Chapter Fifteen

Rosemary floated on air for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. The things Sterling had said about her…the ways he'd described her…no one had ever seen her as he did. No one had ever made her feel as he did. Appreciated for who she was, not what she was lacking.

The clouds carried her all the way up until her lady's maid, Rebecca, a mousy young woman with bulbous eyes and tiny teeth, entered her bedchamber carrying what could only be described as the most atrocious ball gown she had ever seen.

Pink and fluffy, with layers upon layers of bows and ruffles, it was so blindingly ugly that it made the bonnet Sterling had pulled off her head and tossed in the bushes look like a crown befit for Queen Victoria. And Rosemary, who had never–not once–bothered to comment on any of the dresses and various accompanying articles of clothing that her grandmother's modiste had made for her, no matter how frumpy or out of style they were (according to Evie), held up her hand and stopped Rebecca at the door.

"Please don't bring that in here," she said, almost pleadingly.

"I am sorry, Miss Rosemary." In Rebecca's favor, she appeared as if she genuinely meant it. "It just arrived, and Lady Ellinwood requested I bring it up straightaway in case any adjustments need to be made. Do you mind if I set it down on the bed? It's quite heavy."

Yes, Rosemary imagined that 780 bows weighed a lot.

"It's so… pink ," she said as she and her maid stepped back from the mattress to study the gown as they might a frog that had been laid open for scientific dissection.

"Lady Ellinwood seemed very pleased with it."

"Well, she doesn't have to be the one to wear it," Rosemary muttered.

Normally, she didn't care what she wore.

But there wasn't anything normal about the evening that awaited her.

For one thing, it was the Royal Gala. For another, she was attending as the wife-to-be of one of the most prominent men in all of England. Dozens, if not hundreds, of eyes would be trained upon her from the moment she entered the grand ballroom.

And she was going dressed as a poor flamingo that had inadvertently stumbled into the scrap fabric bin.

If she was only representing herself, it wouldn't have mattered. Oh, people would have undoubtedly stared and snickered. But that wasn't out of the ordinary. Between the books she carried tucked under her arm and the squirrel in her pocket, people were always staring and snickering. In a world of great beauty and dresses that might as well have been walking works of art, she was accustomed to sticking out like a frumpy sore thumb.

But just for one night–for this night–she'd wanted her peers to look at her and think to themselves, "There goes the future Duchess of Hanover. Isn't she lovely?"

Yes, it was a superficial need.

More of a want, really.

But did that make it wrong?

She fervently wished that Evie was here. If there was anyone talented enough to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, it was her cousin. But Evie and Joanna were still in Scotland, which meant that she was on her own.

"Do you think we'd be able to remove any of the bows?" she asked. "I've shears in my writing desk."

"Perhaps," said Rebecca, although she sounded doubtful.

"That's all right. I'd probably just end up with a dress covered in holes instead of ribbon." Resigning herself to her fate, Rosemary untied her wrapper and held her arms above her head. "A flamingo it is."

"It is not that bad," Rebecca said some two hours later after she'd helped Rosemary don her undergarments, including a hoop skirt made of flattened steel wire, and the gown itself, which, impossibly, appeared even worse on than it had off.

Staring at herself in the full-length dressing mirror propped against the wall, Rosemary exchanged a rueful smile with her reflection.

The dress began with puffed sleeves that sat high on her shoulders and ended just above her elbows. The bodice, generously curved to emphasize her breasts, might have actually been flattering if not for the scalloped trim that most closely resembled a jester's neck ruff. A line of bows ran down the front to the waist. Round as a bell, the skirt was comprised of multiple layers of coral gauze, each slightly longer than the last, which culminated in a hemline made of even more bows. The bustle, padded from the mohair of surely no less than half a dozen angora goats, sat upon her rump like its very own island. It, too, was pink, albeit swathed in a covering of white lace.

"I look like a cake that was swallowed by a flamingo," she said, turning to the side in the hopes that a different vantage point might somehow improve the gown's silhouette.

It didn't.

"Your hair is pretty," Rebecca offered diplomatically. "It's holding the curls beautifully, even without bandoline."

"You've an undeniable talent with the hot tongs." Rosemary's bow-covered shoulders slumped. "I am sorry it's being wasted on me."

"Not at all," her lady's maid protested. "I won't deny that the dress is an...interesting choice, but if anyone was to carry it off, it's you, Miss Rosemary. Your beauty has always come from the inside out, not the outside in. So really, it doesn't matter what you're wearing."

Rosemary met Rebecca's large eyes in the mirror. "Thank you."

"You're more than welcome. Should we go downstairs and see if His Grace is here yet?" she asked, her simmering anticipation palpable.

In addition to the invitations he'd procured for them, Sterling was personally accompanying Rosemary and her grandmother to the ball. It was to be his first official appearance at the house, and all of the staff–including Rebecca–were thrilled at the prospect of having him in their midst. Particularly since most of them had most likely given up on Rosemary ever marrying, let alone marrying a duke.

