Chapter Eleven

Lady Ellinwood received the news of her granddaughter's engagement with far less enthusiasm than Rosemary had been expecting.

It wasn't that she'd wanted her grandmother to jump and shout for joy. She did not desire a broken hip on her conscience. But she did feel that a little bit more than "that's nice, please pass the blanket, the carriage is chilly" was warranted. After all, it wasn't as if she had announced she was marrying a baker or a doctor or–even worse, at least in her grandmother's eyes–an entrepreneur.

Sterling was a duke.

And even though Rosemary genuinely wouldn't have cared if he was a baker or a doctor or a candlestick maker, the small child still living deep inside her had wanted to see a flash of approval in Lady Ellinwood's sharp blue eyes. Maybe (as farfetched as it seemed) even a congratulatory embrace.

She should have known better.

When they arrived back at the house, her grandmother promptly excused herself and went straight to bed, leaving Rosemary feeling oddly deflated. What was the point of having something exciting happen to her if she had no one to share the excitement with?

That night was one of the rare times she wished with all of her might that her mother were still alive. That she had a comforting lap she could rest her head upon as she shared all of her hopes and doubts and dreams. That she had someone to stroke her head, and gently kiss her temple, and whisper to her just before she drifted off to sleep that it was all going to work out.

Instead, all she had was Sir Reginald. Who was surely better than no one, but a squirrel wasn't a mother or a father or even an aloof grandmother, for that matter. Which was why she was so elated the next day when Joanna and Evie came to call.

As luck would have it, Lady Ellinwood had stepped out earlier in the morning for tea with her embroidery circle, allowing Rosemary to receive her cousins in the parlor without any undue strife (so long as they left right before luncheon).

"Would you care for anything to drink?" she asked brightly. "There's both cold tea and lemonade. Or hot tea and coffee, if you'd prefer. At the beginning of next month, our cook will begin boiling and mashing apples for cider. It's an old family recipe that I'll have to share with you. The trick is to add the nutmeg–"

"Before you strain the apples so that it soaks straight through the skins into the fruit," Joanna finished with a smile. "We've always made our cider the same way."

It was such a small connection. Inconsequential, really. But Rosemary's heart swelled nevertheless because it was yet another thread connecting her to a family she hadn't even known existed four months ago. And family meant everything, especially to someone who hadn't gotten to experience the full breadth of what it was to belong to something larger than yourself.

"I didn't give much consideration to who handed it down over the years," she said, "but the recipe must have come from our Great-grandmother, Lady Beatrice Ellinwood."

"Do you have a picture of her, by chance?" Evie asked as she sank gracefully onto a divan upholstered in pink and mauve striped silk. The rest of the parlor–the entire house, really–was similarly designed in soft pastels that ranged from a sandy blush Aubusson carpet in the formal dining room to salmon curtains in the parlor.

Only Rosemary's bedchamber was a different color palette. She'd chosen the bright yellow walls (achieved by mixing turmeric with linseed oil to bind in the pigment) and Prussian blue ceiling as a means to distinguish her room from what was unmistakably her grandmother's domain. Until recently, it had stood as her singular small act of defiance. Aside from the litany of furry creatures she'd nursed back to health in secret, of course.

"I do not, unfortunately." Her eyes widened. "But my grandmother might! I'll be right back."

Off Rosemary dashed, up the stairs and down the hall until she reached Lady Ellinwood's private suite of rooms at the far eastern corner of the house. Even though she knew her grandmother was out, habit compelled her to knock.

A young, freckle-faced servant with carrot orange hair stuffed under a white cap immediately opened the door. Behind her was a pile of linens and two other maids, their faces red and sweating as they struggled to flip Lady Ellinwood's heavy mattress stuffed with horse hair and wool. It was a difficult task that needed to be done once per month lest the mattress begin to sag on one side or the other.

"Do you need help?" Rosemary asked automatically. "I can hold that end–"

Greta, the red-haired servant, shook her head. "It's no trouble, Miss. We're nearly finished. Are you looking for Lady Ellinwood? Because she left about an hour ago."

