Chapter 6

Chapter Six

W hy Rose thought observing and assisting the Duke of Burgess was a better use of her time than focusing on earning suitors of her own was a question she did not quite have an answer for—except, perhaps, for the fact that she had always played such a role in her life. Even when her eldest sister fretted over the need to marry, or when her second sister dazzled the London scene before settling down as Lady Rodworth, Rose had always been content by the sidelines. People were far more interesting to watch than to interact with the vast majority of the time, and Rose rather liked helping the duke escape his more cunning pursuers more than speaking with one boring gentleman after another. It was not as if anyone brilliant was seeking out her company.

If Mama learned of Rose's interaction with the Duke of Burgess at the picnic, and how Rose had easily dismissed the opportunity to request a favor of the man in return for her supposed rescue, Mama would most likely be entirely appalled at Rose's wasting such a boon from an influential peer of the realm. But Mama, despite being entirely devoted to her daughters' happiness, was not one to be counted upon to notice every trifling detail happening around her. And if Rose ever needed her lone surviving parent to look the other way while she assisted the duke, she only needed to divert Mama's attention with a timely mention of fashion or beauty—a ploy that she liberally applied today.

"Can we not manage three gowns out of this?" Mama stretched out the newly purchased peach silk in her hand while her daughters busied themselves with their respective interests. The fabric might not be the latest fashion in terms of color, but Rose had managed to acquire the piece for a good price, and that was all that mattered these days. She chose instead to comfort herself that Mama, standing elegant and tall in the middle of the worn Nottingham House drawing room, could manage to make everything look flattering anyway, no matter the material, hence negating the need for purchasing only the latest available styles.

The fact that Violet would faint at such a declaration led Rose to a private chuckle, but she knew better than to bring up the topic to Mama when the latter was already striving her best to reconcile herself to their new, economizing ways. A lifetime of luxury was rather difficult to undo.

In the desk in the corner, Brooke continued to scribble furiously away, leaving Rose to respond to their distracted parent.

"I think the seamstress mentioned two gowns," Rose said with a quiet smile. "You and Brooke can have them."

"Not at your expense, darling," Mama answered, still puzzling over the fabric. "Perhaps if we each only use one layer of it? An overlay might be able to do the rest."

Rose tried not to sigh too loudly. As much as society might hail widows for their supposed independence, it was not a universal truth by any means. In fact, widows only ever truly experienced independence if they liberally took on lovers or if their husbands' fortunes remained miraculously under their control.

For the decorous widow, for the ordinary widow, for the widows who'd never managed to bear or raise sons—widowhood was a stark experience at best, even if Mama made an exceptionally good-looking one.

"I have no need of a new gown." Rose set aside her embroidery. "My current ones still fit perfectly."

"Nonsense, any lady, particularly an unmarried one, is always in need of a new gown."

"Mama, I barely even dance at balls."

"Perhaps due to the lack of a new gown."

Rose frowned. It was hard to argue with Mama whenever the latter insisted on her own irrational, circular reasoning.

"Rose, darling," Mama said as she folded up the silk gently. "You do know none of my daughters are ever to be overlooked? You were always the quiet one, but that never made you unimportant."

Rose bit her lip, feeling a slight pang of guilt. Mama was only loving her in the way she knew best.

"It is not so bad if Brooke and I do not marry this year, is it?" Rose tried to sound nonchalant. She did not mind, truly, but Mama most certainly did. "Who knows, perhaps a new curate would find himself in need of a sensible, quiet wife. The dower house at Shallingsworth Park cannot be so wholly detached from human society."

"But there shall be no noblemen—no rising Parliamentary talent—perhaps nothing more than a country squire's son who thinks himself too eligible by half for all the women within a twenty-mile range. And please do not terrify me with the thought of a penniless curate as a son-in-law."

Rose shrugged. Mama was not entirely wrong. Shallingsworth Park, even the dower house, had a few genteel neighbors—but eligible men had always been in short supply in their corner of Leicestershire, even if she did not mind the thought of a penniless curate as much as Mama apparently did.

"And if I were to become a spinster, Mama?" Rose picked up her embroidery again. "Would that be so terrible?"

To Rose's surprise, Mama's face quirked into an almost mischievous smile. "Not terrible, no—but I refuse to accept defeat until it has been wholly proven."

"My future is not a game, Mama."

"Hear, hear," said Brooke from her corner before resuming her endless writing.

Mama laughed. "No, it is a challenge."

A part of Rose wished to correct her. But Mama had so few things left to live for these days that it felt unkind to. At least the silk kept Mama busy. She could only hope that making three gowns out of material clearly suited for two and a half would keep Mama distracted long enough to avoid purchasing another new color soon. Mr. Stratberry was fast running out of more affordable options. And simple as her tastes were, Rose rather hoped she could still avoid ever having to wear orange. The lemon-print last month had been bad enough.

