Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

“ Y ou really ought to stop reading,” Nathan said as he watched his wife turn another page of her book. “You’re going to make yourself motion sick.”

“Don’t worry,” Rosalie replied without looking up from the book, “I’ve done this more times than I can count. I know how to keep from getting sick.”

Nathan shook his head. “I hope you’re right. These seats are velvet, and if you are sick all over them, it’s going to be very difficult to clean them.”

This got Rosalie to look up. She raised an eyebrow at him, the side of her mouth quirking up as well. “It’s good to know that if I were sick in the carriage, my husband would be more concerned about the velvet seats than about his own wife!”

“Well only if you made yourself sick by reading in the carriage!” he exclaimed. “In that case, you have no one but yourself to blame.”

She laughed and looked back down at her book. “Okay, quiet now, we still have a few more minutes until we arrive at the ball, and I need to finish this chapter.”

“I don’t think you have time,” Nathan said, glancing out the window. “We’re just two blocks away.”

“Then I will stay in the carriage and finish the book,” she grumbled. “I just cannot stop here.”

She looked up, and her eyes glittered. “The heroine and hero are about to kiss! It’s been three books, and they still haven’t kissed, and now, at last, they’re finally going to! I couldn’t possibly put the book down now.”

“It’s been three novels, and the characters haven’t kissed?” Nathan was baffled. “I thought it was a romantic novel.”

Rosalie sighed and flipped the page. “Romantic novels are best when they have a slow build,” she explained. “When there is tension that builds over many chapters and when you don’t know if they will ever actually get together, that’s what keeps women coming back to them.”

“Hmm.” Nathan wasn’t sure he understood this, but then again, there was much about women he didn’t understand.

Like the fact that his wife was reading in the carriage on the way to her cousin’s ball when he thought she ought to be kissing him instead.

Maybe I need to woo her like in that book. Maybe she wants that slow build as well.

The thought excited him; it was like a game, a challenge, a way of showing her that he was listening to her and what she wanted out of romance.

She turned another page of the book, her eyes wide with anticipation and excitement, but then her face fell.

“What is it?” he asked at once.

“Oh, it’s just that they didn’t kiss. Again.” She sighed and closed the book. “I was so sure it was about to happen. They had never been so close before.”

“It almost feels as if the author is teasing you on purpose,” Nathan pointed out. “Playing with your expectations, getting your hopes up, and then pulling back at the last possible moment. It sounds to me as if this author is a bit of a prankster.”

“I think the author just wants to sell more books,” she said with a laugh. “But perhaps it is also fun for him. I don’t know.”

“It’s a man, then, who writes those books?”

Rosalie wrinkled her nose. “But of course!”

“I’m just a little surprised, considering you said that women mostly read them.”

“Well, yes, but…” Rosalie paused. She looked thunderstruck. “It never occurred to me before that a woman could write a romantic novel,” she said slowly. “I’ve never seen one written by a woman. Even the few novels I have seen that are by ladies usually do not have their names printed on them.”

“It’s possible that some of the novels that say they are written by men are actually written by women, but the publisher gives them a man’s name to make them more acceptable to sell.”

“You really think so?” Rosalie looked shocked. “That’s so unfair to the women who write them!”

“Yes, it’s unfair that women writers aren’t taken seriously,” Nathan agreed, “but it’s possible they want the books sold under men’s names so that they will sell more copies. There is more money in a novel written by a man than by a woman after all.”

“I suppose so…” Rosalie bit her lip. “Still, it makes me sad to think that women writers are so looked down upon that they would have to disguise their sex. Women can be wonderful storytellers!”

“I agree. But most people still think that women having careers, especially well to do women, will take away from their duties in the home. It’s the same reason why women are not allowed to be educated at colleges and universities.”

Rosalie was watching him with interest now. “But you disagree with that?”

Nathan shrugged. “I have met too many idiotic men and too many smart women to believe in such narrow conceptions of what men and women should and shouldn’t do. But what do I know?”