"To have tea with the embroidery ladies. Yes, I know. But I'm not searching for her. I'm looking for a picture." It struck Rosemary as she stepped past Greta and went to a mahogany escritoire on the far side of the room that she'd only entered her grandmother's private chambers on a handful of occasions, and then only when specifically summoned to do so. Nightmares, thunderstorms, and the like were a reason to call for her governesses– not to come running in here and disturb Lady Ellinwood's precious sleep.

In the scary dark, she'd never had someone who loved her unconditionally to go running to. Never had the bed of her parents to climb into when thunder boomed and lightning flashed. Never had a mother guide her trembling hands while she drank a warm cup of milk, or a father to carry her back to her room and tuck her in before he gave the monster lurking under her bed a stern talking to.

That wasn't to say her governesses had not taken splendid care of her. Because Mrs. Armstrong had been wonderful, and Rosemary was in contact with her still. But a paid position did not invoke the same feelings of comfort and security that a loving family member did. As a result, she'd grown up believing she didn't need that sort of comfort.

Why waste time and energy missing what you'd never had?

But she did need it.

More importantly, she wanted it.

And perhaps that was the real reason she'd found herself inexplicably drawn to a most unsuitable scoundrel. Not because he needed her. But because she needed him. Perhaps Sterling wasn't the only wounded creature seeking a safe, warm nest. Seeking a sense of family. A sense of home. A sense of belonging.

"Miss…Miss Stanhope? Do you need help finding what you're looking for?" Greta asked uncertainly and, with a start, Rosemary realized she was standing frozen in the middle of her grandmother's bedchamber. The one place in all the house she really ought not to be.

"No, thank you. I'm fine. I'll be out of your way in a minute." She hurried to the escritoire, a desk with various drawers and secret compartments in addition to a hinged, slanted front that could be lowered for writing. She knew this was where Lady Ellinwood penned all of her private correspondence, and if she had any photographs or mementos then surely they'd be in here somewhere as they weren't to be found anywhere else around the house. With the exception of the portrait of her son in the drawing room, Rosemary's grandmother kept no other pictures of family past or present.

That included her granddaughter.

But when Rosemary pried open a long, narrow drawer nearly sealed shut with beeswax, indicating it had been polished many times over without being used in between, she was stunned to find that Lady Ellinwood did have paintings and photographs of her family. For some inexplicable reason, she'd just chosen to keep them hidden away.

Tears pricked the corners of Rosemary's eyes and her breath lodged in the base of her throat as she unveiled detailed miniatures of her father as a baby, and a boy, and a man. There was a grainy photograph, yellowed and curled at the edges, of her parents on their wedding day. Lord Gregory Stanhope and Miss Lilly Davidson. Both so young. So serious. So alive . To the best of her knowledge, it was the first–and only–picture of them standing together.

Underneath it she found another photograph. The last before they all turned to sketches and oil paintings. This one depicted a middle-aged man sitting on a stool, his eyes dark and somber even as the hint of a mischievous grin lifted the side of his moustache.

This had to be her grandfather, Lord George Stanhope. A man she'd never met as he was already gone well before she was ever born…but she had an inkling that if they'd had the opportunity to know each other, they would have gotten on splendidly.

There were stains at the bottom of the picture. Stains that had caused the ink to blur and run and fade. As if somehow the photograph had sustained water damage. Or–

" Tears . They're tears," Rosemary whispered as she very carefully returned her grandfather to the drawer before continuing on her impromptu journey through the past.

The next miniature, cut in the shape of an oval as if it had once sat inside of a brooch, showed two girls side by side, one with fair hair and one with dark. Despite their different coloring, it was obvious they were sisters. Dorothea and Mabel, if Rosemary had to guess. Painted long before Mabel fell in love with an American and sailed across the Atlantic to start a new life with a new family.

Had Dorothea felt abandoned when her only sibling left her? They were so close in age, they must have had their debuts back to back, or maybe even together. Every holiday, every milestone, every ball and party attended together, until Mabel moved to an entirely different continent.

In some way or another, Lady Ellinwood had been left by everyone she'd ever loved. Her parents, of whom Rosemary could find no picture. Her sister. Her husband. Her child and daughter-in-law.

Naturally, Rosemary knew all of this already.

But she hadn't really felt the breadth of the loss her grandmother had suffered until now.

