Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

" S hall you be wearing that dress tomorrow? Is it not one of Violet's cast-offs?" Mama asked over the low hum of the fireplace.

Rose looked up from the blue dress she was mending. Once upon a time, their multiple lady's maids saw to all the essential needlework, leaving the sisters to only have to deal with the occasional ornamental piece of embroidery. Once upon a time, they rarely needed to have their clothes mended, merely replaced. But Rose had declared last year, after the maid assigned to her and Brooke had left for greener pastures, that she herself would see to the mending of their clothes, at least of the finer pieces, and she liked to think she'd become rather proficient at the task.

If only hearts and reputations were mended just as easily.

"It shall be good as new with a few more stitches," Rose assured her mother. "And given how rarely we've appeared in ballrooms of late, I'm rather sure people will not be inclined to notice."

"Unless you are Violet," said Brooke, her eyes never leaving her paper as she scribbled away. "I dare say she remembers every single ribbon any of us has ever owned."

"I only wish you to present yourself at your best, you know," Mama muttered. She frowned, clearly fretting as she wrung her hands. "We are hardly ever invited to anything now."

Rose sighed, guilt tugging at her conscience. She and Brooke might feel nonchalant about their recent decline in popularity, no thanks to Lady Cordelia's malicious tongue, but Mama clearly seemed to have taken it to heart. The two youngest Nottingham sisters might not mind spending their evenings amongst themselves in their large drawing room while others enjoyed the London scene, but Lady Shallingsworth clearly did.

Rose finished off the final stitch before carefully folding the dress away.

"It has only been a week," she said gently. "Whatever salacious gossip Aunt Cordelia might be spreading can only stay interesting for so long. People will forget."

"And by then, they will have forgotten us altogether also."

"We are invited to the Beckham ball tomorrow, are we not?"

"Only because Lord and Lady Beckham are inviting absolutely everyone."

"Well, there must be some people who are not invited," said Brooke.

"But the ballroom shall be brimming! It shall be such a crush—that you two might not get to dance at all."

The sisters eyed each other and shrugged in unison. Mama's stern look portrayed clear disapproval.

" I am a dowager viscountess who no longer needs to dance," Mama reminded in her most chiding tone. " You two are in the bloom of your youth. Shall we truly give up on your landing proper husbands with half the Season to go? "

"One can always find a gentleman in the country," said Rose.

"Or no gentleman at all!" declared Brooke.

"You two have lived in London too long to remember the slim pickings of the countryside."

"Well, if it's any comfort," Rose tried her best to sound lighthearted, "Brooke and I might be considered the most eligible ladies in the Shallingsworth dower house, and men would flock far and near to pay court to us."

"Or to Mama!" Brooke laughed.

"Oh, yes, or to Mama!" Rose grinned. For once, it was Mama looking embarrassed. "Brooke and I are not the only unmarried women in the house now, are we? We all loved Papa and miss him dearly, but perhaps we shall have better luck marrying off Mama and her beautiful shoulders rather than one of us."

"Girls, do be sensible," Mama scolded, though her embarrassment seemed tinged with a bit of shyness. Rose's heart warmed at the thought of Mama as the beautiful debutante she had once been—stealing hearts with her elegance and beauty wherever she went.

"I am always sensible," said Rose with a smile. "I fear it is that sensibility that's driving all the men away."

"Men are idiots," said Brooke.

"Brooke! You shall never marry if you keep saying such horrible things." Mama looked close to fainting.

"Well, it is true, is it not?"

"Your papa was not an idiot. Edgar and Clive are not."

"You only say that because they married your daughters."

"Not all men have the good sense to marry a Nottingham daughter, unfortunately." Rose grinned. "Perhaps we should have the Avingtons and Rodworths put out notices for us. Wanted: husbands for sensible daughters of late nobleman. Requirement: must not be an idiot. "

"Girls!" Mama cried over the laughter.

"I can send one to the papers the very next day!" Brooke happily volunteered. "I dare say they shall accept it this time."

"You can't go around being a bluestocking and expecting to marry," reminded Mama, punctual as ever.

"Never fear. I use a man's name," Brooke declared as if that little fact made her any less of a bluestocking.

"All the better," said Rose. "People would not think us desperate for husbands if a man is the one posting notices for us."

"Girls, are you mad?"

"It is a little risky, is it not?" Rose pretended to muse over the suggestion. "Some might misunderstand and think us to be under the guardianship of someone very eager to be rid of us. Now that is hardly flattering."

"Well, Mama is rather eager to be rid of us," teased Brooke.

"I am not!" Mama protested, and the sisters sensed something in her tone that indicated they might have pushed their joking a little too far. "I only want?—"

"The very best for us," Rose finished for her. She flew from her own chair to the floor beside Mama's and took her parent's hand. "We tease, Mama, forgive us. Please, do not distress yourself. We know you mean well."

