say any more until she resumed her seat, so she did. "Continue."

He filled the spoon again and started to lift it toward his mouth. "Don't you dare!" She sat forward in her chair and shook her finger at him. He threw back his head and laughed.

"I'm sorry," he said through his laughter. "I couldn't resist." Rosalyn shook her fist threateningly, and he only laughed harder. By the time he finished, he was wiping tears from his eyes with his napkin. For some reason, his laughter warmed her heart like afternoon sun. She could never tire of it.

"Someone broke into the shop and stabbed me in our scuffle. Last night," he continued, "I re-injured it whilst throwing a man out of the club."

"What did he do?" Rosalyn stopped the hand that was headed to cover her mouth and forced it into her lap. He might not answer if he thought her too shocked.

"Let's just say he broke the rules." He lifted his spoon. "May I?"

"I suppose." He gleefully shoved the spoon into his mouth. "Which rule did he break?"

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes suddenly a bit more solemn. "That, I can't say, I'm afraid."

"Why not?" She was surprised and somewhat hurt that he wouldn't tell her something that seemed like such a simple thing.

He took one last bite and wiped the bowl clean with a bit of bread, before setting the whole thing aside. He left his chair and poured himself some brandy. When he returned, he placed a glass in front of her, as well. "What other questions do you have on that list?" he gestured toward the paper with his chin.

Rosalyn pressed the page against her stomach, suddenly embarrassed by what was written on it. She had intended to ask him the questions, but somehow it felt much more personal for him to just read them.

"Why don't we start our game, and you are welcome to ask whatever you wish." He pulled the cards out of his desk drawer, shuffled them, and dealt two piles, placing one in front of each of them. "I can't promise to answer everything to your satisfaction, but I promise to be honest. Fair enough?"

Rosalyn nodded. She folded the paper and placed it back inside her pocket. She sniffed the brandy and took a small sip. The taste wasn't displeasing, but it burned a path all the way down her throat and she coughed.

"Would you prefer something different?"

"No," she said, lifting her chin. Never one to back down from a challenge, she stared at him as she swallowed another mouthful.

It wasn't long before she was laughing and smiling once more, and easy conversation flowed between them. The brandy was making her brain feel slightly fuzzy. Perhaps it was best not to force the personal questions and allow them to be answered in their own time. Instead, she asked him about his favorite things.

"What is your favorite book?" Rosalyn looked at the shelves that lined the walls behind him. There must have been hundreds of books on them.

"How can a person possibly choose just one?" Patrick leaned back in his chair. "A friend of mine brought me back a copy of Moby Dick when he visited America recently." He turned over his next card. "It's their version of The Whale, and if I'm honest, I enjoyed it more than our version."

"Why is that?" Rosalyn's pile of cards was continuing to grow as the game progressed.

"Well, for one thing, it has an epilogue the British version lacks, which helps the story make much more sense."

Rosalyn nodded. She'd never read either one, so she would just have to assume he was correct.

"What about you?" Patrick asked, finally collecting two cards. "What's your favorite?"

"Well, it's been a while since I last indulged in reading anything besides scriptures."

Patrick tilted his head to the side. "Why is that?"

"At first, books just weren't really something we could afford." Rosalyn's cheeks warmed as humiliation crept in. Surrounded by such luxury, what must he think of her? But when she looked up into his eyes, there was no judgment there, only compassion.

"And?" he asked, but she didn't understand the question. "You said, ‘at first'."

"Oh." She'd been so distracted by her embarrassment, she'd lost track of her own thoughts. "And then, when my mother married her current husband," Rosalyn paused, not wanting to say the rest. "He confiscated my books and burned most of them."

"What?" Patrick's eyes were wide with disbelief. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"He believes that a woman's time shouldn't be spent reading. If she truly has nothing else to do, then she should be on her knees, in prayer." She shrugged. "He didn't get all of my books, though," she said with a triumphant smile. "I managed to sneak just one, A Christmas Carol. I've read it countless times, so I suppose it's my favorite."

Patrick smiled and nodded approvingly. "We need to christen your mother's husband with a name befitting of his character. Perhaps Ebenezer? Or Scrooge?"

"Oh no." Rosalyn shook her head. "Ebenezer Scrooge finds redemption in the end."

Amusement filled Patrick's eyes as he chuckled. "Perhaps something more generic then. Villain? Reprobate, perhaps?"

Rosalyn laughed, savoring the support he offered.

"What's his name?"

"Warren." she hated to even say it aloud.

"I know!" Patrick held up a finger. "Wicked Warren!"

"Yes," she said. "It's perfect!"

Their laughter fell into a comfortable silence, and they continued their game. When their eyes met, however, she felt a strange awareness of her own body. She'd never noticed the silk of her nightgown rubbing across her nipples as she moved before, so why was it suddenly such a distraction? It was fortunate that this game was so simple. She'd not have been able to follow anything more complicated. Not with the lamplight dancing in his eyes and highlighting the perfect curve of his lips.

Patrick cleared his throat and Rosalyn realized she'd been caught staring. Mortified, her brain scrambled to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Two jacks sat on the desk between them. What did that mean? Oh yes.

He gave her a knowing grin but held up his remaining stack of cards. "Just four left," he said. "If you win this one, you win the game… again!"

How had she not noticed? How had this game gone so quickly?

Anticipation built as she slowly laid down her cards. One, two, three… They locked eyes, and in unison, turned over the deciding card. Hers was an ace! She once again threw her arms in the air and turned in a happy circle in front of her chair. Perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate way to celebrate a victory, but Patrick hadn't seemed to mind.

Composing herself, she gently sat down once more and clasped her hands in her lap. Patrick stared at her before bursting into deep, jovial laughter.

"What do you want for your prize?" he asked.

"My prize?"

"Of course! You've won twice in a row. You must have a prize!"

"What are my choices?" Her smile grew so wide it strained the muscles in her cheeks.

Patrick leaned his elbows on the desktop and rested his chin atop his interlocked fingers. "Anything you want."

That didn't narrow it down much for her. "Anything?" she asked skeptically.

"Anything." His deep voice sent a ripple of awareness through her. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

How could she choose from ‘anything'? The possibilities were endless. He'd already given her more gowns than she needed.

One of his books? She looked around at the countless shelves. How could she possibly decide? But then her gaze fell on his lips, and perhaps the brandy had taken full control of her mind, because she knew, without a doubt, what she wanted.

"A kiss."