How awful it must have been.

How awful it must still be, if she remained compelled to keep these pictures, these memories, tucked away in a drawer to gather dust month after month, year after year, decade after decade.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Rosemary dashed at the tears that had collected on her cheeks and rushed past Greta out into the hall where she took a few minutes to compose herself before returning to her cousins in the drawing room.

Immediately, they both sensed something was amiss, but they were wrong about what it was.

"I knew it," Evie said triumphantly, rising from her chair in a spill of lavender silk. Stylishly attired in a long-sleeved jacket with green piping along the arrow-tipped collar and a matching skirt, she was every inch a countess-to-be. "I knew you didn't want to marry him. How did he coerce you into it?"

Rosemary's engagement was so new that for a split second she hadn't the vaguest idea what her cousin was referring to. "Who coerced me into what?"

"See?" said Joanna, and now she was the one who sounded triumphant. Plainly clothed in a blue dress sans piping or lace or fancy embellishments, she had her auburn hair knotted in a twist on top of her head with only a simple gold pin for decoration. "I told you Lady M was mistaken. It's all nothing more than a big misunderstanding. Maybe the Duke of Hanover became engaged to a different Rosemary? Or to someone who looks like her. There's any manner of much more reasonable explanations than–"

"Oh, yes," Rosemary interrupted belatedly once she came to understand what the topic of conversation was regarding. "Sterling did propose to me last night."

"–that," Joanna finished weakly. "It's true, then? Are you sure?"

Evie sniffed. "Don't be put out just because you wanted Lady M to be wrong. If anyone's sure if Rosemary is engaged or not, it's Rosemary . Congratulations, darling! I wish we had wine or champagne to toast with, but tea will have to do for now." She lifted her cup of black currant tea that a maid had poured while Rosemary was in her grandmother's chambers. Her lips pursed as she took a sip, then flattened when she lowered the cup and regarded Rosemary over the curved porcelain brim. "Congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

"Yes, I think so." Rosemary's brows knitted in confusion. "Why would you believe I was coerced?"

Her cousins shared a quick glance.

"Should I…?" Evie asked.

Joanna nodded. "By your own admission, you know him better than I."

"All right, but it's going to sound more bluntly spoken coming from me."

" Everything sounds bluntly spoken coming from you."

"What is this about?" Rosemary inquired politely. She'd walked further into the drawing room while her cousins were…discussing, bantering, fighting? It was hard to tell sometimes…and she positioned herself in front of a window wet from rain. What had begun as a light drizzle in the early hours of the morning had intensified to a steady soaking, a subtle shift that hinted at cooler, damper months to come as Mother Nature shed her summer cloak and reached for a warmer autumn shawl.

"Your engagement. To the Duke of Hanover." Evie nibbled on her bottom lip, an uneasy habit Rosemary might not have noticed if she didn't often engage in it herself. "I must admit, it caught Joanna and me…off guard. The last we were together, you didn't mention you were being courted by anyone, least of all a duke."

"Least of all that duke," said Joanna with a meaningful arch of her brow.

Evie glared at her sister. "I thought we agreed I was going to do this part?"

"By all means, go right ahead."

"Thank you. As I was saying–what was I saying?"

"That I never mentioned I was being courted by anyone," Rosemary supplied helpfully. "And that's because I wasn't."

"Then how did you and the Duke of Hanover come to be engaged?" Joanna wondered aloud.

"Because he asked, and I said yes." Summarized into seven words, her relationship with Sterling seemed remarkably straightforward. In truth, she could not begin to untangle the knot of emotions that tied them together. The more she tried, the more complex the knot became.

"We didn't realize you even knew him," said Evie. "And it's not that we doubt your intentions, but having had a few interactions with Hanover at the house party, I'd be remiss if I did not share my… our "–she glanced at Joanna, who inclined her chin–"…misgivings."

"Your misgivings," Rosemary repeated.

"That's right."

Lifting herself up onto the deep windowsill, she let her feet swing aimlessly as the back of her skull pressed against the cool window pane. "Because I am a wallflower and he is a duke?"

"No! That's not it at all. Well…yes," Evie admitted after a brief pause. "That's partially it. But mostly our concern stems from the fact that Hanover is a bit of a…rogue. And by a bit, I mean that his reputation is terrible."