"Very well." Mama sighed as she clasped Rose's hands in return. "I do not think I can bear it thinking of all your potential wasted in nursing me in a dilapidated dower house."

"Of course not." Rose soothed her mother's hand. "The dower house is hardly dilapidated—but, yes, we understand that you only wish us not to waste this opportunity. And while we cannot control what the menfolk decide to do, we can promise we shall not make it our goal to escape the Season unmarried. Isn't that right, Brooke? "

"If I can find a man who is not an idiot, I solemnly promise to contemplate marriage." Brooke looked ready to take a lifelong vow.

Mama smiled and reached for both her daughters. Together, the three of them formed a quiet triangle that meant more to Rose than any ballroom crush.

"And I ," said Mama, "promise to stop convincing you otherwise."

The swirls and colors of the Beckham ballroom as it teemed with guests was a feast for the eyes. The more popular ladies sported dazzling new dresses, no doubt rushed for the second half of the Season by young seamstresses over sleepless nights. The gentlemen who had found their respective future wives paraded them around with pride, while the bachelors who had yet to settle down were hunted down with even more fervor than the months before.

In the midst of them all stood the Duke of Burgess, his shy smile and genteel manners setting him apart from the rakes and the rogues. Somehow, over the course of the past weeks and months, he'd managed to grow more comfortable amidst a crowd. As far as Rose could tell, there were no more panicked looks, shaking fingers, or a general sense of helplessness.

The duke was not gregarious. It was not in his nature to be.

But he was handsomely dressed and amiably mannered, and the dam Rose had unconsciously built in her heart against falling for the man had entirely broken apart.

She could no longer help him repel his suitors—not because she was in any way incapable of it, but rather because she could no longer consider herself a disinterested party. It was almost laughably ironic that she, the one who prided herself in being the most sensible Nottingham female left in the family, had the stupidity to fall for a man so far above her current station that he might as well be a foreign prince.

"Rose!" Brooke appeared beside her sister, flushed and overheated. "Do you think Lady Beckham will mind very much if I hide in the retiring room all night?"

"I hardly think she would mind, but Mama might."

Brooke groaned. "I've danced all the dances since we've arrived!"

"There have only been two sets."

"And I danced both with vigor!"

Rose grinned as her sister grumbled. "You can try all you want, my dear. I promise not to tell Mama, if that's your concern."

"If only Violet were attending. She could keep Mama at bay."

"And why must you steal away the one night we have been invited to a ball?"

"Aunt Cordelia, she?—"

Rose turned around more fully, concerned. "Did she confront you?"

"Oh, not at all." Brooke shrugged. "But I walked past her, and she said something so very outrageous that I simply must commit it to writing before I forget."

"Are you writing a book about Aunt Cordelia? I assure you there are more deserving subjects."

"I am not writing a book, and I am most definitely not writing one about her ." Brooke straightened, looking direly offended, before growing as tight-lipped as she usually was about her writing. "But that is not for you to know. I wish Violet was here to distract Mama."

"Violet might burst any moment with the next Rodworth heir—or, God forbid, another well-dressed, gorgeous little terror of a Miss Anderson. Surely, she has better things to do than distract Mama from your bluestocking ways." Brooke pouted at her sister's reminders, looking every inch a child as well as every inch a woman. Rose laughed before she sighed. "But—I suppose—if you manage to slip out and come back before supper, she might not notice at all. You know she is always held captive by the gossip once she knows we are both dancing."

"Excellent!" Brooke leaned over and pecked her sister on the cheek. "Do send my regards to Lady Beckham if she asks."

Rose assured her sister of her compliance before shaking her head at Brooke's retreating form. Life as a spectator was sometimes lonely, but it was rarely boring if one were to look in all the right places.

A tall, broad shadow cut between her and the nearest candelabra. Rose turned. Her breath caught in her throat.

"I believe the next dance is mine." The duke extended his hand, looking so dashing and so kind that Rose wished she could just flee as Brooke had done and shed her tears in private.

"Is it?" Her voice trembled slightly. She tried to mirror his smile. "I did not expect to dance tonight."

"Did I not request this dance an entire week ago?"

Her mind merged the vision of him in his current finery with the casual, chivalrous version of him on the sidewalk outside Rodworth Place. The resulting image was nearly enough to have her swooning.

Her smile turned breathless. "I did not think you meant that."

"When have I ever not meant anything I said?" He stepped closer. Even in the midst of a heated ballroom, their particular little corner managed to grow warmer. His brown eyes bore into hers. "You know more than anyone it is my earnestness that keeps landing me in trouble in London."

This time, she laughed more sincerely. "That is true."

"All these hints and arched looks—they are exhausting."

