Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

T he bend in the Beckhams' West Terrace was not a large one, but it faced the deserted gardens and was partly obscured by the glass doors. It was, perhaps, an imperfect place for personal grief, but beggars weren't ever meant to be choosers. And Rose was definitely a beggar tonight, buoyed only by the luck of knowing the Beckham home just well enough to have withdrawn here directly after her disastrous dance with the duke.

It was humbling to find herself so helpless.

Over the past few years, she had weathered plenty of storms. When Papa's unexpected passing had stricken their world, she had taken the household in hand and run it for a lost Mama and an innocent Brooke. She had prided herself in her good sense—of being able to rein in expectations and keep any vagrant dreams securely tethered to earth.

She'd dealt with her shared debut with Brooke and the news of their impending removal to Leicestershire with equanimity. She'd danced every dance and attended every ball secure in the belief that her mind would prevail over her heart when it came to accepting that she would never make a good enough match in Town.

Instead, she had fallen—tumbled from her self-assurance into a deep and abiding affection for the one man who would never see her as any more than a convenient friend. Was there anything more foolish?

Rose sniffed, barely able to avoid sobbing. It was horrifying. Why did she ever think she could have escaped the situation with her heart unscathed? Surely, no woman was immune to an eligible, upstanding, unmarried duke—especially when he continued to extend her every consideration. He was her friend. That should have been enough. It was a grave mistake to ever have thought that she could be on intimate terms with him and never want more.

So now she grieved—for her foolishness, for her pride, and for a friendship that she knew she would no longer get to keep. After all, no duchess, however magnanimous, would allow her husband to remain good friends with another woman who pined for him.

The sound of the glass doors opening behind her, then shutting again, alerted Rose. She whipped around, knowing she would have to slip away quickly if a drunken man—or, indeed, any man—were to come upon her alone.

It was a man.

It was the one man she wished to see with all her heart and likewise wished to banish to oblivion.

"Rose," the duke called out, his steps reaching her rapidly. "There you are."

Was that statement meant to indicate that he had been searching for her? Perhaps she was not the only fool on this terrace.

"You shouldn't be here." Rose tried to wipe the remnants of her tears away as discreetly as she could. "You should be dancing—socializing. "

"You are here, and so I am here," he said.

His words moved her more than they ought to. She tried to smile. "We have finished our dance. You have no obligation towards me."

"On the contrary, I owe you much more than just a dance."

"You know I hold you to no such thing."

"Rose, there is something—well, perhaps several things—that you need to know."

"Your Grace, you owe me no explanation or information or?—"

"Please—" He sounded overcome with earnestness. "Will you not call me Frederick? Or at least Burgess?"

Increasing the intimacy between them at this moment struck Rose as the most stupid thing she could possibly do, but the man looked so bafflingly eager that she hardly knew what to do. She held her breath for several seconds before she sighed.

"I am surprised to find you here," she said softly. "You need to be inside—courting your duchess."

"I have no interest in doing that."

"A few disappointments may not herald similar results for the rest of the evening."

"I do not wish to pursue anyone in that ballroom."

"You no longer wish to wed?"

"No, not that." He sighed, as if frustrated with himself. She forced herself not to reach out in comfort. Her equilibrium was under threat enough as it was without introducing the element of touch, even the decidedly friendly sort. "I do, I do wish to wed. In fact, that is why I am here."

Of course he was. What had she ever been to him except a useful, helpful informant?

"You need more information," she inferred .

He shook his head, his tightly cropped curls shaking along with him. "That is, well—I do, but not what you think."

"There is no need to be shy, Your Grace. You know you may be frank with me." Rose managed to calm herself a trifling bit, even if merely out of resignation. This time, she actually managed to smile. "You are rarely so roundabout with me."

"Because I am rarely so nervous." He barked a laugh. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Rose, we are friends, are we not?"

The word cut her like a knife. She tried her best not to drop her smile too much. "Of course."

"Then we can be forthright with each other—as friends are."

"Yes."

"I do not claim to know the history between your family and that of Lady Cordelia Monroe, but it seems tonight that she and her comrades have decided to strike with malice and spread rumors that?—"

"She is a spiteful, selfish, self-important woman who calls herself a lady but has no right to the title." Rose seethed, stopping the duke short from whatever it was he seemed to have intended to say. Rose swallowed. "I know I rarely speak ill of others, perhaps even allowing you a false perception of what you consider my innate goodness. But there are times when I refuse to pretend that someone is good when she is not."

Slowly, he lifted his hand from his pocket and reached out to hold hers. His voice was as tender as his touch. "Will you tell me what happened?"

