Chapter Sixteen

"Stop fidgeting," Lady Ellinwood barked as Rosemary bounced lightly on her heels when she heard the sound of an approaching carriage. "A duchess does not fidget."

"I am not a duchess yet." Belly fluttering with excitement, Rosemary pressed her face to the window as a magnificent black town coach, pulled by a prancing quartet of gray horses all with feather plumes attached to the crown of their bridles, came to a halt outside.

"All the more reason to behave like one." Lady Ellinwood struck her cane on the floor. "Now come away from the window and present yourself accordingly."

With great reluctance, Rosemary moved to her grandmother's side but made sure to position herself so that she still had a view of the town coach. After all, it wasn't every day that a massive carriage arrived to ferry her off to a fancy gala. Despite her pink monstrosity of a gown, she couldn't help but feel a bit like a princess. And she was ready to see her prince.

A footman in formal livery, silver buttons shining in the moonlight, opened the carriage door, and her breath caught on a sharp intake of air when Sterling stepped out.

No.

Not Sterling.

This… this was the Duke of Hanover.

Formally attired in an ebony jacket that fit his lean torso and broad, muscular shoulders like a glove, a gray necktie, crisp white shirt, and straight trousers, he was the epitome of a well-dressed gentleman.

In the subtle glow of lamplight, his skin was golden tan, as if he'd just spent an afternoon basking in the sun. His dark hair was swept straight back off his temple and set lightly with pomade in a simple, masculine style that suited him far better than the elaborately coiffed designs being adopted by every dandy in London. He had even shaved, revealing a strong jaw underneath all that scruff.

As if he sensed her watching him, he abruptly lifted his head and stared straight through the glass to where she stood in the middle of the foyer. For a moment, she found herself intimidated by this striking stranger who bore little resemblance to the charming, disheveled rogue she'd agreed to marry. Then he winked at her, and his mouth curved in a grin that was as wolfish as it was familiar, and her unease escaped between her lips on a sigh of relief.

There was her Sterling.

He may have looked like a duke, but underneath all the impeccably tailored clothing he was still the same scoundrel that had stolen her heart.

"Lady Ellinwood," he said, addressing her grandmother first in a deep bow. "If I were twenty years older, I'd be tempted to leave your granddaughter at home and escort you to the gala in her stead. You are positively regal this evening."

" Hmph ," Lady Ellinwood sniffed, but she didn't quite manage to turn her head to the side fast enough to hide the tiny smile that played across her lips.

"And you, my dear Miss Stanhope," Sterling said as he straightened and cast his gaze upon Rosemary. His eyes widened before his face went perfectly blank; a slate being wiped clean of chalk. "You look…"

"Yes?" she said innocently. Enjoying herself, she spun in a circle to show off every single ribbon, bow, and tuft. "Isn't it the most gorgeous gown you've ever seen? Flawless, even."

"Ah…"

"My personal modiste has assured me that my granddaughter's gown is the very height of fashion," Lady Ellinwood said sharply, leaning on her cane. "Do you disagree, Your Grace?"

Rosemary bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a snort of laughter. Traditionally, it was Sterling who gained amusement at the expense of others. How entertaining–and a tad gratifying–to have the shoe placed on the other foot.

Her humor faded when he stepped closer to her and raised her hand to his mouth. He met her gaze across the uneven bump of her knuckles and even through the thin layer of her elbow-length satin glove she felt the possessive warmth of his breath as it fanned across her skin.

"You, Miss Stanhope," he said in a voice that was husky and deep and caused a flash of heat to lick low in her belly, "are the most beautiful creature I have ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes upon."

They were in the foyer with Rosemary's grandmother watching on. But with those words, Sterling stripped her bare. It didn't matter what color her dress was or the number of bows it had (212, per Rebecca's counting). She could have donned a vegetable sack, and through Sterling's gaze…through Sterling's gaze, she would still feel like a princess.

