She turned around and eyed him. “Oh really? I doubt it. I’m very good at assuming disguises. Usually, I wear a wig and add several layers or pillows to my wardrobe to alter my figure. I’ve even been known to wear a patch or two.” She had always thought that the out of mode fake beauty marks were ridiculous, but they were successful in helping change her appearance. If no one among high society had ever been able to recognize her thus far, she doubted Carver would have either. She was very good at hiding and disguising herself.
His mouth tipped into a smile that made Rose’s stomach flip upside down. “You can change your hair all you like, but I would still know those eyes anywhere.”
Detach yourself. You’re leaving in a few days.
Rose blinked and turned away feeling fearful that she had already given too much of her heart away to this man and would never get it back.
She tried to put some space between them by walking a few steps away until she paused in front of a dark red rose bush. She felt Carver’s approach and forced herself to slow her breathing. Her eyes skipped over each bloom, none of it really registering. Rather, she was wishing that Carver had granted her the space she had needed to stick with her resolve. A little more time was all she needed to get ahold of her heart before she saw him again, but he had sought her out and found her. He always found her.
Rose’s senses were all attuned to Carver’s looming presence behind her. The air felt stiflingly warm. Why was she still wearing her cloak inside the hothouse? Sweat began to gather on her hairline. She reached up and tried to undo the ribbons at her neck but the gloves Carver had given her were too big and she couldn’t feel the strings. He touched her shoulder and turned her toward him. He lifted her chin and undid the ribbons to remove her cloak, the back of his fingers brushing against her neck.
Well, that certainly didn’t help anything.
The cloak lifted from her shoulders and then he draped it over his arm. At least now she didn’t feel as if she were being smothered by the wool fabric—but by his direct gaze instead. Rose turned her eyes back to the bright red blooms.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he said. “I believe my mother planted these herself.” He finally looked away from her to inspect the roses.
She couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Rose slipped her fingers below the flower that she had always thought felt like velvet. Beneath the bloom of her namesake. “They are lovely. It might be a little narcissistic of me but I’ve always loved this flower the best.”
She glanced up and saw Carver’s brows stitch together. “Why is that narcissistic?”
She froze. Oh no. Her stomach leapt into her throat when she realized what she’d done.
No, no, no, no.
She frantically searched her mind for a way out. She hadn’t at all intended to tell him her name. In fact, she was trying to pull her heart away from the man, not hand it to him on a silver platter.
Rose reluctantly met his gaze. Carver’s heavy brow softened as realization overtook him. “Is…your name…Rose?” That was it. She had moved off the edge of some high unreachable cliff and was falling. Hearing her name slip off his lips undid her. Every last ounce of fight she had disintegrated. She felt scared. Vulnerable. And like she had everything to lose.
Tears burned her eyes and her legs felt weak. She did the only thing she knew how to do. Rose turned around and ran.
Chapter 25
Rose. Her beautiful name had tumbled over and over in Carver’s mind ever since he had learned it that morning in the hothouse. It suited her perfectly. And the moment he had heard it, the last bit of hesitancy and uncertainty fell away and he knew what he wanted—no, needed.
But the look on her face, the unshed tears that hovered in her golden-amber-brown eyes told him that she hadn’t been ready to reveal it. He should have pretended he hadn't heard her slip. It didn’t feel right knowing that he had breeched her privacy…even if it was by accident.
And Rose had looked more fragile in that moment before she had darted from the greenhouse than he’d seen her yet. She'd looked frightened and unsure of the very world around her. Seeing her that way, knowing her heart was fragile and cracked, had made him want to hold it and be strong for her, no matter that he didn’t feel it. He could be anything for her.
Surely, he could hold together his own pieces enough to keep hers together, too?
“I’m concerned about Daphney,” said Mother, breaking through his thoughts. She sat beside him on the settee, eyes focused on the needle work in her hands. “I heard she didn’t come down for breakfast this morning, and then she requested a dinner tray be sent to her bedchamber. I hope she is not feeling unwell. Perhaps I should go check on her.” He smiled at his caring mother.
But what could he say? No. She’s just avoiding me because she unwillingly revealed to me her real name. “I believe she has a touch of a headache, that's all.” Most likely she did.
His mother sighed beside him. “Poor dear. Headaches can be the very devil at times. I think I’ll have a maid send up some lavender water and see if that helps.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I am sure she would appreciate it, Mother.” But he had a plan to find out himself just how Rose was feeling.
He waited until he knew everyone had already retired to bed and were likely asleep before he quietly walked down the dark hallways and wound his way to Rose’s room. The floors creaked beneath his boots but otherwise, not a single sound touched the halls. He stopped outside her room. How to get her attention without alerting the house? He had no desire for any of his family members to find him visiting Rose’s door in the middle of the night—even if they thought them to be engaged.
Carver reached up and gently scratched Rose’s door. He held his breath and pressed his ear to the door listening for any signs of movement within. Silence. He scratched again, this time a little louder. A small rustling noise came from within. He laid the barest of taps on the wooden door so that she would know he was the one trying to gain her attention and not just a mouse lurking in the walls.
He heard footsteps and as the door knob turned, his breath quickened. The door peeked open, “Carver?” Rose’s hushed voice came through the narrow opening, breathy and raspy and still heavy with sleep. All he could see was one of her eyes through the crack. What must she be thinking of him? “What are you doing here? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
“I should think the answer is obvious.” He let the statement hang in the air a moment, contemplating exactly what it felt like to be Lord Newburry before he smiled and added, “Stealing you away for an adventure.”
She let out a breath of relief that made him laugh.