Page 7 of The Lady’s Deception

“We were to have gone with them. But I got the spots.” Guilt infused Bell’s confession.

Daphne shrugged philosophically. “So they left us with Paris instead.”

When she’d heard his name, she’d assumed a reference to Shakespeare or Greek mythology. She’d not imagined its botanical origins. With what sort of plant did he share it? Something striking, she felt certain. And—if Daphne’s name was any indication—potentially dangerous.

She remembered that she had given him her name as well. No use in trying to disguise it now. “I’m Miss Gorse.”

“Truly?” Bell giggled.

“Papa would say it was a sign you were meant to be a part of this family,” Daphne said, more diplomatically. “He’s always delighted by anything to do with plants.”

At the word family, her heart gave a wayward twinge. “And your sister, the botanist? What would she say?”

“Erica? Oh, she’d tell you all sorts of things you didn’t want to know. About where gorse grows—”

“Which is precisely everywhere in Ireland,” Bell interjected.

“And probably some other stuff no one cares about. The shape of its leaves or its root structure or how it survives under adverse conditions.”

How it survives under adverse conditions… Perhaps it was in her blood, then, the instinct to fight for survival. She took another quick glance around the room, its pale blue walls brightened by the light of a single, large window. Hardly adverse conditions, even if it wasn’t quite the style of living to which the daughter of a viscount was accustomed. “It sounds to me as though you had an eager teacher in your sister.”

“Cami was always trying to get us to remember stuff too,” Bell agreed wearily, which earned her another nudge. She ignored it. “What’s your given name, Miss Gorse?”

Impertinence. She ought to nip it in the bud. Except that the very phrase threatened to bring another smile to her lips. Rather too on the nose when debating how best to discipline the children of a botanist, wasn’t it?

“Rosamund. It means—”

“Rose of the world,” Bell translated easily.

Hadn’t Mr. Burke described his sisters as ignorant? Why, this slip of a girl knew as much Latin as her supposed governess. Likely more. When Rosamund could not entirely contain her bemusement, Bell gave a small, embarrassed shrug. “I like words.”

“Then,” Rosamund declared firmly, setting her hands on the mattress at either side of her hips to push herself to her feet, “we’d best begin our lessons.”

She wobbled. Tipped precariously forward. Managed at the last moment to shift her balance so that when she sank down, it was onto the bed and not the floor this time.

“You’d best have breakfast first, I think,” Daphne said.

Bell eyed her critically. “And maybe a wash, too.”

“I’ll send Molly. She’s our housemaid.”

“Cami and Erica left some things in the clothespress,” Bell added with a nod toward the wardrobe. “You can borrow whatever you need until your trunk arrives.”

Her trunk. Trunks, actually. But dresses weren’t all she’d left behind, hopefully forever, at Kilready Castle. Rosamund hadn’t the strength to contain the shudder that passed through her. “Thank you,” she managed, though the words came out as little more than a whisper. “I shall join you in the schoolroom in an hour, then.”

Bell looked quizzically at Daphne. Daphne shrugged, then turned back to Rosamund and nodded. “Yes, Miss Gorse.” With a single, quick curtsy, they were gone, leaving her alone in quiet contemplation of the enormity of what she had done.

How long would it take Mr. Paris Burke—who, for all his good looks, might prove to be as sharp as one of his bevy of sisters—to uncover her deception and send her away?

* * * *

Chasing the fading fragments of a particularly pleasant dream, Paris burrowed deeper into his pillow. But mere goose down could do little to mute the grinding, rumbling, thumping din that had awakened him.

At first, the noise seemed to have its origins inside his head, which throbbed like a fresh wound. Had miniature workmen sawed their way into his skull and taken tiny pickaxes to his brain? Good Lord. He must have deceived himself as to the quality—or quantity—of claret he’d consumed last night. Perhaps both.

He ought to know by now that it was little use trying to drown his sorrows; they’d long since learned to swim.

Cautiously he squinted, opening one eye just enough to determine it was midmorning. After a moment, he hoisted himself up on one elbow, tried in vain to force both eyes open at once, and finally collapsed on the pillow in defeat to crawl back into his dream. Something about a woman…