For a young woman who had never quite felt enough ….beautiful enough, fashionable enough, attractive enough…there was power to be found in feeling pretty. For as much as she told herself that she didn't care what she wore, or what she looked like, or how many of her peers giggled into their fans when she walked past, there was a part of her that did care. That did want someone to gaze at her and think, "My goodness, she's lovely–where has she been hiding all this time?" To which she'd reply, "I'm here. I've always been here. Just waiting to be seen for who I am."

Waiting, as it so happened, for Sterling.

"Shall we?" he murmured. "Wouldn't want to be late for your first Royal Gala."

"I am very nervous," she confessed under her breath after he had assisted her grandmother, and then her, into the carriage. Paneled in rich mahogany with velvet seats and gold tassels, it was easily the most opulent vehicle she'd ever occupied. Smooth as well, she noted, when they set off at a brisk trot with nary a bump or a bobble.

"Don't be." Leaning comfortably into his seat, Sterling sent her another wink from his side of the town coach. "Most everyone is going to be looking at me and those who aren't will be so blinded by the sheer majesty of your ball gown that they'll be struck speechless and you won't have to talk to them."

"It is majestic, isn't it?" Lady Ellinwood interceded. "I will inform my modiste you said as much, Your Grace. She will be honored by such a high compliment."

"Perhaps Mrs. Broomall could even make His Grace a matching jacket," Rosemary suggested. "The pink would truly complement his coloring. Don't you agree, Grandmother?"

"Indeed. An excellent suggestion, my dear," Lady Ellinwood said in a rare show of approval. "I shall visit her on the morrow and request that she set aside some fabric. If there is any left, that is, given that I am certain eager mothers will be knocking on Mrs. Broomall's door come sunrise requesting to be dressed just like the future Duchess of Hanover."

"Oh, drats." Sterling snapped his fingers. "And I was so hoping for that coat."

"Not to worry," Rosemary said cheerfully. "Given that I shouldn't wear this gown again after showcasing it at such a public venue, I'm sure Mrs. Broomall can salvage enough of the fabric to make a formal dress jacket. Trousers, too. Maybe even a waistcoat or a hat! You don't mind bows, do you, Your Grace?"

His resulting glare roused a cheeky smile from her lips and set her nerves at ease just in time for their arrival at Marlborough House.

Set far back behind a towering iron fence and thick green shrubbery, the London residence of Prince Albert and Princess Alexandra was a sandstone replication of a Grecian temple in the classical Greek revival style that had recently taken both Europe and America by storm. Aside from the pillars lining the front, everything was squarely cut with an emphasis on long, straight lines and perfect symmetry.

The manor was three stories high and every window shone from within, illuminating the entire house and its surrounding gardens and terraces in a soft, welcoming glow as lively music spilled through the open front doors and London's elite poured from their carriages to rush up the marble staircase in a convergence of obscene wealth and privilege.

To Rosemary's relief, Mrs. Broomall wasn't the only modiste who had outfitted her client in a bold color. The Royal Gala was the place to see and be seen, and no one wanted to go unnoticed.

There were gowns of blue and yellow, purple and green. Some women had peacock feathers in their hair while others carried mink stoles draped over their shoulders, the poor animal's fur dyed to match their dresses. The men were just as vibrant in jackets of emerald satin lined with gold brocade and powdered wigs that heralded back to a bygone era. When she questioned Sterling about it, he merely shrugged.

"Those must be the composers. Serious lot. Each one fancies themselves to be the next Bach or Beethoven. I'm sure they believe that if they dress the part, the symphonies will ride in on a German unicorn of inspiration."

Her lips twitched. "I see."

Smaller carriages and clusters of guests made way for their town coach as the matching grays pranced straight up to the main entrance, feathered plumes bouncing with every step. Sterling helped her dismount before he ducked back into the coach for Lady Ellinwood, leaving Rosemary temporarily standing by herself; the sole recipient of dozens of curious stares. Awkwardly linking her hands behind her, she managed a small, stiff smile. This was, without a doubt, her worst nightmare. And again, she wondered if she had what it took to be a duchess. To parade herself about like a show pony for the masses. A different ball every night. An endless stream of people to impress. Names to remember. And what about Sir Reginald?

