Page 21 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

He set his candle down on the small table beside him. Some of the easy humor went out of his face as he knelt in front of her.

“But I did come for another reason, other than simply ensuring myself of your welfare. I wanted you to know, Miss Winthrop, that whatever anyone chooses to make of tonight, you need not suffer it alone. If anyone thinks to make sport of this moment at your expense, I hope you will allow me to be the one to redirect them to the truth. We have only known each other for a short while, but I would like to think we could continue to share each other’s company. This one moment has not deterred me. Has it deterred you?”

The kindness of his words was undeserved, and Rosalie felt a fresh wave of shame roll over her—not for the choking, or even for the scene at the table—but for the truth she could not outrun no matter how much she turned her thoughts from it.

Even now, with a good man kneeling before her and offering to court her, some disloyal part of her mind kept drifting back to that solid arm locked beneath her breast and the fingers that had lodged themselves between her ribs the seconds after disaster had struck.

She looked into Mr. Sinclair’s kind eyes, as he offered her the sensible and natural devotion that she had spent four Seasons telling herself she wanted above all things. It evoked nothing but grateful fondness in her, whereby every rule these things were meant to work something warmer should have stirred instead.

“Thank you,” she made herself say sincerely, even if it was not the whole of what she felt. “That is very good of you and reassures me greatly. Yes... I would like to continue to receive your company... and your support.”

“Good. And it is no trouble at all.” He smiled, and Rosalie had to look down at her hands, unable to bear being looked at so kindly while thinking of someone else. “Shall I fetch your mother, then? I expect she has finished reassuring Lady Peachey by now and will want to see you for herself. Then we can all resume our meal as it was meant to be, before things took their funny turn.”

“Please,” Rosalie said, grateful for the excuse to be alone for another moment. She watched him and her throat went tight. He paused to say something quietly and gently to the housekeeper.

Rosalie wondered about the Duke of Hartmere, about what he was thinking, and about where he was, if he was not coming to check on her as Mr. Sinclair had. And why that was.

The next day, Rosalie’s mother suggested they go for a walk in the park. The sky was growing more gray by the hour, and there was no telling when the rain would stop once it finally began. The sunlight was thin but determined through the clouds. There was the ordinary crunch of gravel underfoot, maternal and paternal voices drifting somewhere behind her. Her parents were deep in conversation about something that was making them laugh. They had not spoken about Rosalie’s episode since they had returned home early from the dinner the night prior.

She had not seen Mr. Sinclair or the duke after leaving her private room with Mrs. French. They had herded her straight to a carriage and then home. Emily, whom they had invited to join them at her mother’s insistence and who was unaware of what had transpired, had not mentioned anything related to the evening either.

The girls walked arm in arm past a pretty marble bandstand. The park stretched out before them, mostly empty except for the chestnut trees. The fashionable main promenade was far behind them. They were closer to Rotten Row. Rosalie clutched Emily close to her, trying to listen to the birds and the sounds from the nearby lake.

“Beatrice has written to my mother,” Emily said the moment they were far enough ahead of Rosalie’s parents to speak freely, covering the birdsong with the sound of her voice. “Not directly about T, naturally. She is too clever for that. But enough little hints... A remark about how his uncle has been seen in certain company of late... Something about how some families cannot help attaching themselves above their station, written with a joke, so that if my mother repeated it back to her Beatrice could claim she meant nothing at all by it. I detest that woman. My mother has not said his name aloud in a week, and usually she mentions him at least once a day in warning.”

“I am so sorry for you, and sorry that Beatrice Levant exists.” Rosalie’s stomach twisted, and she patted her friend’s arm where it rested against hers. She could not talk about the terrace, because as far as Emily knew, she had kissed Thomas as planned. The lie was swallowing her piece by piece. “The gentleman... You have received no word from him?”

Emily slowed her pace and looked down. “Nothing. Not a note.” After a moment, she looked up. “Please tell me you do not blame yourself. You did as I asked, and I will be grateful to you until the day I die. I know you would not lie to me and say you kissed someone when you didn’t. There was nothing wrong with your kiss. I’m sure it was lovely.”

Rosalie swallowed hard. She wanted to tell Emily the truth, but she couldn’t form the words. Something was stopping her. Her own shame, the memory of the Duke of Hartmere, the fear that if Emily knew about the reality of that kiss, someone would find out what had happened. Her eyes smarted with tears. How could she make things right for Emily and Thomas without compromising herself? She hated the kiss. Everything had been so simple before that kiss.

“Come now, Rosie.” Emily cooed, shaking her head. “You’re more upset about this than me. Sometimes the two of us have gone weeks without writing to one another. A little delay means nothing. He could be busy. Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes.” Rosalie tried to smile. “I do trust you, but...”

Emily squeezed her arm fiercely. “Then trust me that everything will turn out as planned. None of this is your fault. It is Beatrice’s doing, and my mother’s stubbornness, and possibly a little bit my father’s fault for being under my mother’s thumb. And maybe my own, I’ll admit, for falling in love in the first place. No... You played your part admirably. The rest will be what it will be.”

“Not all is lost, then.”

“Not at all.” Emily exhaled. “The situation is far from hopeless, I think. My father was a young man once with friends in all sorts of places. He sometimes remembers what it was like to be looked down upon by people who had done nothing to deserve their own good fortune. I think given time he might yet come round, whatever my mother says. And the letter from T could arrive any moment.”

“And what if it does not?”

Emily was quiet, her face lifting toward the sky. “Then I shall have to decide how much I am willing to risk for love... But let us not speak of that yet. This talk of T is souring my afternoon.” Her eyes brightened as she turned them toward Rosalie. “Tell me instead what I have heard about the Duke of Hartmere saving your life at Lord Peachey’s table last night.”

Rosalie started, tripping over the gravel. Emily caught her and laughed, steadying her. She kicked out her skirts and tried to compose herself, asking, “You know?”

“Of course I know. I know everything always.”

“He did not save my life,” Rosalie said weakly. “I choked on some of the food.”

“That can’t be everything. He had his arms around you in front of the entire dinner party. My mother heard of it before we had even finished breakfast this morning, which tells you exactly how far it has already traveled. How exciting, Rosalie. I know you’ll hate this, but it is so exciting.”

“It was not exciting at all. I was choking.” Rosalie stopped, aware of her own voice rising. “There would be no other reason for a man to grab a woman unless she was dying. I almost wish I had died. I would very much like never to discuss it again.”

“The rags will write about it. I wish I had been there.”

“No, you do not.”