Her eyes watered. And then she told him all.

With vague yet carefully chosen words, she described how Lady Cordelia had once set the eldest of the Nottingham sisters up for scandal. Heather, who was so kind as to never wish to hurt a soul, was led into the lion's den in a cruel, engineered compromise—a risk that very nearly caused the ruination of the entire family. The spectacle had not unfolded the way Lady Cordelia had intended it to, and Heather had managed, against all odds, to land in a marriage that was, by all counts, both blissful and materially suitable. But Heather had insisted, small to blame her, that the family never have dealings with their scheming aunt again.

Her parents had agreed. And Lady Cordelia, self-righteous as ever, had never forgiven the slight since.

"We sisters were not told the full story at first," said Rose, her fingers clenched tight around the duke's, "for perhaps we were a trifle too young to understand the gravity of the situation then. But Mama told us the truth of it eventually—and we all agreed that Lady Cordelia was not someone we wished to consort with."

"You chose honor over influence. That is admirable."

"Some would call it foolish." A sniffle escaped through her attempt at a laugh. "Pride is not a commodity penniless widows and orphans can easily afford."

"Pride is what spurs Lady Cordelia and her ilk. I see no pride in your dealings—only honor. In my few months in London, I have met thrice the number of people I have ever known before in my two and thirty years—yet not a single one of them managed to compare with your selflessness and honor."

"Your Grace, I beg you—do not put me on a pedestal I am ill-equipped to occupy."

"No one is perfect, Rose, and I am under no illusion that you are." He stepped closer—close enough for their breaths to mingle, close enough for her to wonder if it was his heartbeat she heard or her own. "But I know that I can trust you."

"I am not as selfless as you think." She failed to stifle a sob. "Your trust is misplaced."

"On the contrary, I am certain no one deserves it more. "

"Please, Your Grace, spare me."

"Spare you?" He seemed to hesitate for the first time since coming to her on the terrace. He pulled back by a fraction of an inch, though he kept their hands trapped betwixt them. "Do you not wish to see me?"

"I do."

"Do you not wish to be my friend?"

She did—only she wanted so much more. "I do."

"Have I any reason to think that my presence is unwelcome to you?"

"Of course not." She sighed and looked up to meet his eye. Even in the dimness of the terrace, she felt the simple sincerity of his gaze. "I care for you, Your Grace—and I care for your well-being. And I beg your forgiveness for my own inability to continue to be of service to you in the avenues in which you may need me. I assure you that my withdrawal of my help has nothing whatsoever to do with your conduct and is rooted wholly upon my own limitations."

"How can that be? You?—"

"I cannot explain further."

"Do you not trust me? For I trust you wholeheartedly."

"I—" Rose crumbled into a mess of tears. And the Duke of Burgess immediately folded her into his arms.

Oh what a glorious place it was! The breadth of his chest closed around her, his arms tethering her securely against the warmth of his body. For a moment, the uncertainties of her own heart and the fragility of her future felt as distant as could be. A year and a half of anxiety—of having to bear the burdens of her family upon her young shoulders—melted away in a sense of stability that felt impenetrable, for the first time in ages. She did not dare hope it to be any more than a figment of her fantasy—but, for this particular second, Rose felt cherished and protected and loved .

She wept against his coat and his cravat, the strength she had mustered for years melting away under his touch. He hugged her warmly, seemingly unbothered by her weakness. She almost thought she could feel him nuzzling her hair, but she was too lost in her own emotions to ascertain anything with any confidence.

She clung to him, drawing his strength as her own. And all she knew was that, for a precious, darling moment, she was not alone—that here was a person who cared enough for her comfort to succor her even without knowing the full reasons for her distress. There was nothing better.

The doors swung open behind them with a loud creak, the sound quickly followed by a rush of outraged whispers. Rose caught her breath. What had she done?

Slowly, she tried to extricate herself from the duke's embrace, hiding her face as best she could. She barely noticed that he was not attempting to let her go.

"A veritable nest of harlots," a familiar, old female voice sneered in triumph. Rose froze. "If anyone doubted the rumors—surely, you cannot deny your own eyes now."

Scandalized voices relished in the gossip. Rose felt a new rush of tears fall.

"They all pretend to be ladies on the outside," Lady Cordelia continued, clearly savoring her triumph. "But every one of the Nottingham girls are rotten at the core."

"I can explain." Rose whirled around. The guests gasped in unison. What had she done? Now there was no hiding the truth of who she was—or of the fact that she had been found in the arms of a man, clinging against him with no reserve.