She'd left him at home for the Royal Gala because, well, it was the Royal Gala. But he did so enjoy their outings together. No one minded when a wallflower sat by herself in a corner with a squirrel on her shoulder. She was nothing more than an obscure footnote. But what would they say when she was a duchess?

She jumped when she felt a light pressure at the small of her back.

"What's the matter?" Sterling asked with concern as he removed his hand. "You're as white as a sheet."

"I…I am not sure that I can do this," she said in a low voice as they proceeded through the crowd, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries. On Sterling's other side, Lady Ellinwood was in her element.

Having grown up the eldest daughter of an earl before lowering herself to marry a mere viscount, she was accustomed to the attention that came along with rank and title. If Rosemary didn't know any better, she'd almost suspect that her grandmother was sporting a real, honest-to-goodness smile. Which only made her feel worse.

"Do what?" Sterling asked.

But before she could muster a response, they were approached by an older, robust-looking gentleman boasting a salt-and-pepper moustache and his lady wife with chestnut hair threaded lightly with gray and hazel eyes that flicked curiously over Rosemary before going to Sterling.

"Your Grace," said the man in a booming, hearty voice. "I'd heard you would be in attendance. Good to see you, good to see you!"

"Lord Asterly, you old goat." The two men shook hands. "It is my great pleasure to introduce my fiancée, Miss Rosemary Stanhope, and her grandmother, Lady Ellinwood."

Rosemary smiled tentatively. "It's nice to make your acquaintance."

"Indeed," said Lady Ellinwood before she spied a circle of her close friends standing right inside the doorway. Excusing herself, she marched away, her cane striking a loud staccato on the marble stone.

"I must admit," Lord Asterly began in a near shout, "my wife and I have been eager to meet the young woman who got this one to finally propose." He nudged Sterling with his elbow. "Isn't that right, Lady Asterly?"

Lady Asterly patted her husband's arm. "Don't embarrass the young couple, dear."

"Embarrass them?" he blustered. "I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm congratulating them."

"Senility," Sterling remarked mildly. "Terrible disease. Our thoughts and prayers are with you, Lady Asterly."

Her mouth curved. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Senile?" Lord Asterly huffed. "I'm as healthy as a horse!"

"And deaf as a naked mole rat," his wife mumbled under her breath.

Rosemary's ears perked. Courtesy of her extensive reading, she knew that naked mole rats were, in fact, mostly deaf. Without hair cells to amplify sound, they relied mostly on their sense of touch to navigate their underground burrows. As they were native to the dry, arid regions of East Africa and did not do well in captivity, their existence was not widely known. Until now, she'd never heard anyone reference them before.

"Have you ever seen one?" she asked Lady Asterly eagerly. "A naked mole rat. I just read the most fascinating article in Gardner's Chronicle where Charles Darwin compared their social organization to that of ants or wasps, making them the only mammal known to man that relies on an–"

"Eusocial structure for the survival of their species," Lady Asterly finished. "Yes, I found it most informative. But no, I've never seen one in person. I should like to." She looked at Rosemary with renewed interest. "You are remarkably well versed in rodents, Miss Stanhope."

"Don't encourage her," Sterling groaned.

"What on earth is a naked holy rat?" Lord Asterly asked.

"A naked mole rat, dear. Nothing to concern yourself with. Why don't we let His Grace and Miss Stanhope make their rounds? I am sure we are not the only ones who wish to express their congratulations." Lady Asterly took her husband's arm, but paused when she walked past Rosemary to say, "Do find me later. I should like to continue our conversation."

"I've known Lord Asterly since I was a boy," Sterling shared as they continued up the steps and through the front entryway into the foyer where guests took the opportunity to mingle and converse amidst themselves before continuing on to the grand ballroom. "He was a close friend of my father's, and my mother and Lady Asterly were fond of each other."

"They seemed delightful." Rosemary's anxiety had faded considerably courtesy of their brief interaction. Maybe some–all right, probably most–of the people surrounding them didn't share anything in common with her. More than a few were probably still questioning why Sterling had proposed in the first place. But perhaps she'd been giving their opinion far too much credit.