As far as the length of its historical heritage went, Clive and Violet's Rodworth Place held no justifiable comparison to well-established Nottingham House. But while the Nottingham family cherished a few generations of memories in Papa's town home, the place had always felt more of a personal refuge for the sisters than a society destination. One small ball a year, along with occasional gentlemen callers more interested in discussing philosophy with Papa than sitting with the ladies (with the exception, perhaps, of Violet's dramatic Season), did not mark the house as a particularly interesting place as far as the beau monde was concerned.

In contrast, with the charming, young Lord Rodworth and the ever-effervescent Violet at the helm, Rodworth Place was now always teeming with life. And Rose's sister seemed determined to prove that a viscountess could host the perfect dinner party three times a week no matter the circumstances—even when her belly was almost too rounded to fit through the dining room door.

"Jacobson," Violet hollered to her butler as the dinner party guests mingled freely before the meal itself. The large, older servant bowed deferentially, with an impressively straight face that almost made Rose chuckle with amusement. "Are there any carriages left to come?"

"All the intended guests have arrived, your ladyship."

"Have they? I don't think I've seen Percy or Miss Greyson at all. Did they arrive together?"

Jacobson cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am."

"Did they now? I had thought?—"

"To my awareness, Mr. Percival St. John and Miss Greyson have been diverted to the library."

"The library?" Violet puzzled aloud while Rose tried not to laugh. "Why would they be there when we are just about to enter for dinner?"

"Perhaps," the dear old butler valiantly explained, "there was some need for privacy."

"Now that is frightfully silly, for we are at a dinner party, are we not? Why would anyone come all the way here just to be alone?"

A squeak escaped Rose, and she heard a low, responding chuckle float across to her from the couch opposite her current one. She looked up, surprised to catch the Duke of Burgess sharing a smile with her. Had he been seated there for long?

It was almost ironic that a man of his social position could be so invisible. And yet Rose somehow knew instinctively that he most likely preferred things that way.

"Ah, there she is!" Violet exclaimed, when a flushed and slightly disheveled Miss Sarah Greyson appeared at the side of the drawing room, all while a mysteriously smiling Mr. Percival St. John sneaked in from the other door. "And there he is. Now, we may all go to dinner."

Rose kept her laughter private as Violet—who, though exceedingly talented in befriending and dazzling everyone, was most certainly not the keenest at perceiving others' feelings—eagerly ushered everyone into their positions. Rose, as usual, belonged somewhere in the middle of the line, and she stood patiently in line as everyone waited for the more distinguished, titled guests to assume their stations up front.

"Miss Nottingham," a familiar voice whispered at the same time a tall presence stepped between her and the chandelier. The duke was not to be her dinner partner, for he was Violet's, and there was no reason whatsoever for him to approach her. "Might I request a word?"

Rose turned to face him, leaning quite far back to meet his eye. "I was not aware I needed a talking to, Your Grace."

He looked so instantly abashed that Rose felt guilty for teasing him. "Oh, I do not mean that at all. I apologize, Miss Nottingham, if I?—"

"Do not worry." She pressed a hand to his arm before removing it immediately. She smiled. "Is there something amiss? Shall I fetch my sister? "

"Oh no, not at all." He looked slightly pale. "I was only hoping to ask—a favor."

"A favor?"

"That is, if you would be so kind, perhaps if we could discuss?—"

"Your Grace, shall you not join us?" Violet called out, and Rose belatedly realized that everyone else was already in place, with only His Grace lingering by her side. All eyes turned to them, curious and uncertain. Rose fought her blush as well as she could.

She tried to keep her smile even. "Perhaps after dinner, Your Grace?"

Poor Frederick St. John, the Duke of Burgess, nodded apologetically—to Rose and then to everyone else. At least he had the good sense to keep his voice low as he confirmed. "After dinner it is."

Dinner felt twice its usual length with the impending conversation with His Grace looming in Rose's mind. Even with Rodworth Place's impeccable cooking and hospitality, even with the winsome pair that was Lord and Lady Rodworth maneuvering the conversation with grace, Rose's thoughts wandered.

What sort of favor a duke could possibly need from the oft-overlooked younger daughter of a former viscount was a baffling question. As far as Rose could tell, she had only ever been able to help the duke during his unsolicited encounters with overly ambitious young women, and Violet's carefully-selected guest list ensured that no such compromises were about to be attempted tonight. Violet was not the most attentive to detail, at times—except, perhaps, when it came to fashion—but the Nottingham family had experienced much too close of a brush with disastrous compromises to ever tempt fate that way .

Heather, the eldest of the Nottingham sisters, might have managed to find happiness despite the ruinous circumstances of her betrothal—but everyone knew her situation was an exception rather than the norm.

"Shall we go through then?" Violet's voice rang out once the opulent desserts had been roundly consumed. The other ladies rose while Rose hurried to keep up. It was unlike her to have lost herself to her private musings. Other people were usually so much more interesting than her own thoughts, and Rose felt slightly flustered at having allowed her curiosity to have distracted her.

Thankfully, the separation of the sexes allowed her more time to brood—all while watching Mama entertain Mrs. Shale and Lady Inglethorpe with stories from her own youth—in the relative privacy of her chair by the fireplace. Instead of preferring warmth, as would make sense to Rose's mind, Violet's state of delicacy seemed to only have made the viscountess want each room in Rodworth Place cooler than ever before, and Rose elected to settle as close to the fire as she could, shifting into the warmth like a nesting mother hen.