"No," said Frederick. He gently pulled back the hands Rose had unwittingly extended in her agitation and folded them between his own. " I can explain. "

"Your Grace." She faced him. "You do not know what they think."

"Of course I know." He sounded calmer than he had any right to be. Was their entire arrangement not born of the fact that he needed help avoiding compromise? She hoped to God that the duke did not think Rose was in any way involved in their discovery. "They think I am here to proposition you."

"They—"

"They are wrong."

Slowly, to everyone's wide eyes and gasps of surprise, the Duke of Burgess pulled back just enough to sink onto one knee. Rose's mouth fell agape.

"Rose, my darling," he said, a softness to his eyes, "will you marry me?"

She barely heard herself saying a quivering, "Yes."

The world whirled. Colors and faces and candles swirled together in an unrecognizable blur as Rose found herself passed from guest to guest in a vague direction towards her mother. For the first time in her life, her brain felt addled. She blinked in the face of enthusiastic congratulations—no doubt half false and half sincere—as murmurs buoyed her along with hugs and waves and squeals.

If not for the unbearable, stifling heat of the ballroom crowd pressing around her, Rose could have sworn she was floating in a dream—an unreachable, unfathomable dream where everyone seemed to believe she was about to become a duchess.

Had that conversation on the terrace even happened? Had she actually accepted a proposal from a duke—and not just any duke, but from the Duke of Burgess, the prized marital catch of the Season, before being whisked away by the curious crowd of Lady Beckham's guests?

Rose could barely breathe by the time she was finally deposited in front of her mother, who was herself surrounded by a veritable ocean of well-wishers. It was ludicrous how society could go from giving you the cut direct one moment and fawning at your knees the next.

"Rose!" Mama gushed, her eyes filled with what looked like a mixture of pride and relief. She rushed forward and pulled Rose into her arms. "Is it true? Are we saved?"

Rose thought, quite frankly, that the idea of her possible betrothal being equated to salvation was a bit of an exaggeration. But Mama sounded so grieved that it felt unkind to point out her hyperbole.

"The duke—His Grace proposed," she whispered, hardly knowing what to think of the turn of events herself. One moment, she had been a mere wallflower. The next moment, she had somehow become the latest fodder for gossip. And then yet another moment more, she was suddenly the center of the crowd's curiosity, heralded as a societal triumph—enough for the people to tug her clean away from the one man who could confirm with her what exactly was going on.

"Oh darling." Mama wept on Rose's shoulder, seemingly unbothered by how she had to crouch over due to the disparity in their heights. "I had feared the worst for you—for all of us. Oh, how wonderful to know this."

Rose patted Mama on the arms. It was no secret that Lady Shallingsworth often despaired over her two remaining daughters' lack of prospects—but this degree of anguish seemed particularly excessive. "I am well. We are well. "

"The duke is a darling." Mama pulled back, still wiping her cheeks. "Truly a man of honor."

It sat ill with Rose that the news of their being caught in an intimate embrace had managed to traverse the ballroom so quickly. The circumstances had appeared damning, of course, but an immediate proposal was hardly necessary. She respected the duke—loved him, even. And the last thing she wanted to do was to appear to be rejoicing over having trapped him into an unwanted marriage.

The light in Mama's eyes, and the curiosity in everybody else's, disabused Rose quickly of the ability to pretend that what had happened on the terrace had all been a horrid misunderstanding. She would have to brave the engagement—and perhaps release the duke another time.

"After all that talk," Mama cried. Two matrons Rose barely recognized shifted forward to comfort Mama. Rose struggled to remember their names—a testament to her addled mind. "I had thought us ruined forever. But what a coup, darling, what a coup!" Again, Mama burst forward to embrace her child. "From rumored mistress to duchess-to-be. I can hardly believe it. Truly, you are a gem, my dear."

Mama's words impressed themselves gradually upon her mind, like a slow unveiling of a large work of art. A mistress—was that what Aunt Cordelia meant by calling her a harlot? What sort of rumors had been snaking their way through the ball before Frederick had even found her?

Were the rumors why Frederick sought her out in the first place?

A sinking sensation almost drove Rose to shed tears of her own. What had she done? What had she done to her dearest friend?

Over Mama's shoulder, her eyes roamed the ballroom for a sight of Frederick—for a glimpse or a look—of anything to assure her that he did not believe himself unduly forced into tonight's unexpected events .

But all she saw were faces—curious ones, swooning ones, and decidedly judgmental or jealous ones.

His Grace was nowhere to be seen.