“I like the idea of women writing novels,” Rosalie said, sitting back on the bench and smiling to herself.

“So do I. In fact…” Nathan hesitated. It was an idea he had been thinking about for a while, but he didn’t know how she would feel about it. “Perhaps you should try?—”

“Oh, we have arrived!” Rosalie exclaimed, interrupting him as she clapped her hands together and gazed out the window. “Despite everything, it feels good to be back home!”

Nathan glanced out the carriage window as it pulled to a halt. They’d arrived outside of the Viscount of Carfield’s residence where Rosalie had grown up, now in possession of her cousin. Lanterns were lining the path on the way up to the front door, and garlands of paper stars and moons were hung between the trees. They glittered as they caught the candlelight of the lanterns.

“Oh my, Niles’ wife really did go overboard,” Rosalie giggled. “I don’t think it’s bad, though. Just perhaps a tad unusual…”

The footman opened the door, and Rosalie grabbed her book from the bench and made to put it in her reticule. Nathan, however, reached out and put his hand over hers.

“Maybe you should leave it here,” he said gently. “If you bring it with you, you’ll be tempted to sneak away and read it during the ball, and I know that your cousin and his wife would really appreciate it if you were present for the ball, not reading in dark corners.”

Rosalie worried the bottom of her lip as she thought about this. “But I have to know if they’re going to kiss… what if it’s in the next chapter?”

Nathan considered this. “What if I promise to make sure that the ball is far more exciting and romantic than anything that might be in that novel?”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow. “And how might you do that?”

He smiled and leaned forward to push back a lock of her hair. As his fingers grazed her skin, she shuddered.

“I have my ways.”

“Fine,” she said primly although the pink flush of her cheeks was anything but, “I’ll leave it here. but you’re going to have your work cut out for you. I haven’t been waiting years for you to kiss me, like I have been with this series.”

Nathan just smiled. “Oh, but you have, Rosalie. You have.”

Rosalie had to admit that her husband made a very interesting proposition. Not only that, but he followed up on it. Just as the dancing began, he was already by her side, asking her for her hand for the first dance.

“Not that anyone else would have dared,” he smirked as he led her out onto the dance floor. “Not when you are married to the Beast of Carramere.”

“I thought you hated that nickname!” she said, trying to disguise the flush on her face as he took her in his arms.

“I do,” he conceded, “but when it helps keep other men away from my wife, I find I don’t mind it as much.”

“That’s very overprotective of you.” She tried, and failed, to sound annoyed. “I am a grown woman after all, a married woman. And I can have other men take me to the dance floor. In fact, some people would say it is more scandalous for a husband and wife to dance together.”

“Well, those people would be wrong. There is nothing bad about a man and wife dancing together at a ball. Sometimes Society can be so tedious and fastidious with its rules, don’t you think?”

He laughed throatily, and then the music started, and he moved away to the other side of the line. They bowed and curtsied to one another, and then the dance began.

“You’re thinking again of the taboo against women writers,” she said as their hands met again in the middle. “You think Society can be too limited.”

“I do, but perhaps that’s why I have the reputation that I do. I don’t like to be restricted. I don’t like to follow rules. I think humans should be free, and sometimes Society makes things more complicated and difficult than they need to be.”

“So how do you rebel against it?” she asked. “Because you don’t want to be the Beast of Carramere. Jokes aside about it keeping other men from asking me to dance, I know you hate it. There must be a better, healthier, less beastly way of shunning Society’s more restrictive rules.”

He smiled; the twitch of his mouth was enough to make her heart race. She knew this look by now: it was the smile he always got on his face when she said something he thought was clever.

“I suppose that working for Scotland Yard was my way of doing that,” he said after a moment. “It’s a bit of an unusual pastime for a future duke. My father never approved, of course, but it allowed me to be myself and exercise the freedom I think is important for all humans to have.”

“And then what happened in the past two years?” The question was left hanging as the dance moved them away from each other again. It took several minutes before they were once again dancing together.