Her engagement had served to elevate and excite the entire household. Where once they'd served a dowager viscountess and her untitled granddaughter, they were now bringing tea to the future Duchess of Hanover. And the subsequent changes in their behavior, while slight, had still been noticeable.

"I am going to need assistance fitting through the doorway," she said.

Rebecca nodded. "I'll ring for another maid."

Rosemary stretched her arms out to encompass the width of her skirt, then measured that against the door. She turned back to Rebecca and blew a stream of air through pursed lips. "Better make it two more…and a footman for good measure."

"What do you think, Higgins?" Tugging on the diamond cut lapels of his fitted black dress coat, Sterling pivoted away from the mirror to face his valet. And it was probably a trick of the light, but he might have sworn he saw the servant wipe a tear from his eye.

"Splendid, Your Grace." Higgins snapped his heels together and squared his shoulders. "Absolutely splendid."

"In no small part to you and your skills with a straight razor." He ran a hand across his chin. "I feel like a newborn babe."

"If I may, Your Grace…"

"Go on," he invited when Higgins hesitated. Opening the top drawer of his dressing stand, he sifted through a dozen satin ties before settling on a light gray. To match Rosemary's eyes , he thought as he looped it around his neck and began to flip the ends over each other to fashion a knot.

"It's just that…in these clothes…with your hair styled back like that…you bear a striking resemblance to your brother, Your Grace."

Sterling's hands stilled. He waited for the familiar wave of grief to crash over him. For the anger and the guilt to nip right at its heels, and a mindless craving for a bottle of gin after that. Instead, all he felt was a dull throbbing. The same a solider with a war wound might experience whenever it rained, or the poor chap closed his eyes and recalled the horrors he'd endured on the battlefield.

The pain was still there.

It would always be there.

But perhaps the trick wasn't trying to get rid of it, or ignoring it, or drinking it into submission. Rather, maybe the trick was to just…exist with it. Acknowledge it. Acknowledge the ache and the hurt and the empty hole that used to be filled. The gnarled, twisted flesh that used to be smooth. The heart that used to be whole. Acknowledge it and keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep living .

Especially now that he had someone to live for.

"Thank you, Higgins." He resumed tying. "I am glad to hear that my brother remains in your thoughts. Although I think we can both agree that I'm the far handsomer brother?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Higgins said, reverting to his far more in-character stoicism.

Sterling's eyes narrowed. "You're not just saying that because I pay you more money than any other valet in London, are you? I've taken notes, Higgins. You make a ghastly amount."

"No, Your Grace."

Any further jibing (Sterling did so enjoy ruffling Higgins' feathers) was interrupted when a maid knocked timidly at the door and handed the valet a card before whisking off down the hall. After a cursory glance at the piece of paper, which evoked no more emotion other than a raised brow, Higgins passed the card on to Sterling.

"It appears you have a caller, Your Grace."

"A caller? Don't they know what night it is?" Still, he accepted the card. And liked to believe it was a sign of his strengthening sobriety that his hand didn't shake when he read the name written on it.

"Have our guest escorted into my study, Higgins," he said tightly.

The valet frowned. "But Your Grace, the Royal Gala–"

"I should only be a minute or two. If I'm in there any longer, kindly find a pistol and shoot me with it." He paused. "Actually, don't do that. Don't want to ruin the jacket. Shoot the other fellow instead. Just in the leg or the arm. But not an artery, Higgins. We don't him to bleed out on the carpet. Can you imagine the stain?"

"I can assure you that I have excellent aim, Your Grace."

Sterling sighed. "Of course you do, Higgins."

"I can always have him sent away," the valet offered. "You are due to be at Miss Stanhope's residence in less than half an hour."

"A minute, Higgins," he said grimly. "That's all I will need."

It was what happened after that minute was over that worried him the most. Undoubtedly, this was going to be the most significant test of his soberness yet. And on tonight, of all nights. When he'd nothing to do but, oh, he didn't know…escort his fiancée and her fire-breathing grandmother to the biggest social event he'd attended in over a year. Where every eye and monocle in England was going to be trained on him, wondering if he really was capable of murder…or if his becoming engaged to a quiet, perfectly mannered (except for the squirrel) wallflower was a sign that the rumors of his misdeeds and poor behavior had been greatly exaggerated.

No pressure.

No pressure at all.

With Kincaid away and Rosemary providing a lovely distraction, he'd almost let himself forget why he'd needed to repair his reputation in the first place. But now that Parliament was in session, time was of the essence. If felony charges were brought against him for Eloise's murder, he'd be marched in front of the House of Lords. And wouldn't that be a spectacle.