"You do not find them appealing, Your Grace?"

"A treatise on philosophy is far easier to comprehend. "

Rose's laughter bubbled, unbidden. "I doubt many young ladies would consider it a compliment to be thus compared."

"Is it terribly rude of me?" His brow furrowed slightly. The man was altogether too good for the ton .

"Not at all." She pressed a hand on his forearm, only to withdraw it immediately. His very presence was scrambling her senses. "I'm sure worse has been said."

"So, shall you not save me then—if not with more timely information, at least with the pleasure of your company for the next set? I would much prefer not to be second guessing and watching every other word I say. I am never truly safe except with you."

Her heart stuttered, urging her both to accept his friendship and to protect herself from it. It might be humbling to be considered harmless, almost as if she were less of a woman than all the others he squired about. And yet her traitorous heart warmed all the same at the knowledge that she stood apart in his esteem, even if in an entirely platonic way.

Who knew she could be every bit as fickle as all the silly women she liked to deride in literature? Under the duke's entreating gaze, Rose sighed, incapable of being the sensible one for once.

She slipped her hand in his, feeling as if she were handing over her very sanity. "Very well, if it means so very much to you."

"Ah, but it does. Thank you, Miss Nottingham."

The crush of the London Season had grown less intimidating of late, but Frederick still found precious few things to look forward to when it came to balls and the odd musicale. Dinner parties he tolerated, if only for the opportunity to actually establish acquaintances with prospective Parliamentary allies and prospective wives alike. He enjoyed the theater, although the tittering of gossiping matrons, and the occasional brazen courtesan trying to court his patronage, always seemed to detract from the contents of the opera or the play.

But balls were all rather a useless show.

Men and women dressed themselves in fancy clothes. Men and women dined. Men and women danced.

It was all lovely—but also terribly shallow at the same time.

In fact, the only thing he truly looked forward to when it came to any ball this Season was the chance to dance with Rose Nottingham. And having been denied her company for the last two balls he'd been obliged to attend, he was determined to enjoy their set in full tonight.

It was unfortunate that she did not seem to be enjoying it quite as much.

"Are you quite well?" he prodded gently when the break between the dances allowed them some respite.

Rose looked up, her gentle, intelligent eyes touched with what looked almost like pain. She smiled, barely. "Quite, thank you."

"You are rather quiet tonight."

She bit her lip before she shrugged so subtly that only he could see. "It has not been an easy few days."

"Has Lady Cordelia been harassing you further? I have tried to dismiss the gossip as a familial misunderstanding whenever someone tries to mention it—but I suppose even a duke has limits to his influence."

Her gaze turned grateful. "You did not have to do that."

"It is the least I can do, surely. I do not pretend to understand everything about your families' past interactions, but I am certain that defending you cannot go wrong."

For a moment, Frederick thought she would rush forward and hug him. He rather liked the thought more than he'd expected to. What would it be like to hold his dear friend close, to feel her softness gathered against his own chest?

"I apologize, Your Grace, for entangling you in our family's troubles," she said.

"And what have I done to you except to seek your help with troubles of my own?" He stepped forward to assume the next dance figure. "Surely, we are friends enough now not to stand on such ceremony."

Her smile tightened. "I would not dare to presume such an intimacy."

"Rose." He pulled her closer than the dance step necessitated, without a thought to their surroundings. "Are we not friends? Please—tell me what has been making you ill at ease. Whatever I can do in my power?—"

"I cannot—I do not?—"

He waited for her as she seemed to struggle for words for the first time during the length of their acquaintance. He'd missed her these past days, dearly—and he did not know whether to credit the recent distance between them to the cruelty of a fickle society or to a deliberate choice on her part. If she would only tell him?—

"I do not think I have anything else of use to you," she said as the steps led them further apart once more. "I have already exhausted my vault of knowledge, and there is precious little left for me to do for your benefit."

"You cannot possibly believe that the only reason I seek out your company is to receive advice. I do enjoy your company."

"As you have so kindly said."

"Rose, you have been invaluable to me."

Her eyes looked glassy before she sniffed and smiled once more. "You are too kind, Your Grace."

"I say only the truth. I cannot imagine how I would possibly have fared without your help."

"And yet what sort of help can a quiet wallflower truly offer a duke?" Her single chuckle sounded more bitter and sad than anything else he'd heard from her before. "The very thought of my having any sort of wisdom to impart to you is ludicrous. I shudder at my earlier presumptions and beg your forgiveness."

"There is nothing to forgive! Rose, I was the one who?—"

"I'm afraid, Your Grace," she whispered, stepping away during the last few measures of the dance, "that I can no longer render the services I've promised. I apologize—and I wish you well."

She slipped out of his hands and into the crowd before he could assure her that he didn't need anything else from her but herself.