"My husband has quite literally been tasked with clearing him of murder." Although Joanna's blue gaze was filled with compassion, her firm tone caused Rosemary to stiffen and immediately jump to the defense of her fiancé.

"Sterling is innocent. If Mr. Kincaid cannot prove that, then he isn't very good at his job." Her eyes went huge as her mouth dropped open. "I–I cannot believe I said that. I'm sorry. I did not mean to imply–"

"Not to worry," Joanna assured her. "Really. Had someone said that about Kincaid, I'd have reacted much the same way." Her thick russet lashes pressed closely together as she studied her cousin with a scrutiny that made Rosemary want to squirm. "You love him, don't you? Hanover."

Evie started to laugh. "Don't be ridiculous–my God," she gasped when Rosemary's entire face flushed a dull shade of pink. "You do love him."

"I don't know if I do or not." Fingers twisting anxiously together, she sat up straighter on the sill. "It's all culminated rather rapidly, and I've never been in love before, so I cannot compare. One minute he was kissing me at Hawkridge Manor–"

"He kissed you at Hawkridge Manor?" Evie practically yelped. "When? Where? When? "

Rosemary's color heightened. "In the library during the house party."

"Before or after the receiving dinner?"

"Ah…" Perplexed by the specificity of the question, Rosemary thought back, counting off the days in her head. "After. Several days after."

"That's fine, then." Evie glanced at Joanna, who gave a small shrug.

"I wouldn't see why not," she said.

Rosemary's perplexity grew. "What are you talking about?"

"Should I tell her?" Evie asked.

"Probably best if you do," Joanna replied.

"Tell me what? "

Evie gave a deep sigh. "On the night of the receiving dinner, I could not sleep. Earl problems, you understand. So I went for a walk and encountered Hanover on the terrace. A very drunk Hanover, mind you, and during the course of our conversation he…he inquired into whether or not I'd be interested in becoming his mistress."

"Oh." Rosemary's stomach sank. " Oh. "

"Nothing came of it," Evie said hurriedly. "He was well into his cups. Honestly, I'd be surprised if he even remembers he spoke to me. But it was a very roguish thing to do, and that's why Joanna and I were naturally worried when I read about the engagement this morning in the paper. We just wanted to ensure that you weren't coerced into something you weren't keen on."

Rosemary's teeth clacked together as she slipped off the sill and the soft soles of her walking shoes came into contact with the hard floorboards. "What paper announced our engagement?"

"All of them, I imagine, although I read about it in the London Caller ."

Her face paled. She'd known word would get out soon enough. Gossip traveled fast when it was spread by many mouths. But she had been under the na?ve impression that she'd have a few days, mayhap even a week, before Sterling's proposal became public knowledge.

"Let's get back to the kissing." Evie clapped her hands together. "You already said he kissed you during the house party. What occurred after we all left?"

Rosemary's head was spinning. "We kissed a second time in…in the library. And again last night, at the Marigold Ball, before he…before he asked me to marry him."

"I cannot believe this. Rosemary! You–you minx ," Evie cried with no small amount of delight. "This is better than anything I've yet to read in Lady M's column. Now that we know you and Hanover have been carrying on a delightful little dalliance this entire time, your engagement makes perfect sense. And to think we were worried!"

"I don't know if I'd call it a dalliance–" Rosemary started to protest.

"It also explains why Hanover came to town despite Kincaid warning him to remain in the country," Joanna interrupted. "He gave us some nonsensical excuse about his sister asking him to partake in the Season to repair the damage done to his name, but all the while he really came here for you. How…uncharacteristically genuine of him."

"Wait," Rosemary interjected as a flicker of alarm cut through the overwhelming knowledge that her engagement was likely the topic of conversation in every parlor and drawing room across London. "Why did Kincaid want Sterling to stay at Hawkridge Manor?"

The corners of Joanna's mouth jutted sharply. "You mean he hasn't said anything?"

"Said anything about what?" she asked blankly.

Joanna looked at Evie. "Should I tell her?"

"Probably best if you do."

Joanna took a deep breath, then smiled kindly at Rosemary. "You might want to sit back down…"