Given the lack of a body, or any true confirmation that Eloise was even dead, a guilty verdict would be exceedingly hard to come by. But he didn't want to allow his future to be decided by his peers, of all people. God knew they needed a committee just to figure out what wig to put on. Which was why he needed to convince the lot of them that he was a glowing paragon of virtue. Next best thing to a saint, really.

Short of wearing a halo atop his head, he needed to put on the performance of a lifetime at the Royal Gala. No debauchery. No fornication. No drinking. All of his favorite pastimes were, well, things of the past.

Coincidentally, that was precisely where his guest had come to visit him from.

"Lord Fieldstone," he drawled as he strolled into his study and closed the door behind him with a nudge of his heel. "What brings you to darken my door?"

In the six years since Fieldstone had shaken Sterling awake on that tragic morning, the two men, once best mates, had adhered to an unspoken agreement of avoidance.

There was no anger between them.

No grudge.

Rather, they'd stayed apart because neither had wanted to be reminded of what they'd both tried so damned hard to forget.

The smell of smoke in the air.

The sight of blood, red and wet.

The taste of desperation and fear.

When his throat tightened, Sterling blindly swiped a crystal decanter off a nearby shelf. His entire arm trembling, he poured water into a glass and drank it straight to the bottom, then made himself meet Fieldstone's somewhat baffled gaze.

"Spirits don't seem to agree with me anymore. Or maybe they agreed with me too much." His mouth bent in a wry grin. "Either way, I've given them up."

"I wanted to come and offer my congratulations on your engagement." Despite the levity of his words, Fieldstone's countenance was somber, his brown eyes serious. "Miss Stanhope is an unusual choice for a bride. But I can see that her company must suit you, as you haven't looked in such good health since…" Averting his gaze, he trailed off.

In the tense silence that followed, Sterling refilled his glass with more water. "Since Sebastian died, you mean." To his surprise, that particular knife didn't cut nearly as deep as he'd been expecting. "It's all right. You can say it. You were there, the same as I."

"To this day, I wish that we'd gotten there soon enough to stop it."

"So do I," he said simply. "But that's not how it works, is it?"

Fieldstone furrowed his brow.

"What?"

"You really are different."

"Ah," Sterling said as understanding dawned. "So that's why you're here. To see if I've truly reformed my wicked ways." Water sloshed over the rim of his glass as he spread his arms apart in a mocking gesture of welcome. "How brave of you to enter the home of a murderer."

"I never thought–"

"Didn't you?" he interrupted with a sardonic cant of his head. "Not to worry. You weren't the only one. The entire ton was frothing at the bit to see me stand trial. Some of them still are, I'm sure."

"A lot of the gossip has died down since you became engaged to Miss Stanhope." Fieldstone picked up a small glass figurine of a horse sitting on the middle of a table and ran his thumb across its mane. "I assume that was your intention in selecting her to be your wife."

"My intentions were…varied," Sterling said guardedly.

"I'll admit I never had you picked for the marrying type."

"Neither did I. But Rosemary was–" He stopped short. Scowled into his water.

"Was what?" Fieldstone prompted.

"Unexpected."

"That much is clear." Carefully returning the horse figurine to its place on the table, Fieldstone approached and slapped his hand on Sterling's shoulder. "You really do look better, and I'm glad that you found whatever it was you were searching for."

A brief hesitation, and then Sterling embraced his old friend. "Good to see you again. Let's not wait another six years next time."

"I agree."

Another hearty, very manly squeeze (which was completely different from a hug), and they let go of each other to walk out into the foyer.

"Will you be at the Royal Gala tonight?" asked Sterling.

Slipping into a burgundy frock coat, Fieldstone shook his head. "Couldn't get an invitation this year."

"If only you knew someone who was capable of getting whatever invitation they wanted. Perks of the title and all that."

"It's all right. This was better. Besides, I've a standing appointment at The Black Rose."

The Black Rose was an exclusive, high price club in the middle of the theater district. It had been a regular haunt for both men once upon a time, and where Sterling had first met Eloise after he watched her in a memorable (and completely nude) performance as Cleopatra in a very loosely adapted version of Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra .

"Go on, then," he said. "Wouldn't want to be late for that."

"You should join me next time. The girls will be pleased to see you."

"Course they would, given what they've had to work with." He delivered a playful punch to his friend's arm. "Unfortunately, I really am mostly reformed. And engaged, in case you've already forgotten."

"What does that have to do with…oh," said Fieldstone when he saw Sterling's expression. "You're serious. About Miss Stanhope, that is."

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm marrying her, aren't I?"

"Yes, but I thought…never mind. Clearly, I was wrong. Enjoy the gala. I'll be thinking of you while I've gorgeous women climbing on my lap at The Black Rose."

"God, I hope not." Quietly musing, Sterling waited until his friend had nearly reached the street before he called out, "How did you know?"

"Know what?" Fieldstone shouted back.

"That I was searching for something."

A long pause, and then: "Aren't we all?"