Rose smiled to herself. Compared to the tall, willowy debutantes and the dazzling heiresses, she no doubt did look the part of a mother hen. Was it any wonder that the duke did not seem to feel threatened around her—did not seem to even notice that he was conversing with her more than was proper? Rose herself did not mind offering her friendship, but she most certainly did not want Mama getting her hopes up.

No sooner had Mama ended her reminiscence about her betrothal ball than the gentlemen returned. Rodworth, as usual, walked swiftly to bestow a kiss on his beaming wife. It was a wonder to think that they had ever disliked each other at all.

"Miss Nottingham." The duke appeared beside Rose without ceremony, showing that he must have been as single-minded as she these past few hours. "May I have this seat?"

Rose tried to display a general, polite smile before turning towards him. "Of course, Your Grace."

He nodded, seemingly having adjusted to his new title at last, and lowered his large frame onto what looked almost like half a chaise. Old houses came with odd furniture, sometimes. And then, he fidgeted.

It was an odd sight—the tall, broad frame of a fully grown and, by most accounts, a very handsome man fidgeting as if he were a schoolboy getting used to his first suit of evening wear.

"Is everything well, Your Grace?"

"Yes, well—that is—if you would be so kind as to grant me this favor."

"Right."

Rose waited for the man to elaborate. He seemed to take a good thirty more seconds before realizing it was his turn to speak. "Ah, yes, Miss Nottingham, I—I apologize for the scene earlier."

"There is no need, for there was hardly any harm done."

"Quite."

"Right."

Again, they fell silent. Frustrated by his sudden reticence, Rose ventured in soft tones, "I am not aware of what ailments you may be experiencing, Your Grace. And I admit to being rather confounded at the thought of my being able to offer you any assistance with whatever might be troubling you. But I hope you are aware that I would love nothing more than to be of help."

Her words seemed to comfort him, and the duke soon lost the earlier rigidity of his shoulders. He smiled. "Thank you. I—I am aware that this is something you yourself have mentioned before— and that I have no reason to feel embarrassed. But I suppose it humbles me to have to request your assistance in discerning which ladies are worthy of pursuit."

"You flatter me, Your Grace, but would my mother or my sister not be better suited for this task?"

"Oh, not at all. They are wonderful, of course—very refined and well-connected women."

Rose felt almost guiltily amused as the poor duke fumbled over his words.

"But it is not, well—" the duke murmured, looking fidgety once more. "It is only that—while there are many ladies who might appear to be suitable at first—they might not end up being particularly well-suited, well, to me."

"I see."

"And as you have mentioned before that everyone has their personal opinions which, once discovered, can be used to discourage any romantic attachment, I was hoping if you—if you would be ever so kind as to be my informant on this matter."

The request, once it became clear, surprised her. "You wish for me to spy for you?"

"Nothing of the kind, no." The man looked almost distressed. "It is just that, well, I—I fear that there would be scandal if I spend much time in a lady's company and yet do not court her. It would be most unkind to her reputation, and to mine as well. And yet if the lady herself declines my suit?—"

"Then you would not have caused offense."

"Right."

Rose nodded. It was true that she had once advised him thus—in this very drawing room, no less. But she had not quite expected to be called upon as a recruit to his wife-searching endeavors. But she was a keen reader of human nature, someone armed with knowledge of almost anyone in any given room at any given time. And while her unique abilities might have done her little good in her need for a husband, it might yet prove helpful in the duke's search for a wife.

"I suppose I can," she said softly.

"Thank you!" His Grace said loudly enough for a couple of guests to raise a surprised brow at them. Rose shrugged, and they soon returned to their respective games and conversation. The duke lowered his voice, "I apologize for the outburst—but you have promised rescue for a poor, floundering soul, Miss Nottingham."

"I do not think anyone would dare call you poor, Your Grace."

"Ah, but I am floundering, am I not?"

Rose found it difficult to hide the smile that surfaced at his self-deprecation.

"Very well," His Grace continued, "now that you have agreed, we need only to meet for a few minutes before each event to confer—and, perhaps, some time during the event as well—as well as some time after. I can inform you of any potential candidates for a duchess, and you can inform me of the best possible means of encouraging or discouraging them in this notion."

"I cannot possibly spend so much time in your company each evening, Your Grace."

"You cannot—" He frowned, looking daunted once more by all the expectations and limitations of London society. "Oh, I—I hadn't thought of that."

Rose sighed for his sake. He was, in many ways, a poor, floundering duke indeed. "What if we agree upon the third set at each ball—and perhaps a conversation or two at dinner parties and musicales? It should be well-timed in terms of rendering you the information you need, and it need not be particularly conspicuous. "

"The third set—that is, why, that is quite perfect." His face lit up in a boyish, handsome smile. "Thank you, Miss Nottingham, you are truly a heroine and a delight."

Rose laughed at his praises. "And you, Your Grace, are an unreasonably grateful duke."