For every Navessa, there was a Lady Asterly.

And an Evie and Joanna, besides.

The wallflowers, the dreamers, the bibliophiles–they were out there. In a sea of women trying to fit in, they were the ones who weren't afraid to stick out. To be different. To bring books into ballrooms and speak their minds and be true to themselves, no matter what anyone else thought.

"I'm sure you say that about every person who knows what a naked mole rat is," said Sterling, casting her an amused glance.

"They really are remarkable creatures," she began in earnest. "Did you know they spend the entirety of their lives underground? As a result, they're completely blind in addition to being deaf."

"Poor devils," he grimaced.

"Actually, a recent excavation of an abandoned colony revealed–"

"No," he interrupted, "I'm afraid I have to cut you off there. I've reached my naked mole rat quota for the evening."

"Should you ever like to learn more, you're welcome to my copy of Gardener's Chronicle ," she said seriously. "I have already underlined the most interesting and informative parts."

"I'll keep that in mind."

After collecting Lady Ellinwood, they advanced into the ballroom where they were officially announced…and after that, the night became a bit of a blur as Rosemary found herself inundated with a swarming barrage of well-wishers who wanted a not-so-discreet look at the untitled and largely unknown wallflower who had managed to snag herself the greatest catch of the Season.

"…when will you be married?"

"…what will you wear?"

"…salmon is such a striking color on you."

"…more of a pink, really."

"… I wouldn't dare to wear it."

"…very brave."

After nodding and smiling until her jaw and neck ached, she managed to break free. Unfortunately, Sterling was nowhere to be found. He'd been swept away by a trio of lords before he'd even had the opportunity to ask her to waltz and she hadn't seen him since. Her grandmother was similarly missing and Lady Asterly was dancing, leaving Rosemary to fend for herself.

If this was a normal ball and she was her normal, forgettable self, this was the point in the evening where she'd pull her out her book, find a comfortable chair, and commence reading until Lady Ellinwood decided it was time for them to return home. There was a line of chairs on the far side of the room. And they looked, she noted with a little pang of wistfulness, very comfortable. But when a fox was being run to ground by a pack of hounds, it knew better than to hide in plain sight.

Shamelessly ducking behind a passing servant to hide from a fresh battalion of bright-eyed debutantes who wanted to know all the tricks to catching a duke, she waited until they'd rushed past to scurry out onto the nearest terrace.

With all the excitement going on inside the manor, there was hardly anyone outside of it. Save for a group of middle-aged gentlemen blowing cigar smoke into the cool, crisp autumn air, she was alone. A welcome reprieve after what she'd faced in the ballroom. What she would continue to face until the fervor of her engagement had died down. Even then, she and Sterling would always be the recipients of extra attention wherever they went. She had only to glimpse the crowd surrounding the Prince of Wales and his Scandinavian princess to see that.

Not to say that a duke and duchess were royalty .

But where the ton was concerned, they were far too close for Rosemary's comfort.

She nibbled her bottom lip as her trepidation resurfaced. When Sterling had insisted that she attend the Royal Gala, she'd never imagined it would become the source from which all of her darkest doubts would fester and grow. It was all too much too soon, and she yearned for the quiet solitude of Hawkridge Manor when it was just the two of them.

Things had been simpler then. Easier. Now, secret kisses in the library had been replaced with hasty marriage proposals and instead of a carriage ride into town, they were attending a Royal Gala. Was it any wonder the ground under her feet was spinning faster than she could keep up? Prior to becoming Sterling's fiancée, she was known as the woman with a squirrel in her pocket. In a matter of weeks, she'd gone from the Squirrel Girl to the future Duchess of Hanover.

All things being equal, she preferred the former title.

Her gown rustled as she crossed the terrace and leaned against the balcony to gaze contemplatively at the rose garden below. Had Joanna and Evie been besieged with similar questions and moments of uncertainty after they'd agreed to marry Kincaid and Weston? Probably not. They were both so confident. So sure of themselves and what they wanted.