“What do you mean exactly?” he probed, once their hands met again.

“After your brother died—that’s when you became the Beast of Carramere, wasn’t it?”

He stiffened slightly, but she squeezed his hand. “I’m not trying to pry,” she murmured. “I just want to understand you.”

“Yes, after my brother died, my reputation began to change.” His tone was cold, but she knew it wasn’t meant to hurt her: he was simply trying to protect himself. “I was very angry, you see.”

“I can understand,” she murmured. “You watched your brother die. Of course, you were angry.”

“And I couldn’t forgive my father for holding me back from helping him.”

Again, she nodded. “Yes, I understand that as well. We both have complicated relationships with our fathers, it seems.”

The Duke was quiet for a moment then he said, “Yes, we do.”

She glanced at him. His jaw was set, and he looked tense, angry, and upset. Squeezing his hand a bit tighter, she murmured, “Maybe we should go somewhere more private to talk. I don’t mean to upset you. I’m merely trying to get to know you better.”

The Duke glanced down at her. “You’re right. We should go somewhere more private.” A glint came into his eyes. “But not to talk.”

“What do you?—”

He pulled her away from the dance floor, and she was forced to follow him, laughing as she almost tripped over her skirts in her attempt to keep up with him.

As he led her away, she was sure she heard whispers all around them as those in attendance watched the Duke and Duchess of Carramere leave a dance halfway through and sneak off together. At least, that’s what it seemed to her: she felt very much that the Duke was trying to make off with her. It excited her more than she cared to admit; he was a strong, intimidating man, who did what he wanted, his reputation be damned. And now, that included dragging her away so that they could… talk… in private.

They reached the French doors that opened up to the balcony, and the Duke pushed them open and led her out onto the patio. At once, she breathed in the cool, refreshing air. She hadn’t realized how hot and sweaty she was inside among the crush of people.

The Duke turned to look at her, and his eyes smoldered as they found hers.

“I don’t want to talk about my father anymore,” he said. He took a step toward her, and she instinctively took a step back, only to find herself pushed up against the ivy that clung to the outside of the house.

“O-okay,” she stammered. She suddenly felt very nervous. Even though their relationship had been growing deeper and more intimate, when she was alone with him now, she now felt like a shy girl alone with the man she secretly admired. She hadn’t felt that way before with the Duke; before, she had felt anger at him for forcing her into this marriage.

And even as her feelings grew more tender, she had never before felt like this: her tongue was thick in her mouth, she couldn’t think of what to say, and all she wanted was for him to kiss her again like he had after he’d rescued her from the caved-in floor.

“I want to talk about you,” he said, his eyes boring into hers.

“M-me?” She felt stupid, repeating everything he said.

“Yes, you. And how you are going to take advantage of my reputation as the Beast of Carramere to accomplish more than you ever thought possible.”

“I d-don’t know what you mean…”

And she really didn’t. Nor could she think straight when he was looking at her like that: like she was the cleverest and most interesting person he had ever met in his life.

“Yes, you,” he murmured. He reached out a hand and brought it to her chin, cupping it and turning it up toward him.

Her heart was hammering. It was in her throat. He is going to kiss me again! She felt as if she could lift off the ground, as if she could float away with happiness.

He leaned toward her, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the moment his lips would press against hers.

Except—he spoke instead. “I want you to write a book.”

“What?” Rosalie wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at him, her mouth hanging open. She had thought he was about to kiss her, but somehow, the idea that she should write a book seemed even more shocking and scandalous.

He laughed. “I want you to write a book. Is that really so shocking?”

“Er, well, I just didn’t realize you thought… that is to say I don’t… as you know I have never even tried my hand at…” Rosalie was blubbering. She knew that. But she didn’t know how to wrap her mind about the ludicrous thing her husband had just said.

“You can’t be serious!” she finally choked out. “Write a book? Me?”

He tilted his head to one side. “Why not? You read so many. You love literature. And you are a romantic! You could write a romantic novel that was better than any of the ones you’ve read so far. I know it.”

