Page 16 of The Lady’s Deception

When Molly had tucked her securely into bed—an odd yet comforting feeling in the middle of the afternoon—she promised to return in a few moments. “I’ll fetch that plaster for your head.”

“Thank you, Molly. And please, I wish—I wish you would call me Rosamund. At least in private.” It was a liberty she had never before allowed. Charles would have fired any servant who had dared to take her up on the offer. But Molly was friendly and young—about her own age, Rosamund guessed—and might be an ally. She hadn’t had one of those since her mother had died.

Molly regarded her skeptically for a moment, then shrugged. “If you say so, miss.”

When she had gone, Rosamund leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes, hoping to quiet the throbbing behind her eye. Solitude did nothing to quiet her mind, however.

Far from providing answers, the conversation with Molly had only further piqued Rosamund’s curiosity. She could almost admire Mr. Burke’s willingness to stay in Dublin with his youngest sisters—her own brother often spoke of the many sacrifices he had been required to make on her behalf. But to hear Molly tell it, Mr. Burke’s actions had actually required little sacrifice at all. He’d wanted an excuse to maintain the distance between him and the rest of his family and had leaped on one when it had presented itself.

Had his decision been driven purely by his dislike of England and the English? Was his siblings’ choice to leave Ireland the source of his deep sorrow?

Or was something else to blame?

Chapter 7

Paris laid his palms flat against the cool leather of the chair’s arms but made no other effort to rise. It was late and the house was silent. Past time to retire. But he knew with the certainty born of a hundred nights’ previous experience that he would not sleep if he went to bed.

Restlessness was nothing new. It had been driving him all his life. For as long as he could remember, he had wanted what lay just beyond his reach. He had believed anything was attainable with effort.

As he’d grown from a boy to a man, he had focused all his energies on securing an independent future for Ireland. He’d joined the radical Society of United Irishmen as a matter of course, though membership in the organization was considered treason. A proud patriot, he’d been more than willing to take a personal risk if it might in the end benefit the cause of Irish independence.

It’s good to chase your dreams, his father would occasionally remind him, whenever he found him still poring over a stack of law books as dawn streaked the sky, or caught him slipping out to a clandestine meeting under cover of darkness. Just don’t let them chase you.

Then, last spring, the spark of rebellion had caught and flared to life. Everything had been destroyed in the subsequent conflagration. He’d lost his oldest and dearest friend. He had very nearly lost his brother. His life’s work had been reduced to a pile of ashes.

His father had been right, as he was about most things. Paris’s dreams had indeed turned the tables on him. How quickly they had become nightmares.

Was that why he refused his bed? Good God, he was worse than his baby sisters, cringing at every shadow and afraid of being alone. Enough childishness. He heaved himself from the chair and picked up the snuffers to extinguish the candles. A noise behind him gave him pause. The creak of hinges. Slowly he turned, the thin metal implement still gripped in his hand, the feeblest of weapons. A figure slipped into the room, and the candlelight caught a gleam of gold.

Rosamund!

Curse Molly for her discovery and letting it slip. Of course the woman had a given name as unusual, as beautiful as she. Well, he simply wouldn’t let the association take root in his mind. No silken petals dewed by a passing summer shower. No delicate perfume that lingered on the warm air.

He let the snuffers clatter onto the tabletop, watched in satisfaction when she started at the noise, then gave a mocking bow. “You’re up late, Miss Gorse.”

“Or early,” she replied in her quiet, contrary, oh-so-English way.

Yes, that was it. Gorse. Prickly. Perfectly ordinary. Vaguely pleasing in appearance at certain seasons, but only from a distance.

She came closer. Over her nightclothes she wore a brown flannel dressing gown he guessed had belonged to Cami, as its hems dragged along the carpet with every step. It should not have been an appealing costume. Nevertheless, he found it difficult to tear his gaze away.

He blamed her hair. The way it cascaded down her back in loose waves. The way the candlelight rippled through it with every step she took. Did it still smell of spring rain?

Then he glimpsed a bit of court-plaster near her temple, too little to disguise either the bruise or the lump. The sight of it chastened him. “You are recovered from this afternoon’s incident?” he asked, softening his voice.

She smiled. “Incident seems rather grandiose.” A few feet from him, she stopped, dipped into a shallow curtsy. The movement sent more sparks shimmering through her golden hair. “You must imagine I make a daily habit of falling into a swoon.”

“No, I…” An uncertain laugh broke free. “Do you?”

Instead of widening, the smile slipped from her lips. “I am sorry, Mr. Burke. You hired me to relieve one burden and instead I have become another.” Worry skated across her features. He might almost have called it fear. Then she rallied, drawing back her shoulders in that way she had and lifting her chin in a posture of determination. “But it won’t continue. You have my word that from here on out, I shan’t cause you another moment’s trouble.”

He didn’t believe her, of course. Wasn’t even sure he wanted to believe her.

“Miss Gorse,” he said, at once reassuring and teasing, “I have five siblings. What is a day without trouble?” Her smile slid back into place, though it retained a hint of wariness. “Speaking of, you’re having trouble sleeping, I take it.”

“Yes. Er, not exactly. At Molly’s insistence, I rested all afternoon. And all evening. I—I couldn’t lie in bed another moment. I thought perhaps a book…”

Her gaze shifted to the compact library that surrounded his father’s desk, and his own followed. “There’s plenty on those shelves that would cure insomnia, to be sure,” he said. “Legal tomes, scientific works…”