"Here you are," said Sterling as he stepped out through the glass French doors. "I've been searching everywhere." He nodded a greeting to the men smoking their cigars and then joined Rosemary at the far end of the terrace. "What are we looking at?" he whispered, following her gaze into the roses.

"Nothing." As if things weren't maudlin enough, to her utter embarrassment, she felt little hornets sting the corners of her eyes. Then, without any warning, she began to cry.

"What's this?" Sterling demanded gruffly as he grasped her by the shoulders and folded her into his chest. He was warm, and sturdy, and roguishly perfect. A safe harbor in a storm of silk and satin and snide remarks.

Blowing out a stream of air to steady herself, she tilted her head back and blinked at him through her tears. "I-I don't belong here. I stick out like a sore thumb. My dress…" She shrugged helplessly. "It's awful."

" I wasn't going to say anything." Curling his finger, he rested it under her chin, his gray eyes filled with concern. "Then again, none of your dresses are about to win any awards, are they? Boxy rubbish, the lot of them. Just think of the bonfire we'll have when we're married. I am going to have to put Higgins in charge of it, or else we'll set the entire country ablaze."

She gave a watery laugh. Trust Sterling to say the absolute worst thing possible…and somehow make it better. "It's my grandmother's modiste, Mrs. Broomall. Her designs are a tad…antiquated."

"We'll find you another modiste. The best one in all of Europe. Your cousin, Evie, will turn green from jealousy, and won't that be a sight."

"It's not…it's not the gown. Not really."

"No." He tracked a tear as it rolled across her cheek and then dashed it away. "I did not think it was."

How to explain without sounding ungrateful for all that she'd already been given and was about to receive? For most women, becoming a duchess would be a dream come true. They'd be counting down the days to their wedding. Not standing in the dark on a terrace wishing they were home with a cup of tea and the latest edition of Gardner's Chronicle .

"Your Grace–" she began, but he cut her short with a wry look.

"I've seen your squirrel, Ravina. I believe we can dispel with the formalities."

"But that's just it, I don't know if we can," she said, hands fluttering in distress as she turned away from him to stare blindly out at the garden. Narrow walking paths dressed in white stone formed a rectangular grid pattern. Each rosebush was of equal size with the same number of blooms. They were beautiful, in a sterile sort of way. But what about the roses that didn't conform? The ones that wanted to grow wild? What happened to those? She had a feeling that she already knew. And that it was the same fate that awaited her if she tried to curb her uniqueness in an attempt to conform to a Society that had never shown any inclination to accept her as she was. "I don't...I don't know if I can be a good duchess."

"That's fine, as I'm a shoddy duke." The tips of his fingers skimmed along the curve of her spine before settling with feathery softness on the small of her back. "In case you haven't noticed."

She frowned at him. "I'm being serious."

"So am I."

How to make him understand?

"You are a duke," she began slowly, carefully. "If I marry you, I will become your duchess. There will be certain expectations placed upon me. Expectations that I am not confident I can meet. In fact, I'm sure that I cannot. I am not...I am not ignorant of the fact that the ton finds me peculiar."

"Did someone say something?" Sterling's entire body coiled; a lion ready to spring in defense of his lioness. "Who was it? Tell me their name."

"No one said anything. Not directly to my face, at any rate. But they didn't have to. I know what they think of me. And it's all right. That is, it was all right," she amended, "before we became engaged. Don't you see? I don't enjoy these fancy galas. I'm a fish out of water in them, flopping about. And it's not just this one. I'll be a wretched hostess for the house parties we'll have to throw. I am terrible at remembering names, and I always eat too much cake, and I struggle to stay awake for the parlor games."

"Who said we have to throw house parties?" he asked blankly. "Was it Weston? I bet it was Weston, that arse. Don't listen to a word he says. He's only trying to get out of the one he's been saddled with since his father made it his responsibility."

"No. I've not spoken to the Earl of Hawkridge. It's common knowledge that having a house party is simply what's expected of a duke and duchess," she said, gesturing vaguely with her arm. "They have elaborate parties, and attend a different social function every night, and speak at charity events. All while dressing fashionably and being charming and popular."

Sterling shuddered. "That sounds bloody awful . Let's not do any of it."