“But I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel,” she said, nonplussed. “I wouldn’t know where to start!”

“Of course, you would,” he insisted. “You read so many!”

“Reading books is very different from writing them.”

“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”

She pursed her lips, stumped. He was looking at her mischievously, and she wanted to wipe the smug look from his face. It was a preposterous idea! Her? Write a novel?

“Why do you think I would be good at it?” she asked instead, genuinely curious to know his answer.

He shrugged. “Don’t you think you’d be good at it? No one knows better than you how to come up with romantic situations.”

“Like what?”

“Okay, I know you won’t like me bringing this up, but think about Lord Cain.”

“I’d rather not!”

“I just mean, when he started courting you, you were able to romanticize the situation and come up with a whole future you two would have together. Isn’t that true?”

Rosalie pursed her lips. That was, technically, true although she hated to think that she had done that in regards to such an unworthy man as Lord Cain.

“Yes,” she said at last, reluctantly. “I did.”

“And that’s the same as writing!” the Duke said triumphantly. “It’s just about writing down all the romantic situations you can imagine.”

“I suppose so…” She bit her lip. “But I still wouldn’t be sure where to start.”

“That won’t be a problem. You’re clever.”

“And what about publishing them?” she asked nervously. “Surely no one would want to read a novel by a woman! You said so yourself. Would I even be able to publish them? Would I have to use a man’s name?”

The Duke’s eyes suddenly gleamed with excitement. “This is the part where we use my reputation. We tell the publisher that we want them to publish it under your real name. And they won’t dare to object because they will know me as a fearsome villain, and they won’t want to get on my bad side.”

Rosalie laughed. “You really want to use your reputation to help me sell a book?”

“Why not? This reputation has caused me so much grief, I would be glad to know that it was actually used for good.”

Rosalie giggled then grew more sober. For a long moment, she turned this over in her head. She had never imagined something like this before. In all her life of reading, she had only thought that she would read other people’s stories, not her own. She came up with many, of course; what reader didn’t? But she had never even dared to write them down. And now, the Duke was encouraging her to do so. He seemed to think that she could actually come up with good stories! And then he would help her publish them.

She fixed him with a beady look. “You have to promise me that you would judge my writing fairly on its merit,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to try and help me publish books if my writing wasn’t good.”

“Of course,” he replied at once.

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “I wouldn’t want preferential treatment just because I’m your wife. I’d like your real opinion. And if they’re not good, you can’t try to publish them. You have to promise me.”

The Duke nodded and looked at her very seriously. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Excitement was beginning to course through her—excitement and the feeling that her life was about to change forever. She had never allowed herself to imagine that something this wonderful could happen to her or that it would be her husband who would encourage her to be so daring.

“You know, it’s funny,” she said slowly. “When I used to imagine my future husband, I would imagine him doing all sorts of romantic things for me. I would come up with many scenarios where he was the perfect gentleman, and he was kind and caring. That’s why I was so disappointed when we first wed: because I’d dreamed of a love match with the perfect man, and I was sure our marriage couldn’t be that.”

“Don’t remind me,” the Duke said sourly.

She laughed and placed a hand on his arm. “What I’m trying to say is that in all my years of trying to dream up the ‘perfect’ man, I never actually came up with a scenario like this—where he pushed me to pursue something I didn’t even realize was a dream. What’s funny to me is that we can try to come up with the perfect version of what our lives might be, but what actually happens might be the most surprising and perfect of them all.”

The Duke blinked. His eyes became bright. Then he coughed and looked away. When he turned back to her and spoke, his voice was husky.

“I’m glad that you think it’s a good idea,” he murmured. “I have been thinking about it for some days, and I’m very pleased that you are excited by the prospect.”

“More excited than I can say.”

He smiled down at her. She thought maybe he would kiss her now—she hoped he would—but instead, he took her arm.

“Come, let’s go back to the ball,” he murmured. “Your cousin must be missing you.”

And he led her back into the ball, a smile on his face that she had never seen before.