"But…but we'll have to," she said, perplexed by his response. " I'll have to. And I am going to be terrible at it. Just awful. I can already tell."

"And?" he asked, arching a brow.

"And…and I thought we should have this discussion now, before things proceed any further."

"By ‘things' I assume you to mean our engagement."

When she nodded, he muttered a curse and raked a hand through his hair, mussing the pomade. "For being the most intelligent woman I've ever met, you are remarkably dimwitted."

Her lips parted. "Excuse me?"

He cupped her face between his large hands, his thumbs sweeping away what remained of her tears. His eyes were piercing in their intensity, his temple creased, his mouth a firm, somber line. In all the time they'd known each other, she had never seen him look so serious. "I am not marrying you because of who I want you to become. I am marrying you because of who you already are. I've no interest in a duchess who wants to pack our house full of pompous aristocrats every week. And while I enjoy a good outing now and again, I've sowed my wild oats. There is nothing that a ball or a pub or, God forbid, a charity dinner could possibly offer that would be better than staying home with my wife, if that's what pleases her." His head canted to the side. "Assuming, of course, that we'd both be in some state of undress."

Her face warmed. "But…but you wanted to come here, tonight."

"There will be some events that we probably ought to attend. This being one of them, as I'd rather not have Prince Albert thinking any more poorly of me than he already does."

"Why would he think poorly of you?"

Sterling winced. "A few years ago, I may or may not have…erm…kissed his wife."

"YOU KISSED THE PRINCESS OF–"

"Please keep your voice down," he hissed.

"Sorry. It's just that… you kissed the Princess of Wales? " Rosemary was not oblivious to Sterling's well-earned reputation as a rake. As she wasn't a jealous person by nature, and he'd shown no indication that he intended to pursue a relationship outside of their marriage bed, his past conquests were not something that she dwelled on very much. But now that she knew one of those conquests was none other than Princess Alexandra, future queen-empress…

"It was dark. There was wine. A complete accident. Could have happened to anyone. And as I said, it was years ago. Practically another lifetime." His brow furrowed. "I believe we've gotten a tad off track. What I am trying to express is that I don't give a damn if you want to attend every soiree from here to Paris. Or if you want to stay home and knit stockings for Sir Reginald. I am marrying you for you , Rosemary. To hell with anyone else's expectations. They're not important. We are important. The two of us. That's it."

Her name.

He'd said her name.

Tears sprang to her eyes again, but these didn't sting. "You're certain? Because soon, you won't be able to change your mind, and I just want to make sure you know that I'm not…I'm not going to be a conventional sort of duchess."

He kissed the middle of her forehead, then lowered his arms. "I proposed after your pet squirrel bit me on the thigh. I think I've an idea of what I am getting myself into." Behind him, the trio of gentleman snuffed out their cigars and started back in. "Trust me, if I could rid myself of my title, I would. But you were the one who told me that a title doesn't define a person."

So she had.

Advice, it appeared, that she'd forgotten to heed for herself. But then that was what anxiety did. When it built and built, like water coming to boil in a kettle, the pressure made it impossible to see anything past the roiling bubbles.

"Should we return inside?" he asked. "Or do you want to remain here?"

"Here. Just a little while longer." Turning around so that her back was to the garden, she tilted her face to the diamonds twinkling in a black velvet cloak. "The stars are pretty tonight, aren't they?"

"Stunning," he replied huskily, except he wasn't looking at the sky. He was staring straight at her…and the smoky glint of desire in his eyes was as bright as the stars.

She wet her lips when the muscles in her belly quivered. "I've–I've always found autumn to be the best season for stargazing."

"Have you?" He prowled to her. There was really no other word for it. No other word to describe the sensual, sinuous ripple of his muscles as he placed an arm on either side of the railing, effectively trapping her between his body at the edge of the balcony. He bent his head, his mouth a hair's breadth from her own. "The moonlight suits you, little hawfinch."

"Are you referring to the bird?" she said, momentarily confused. "Did you know that their beaks are strong enough to–"

On a groan of laughter, he kissed her.