“Ernest Barrington?” John laughed out loud, drawing a scornful look from Will, but he didn’t stop. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is nothing that could entice a woman like Rose to pick Barrington; that odious toad.”
“Try a dukedom and a castle,” Will said bitterly.
“I am sorry, I refuse to believe Rose is that shallow.”
In that instant, Will saw Rose’s face as she had lain in his arms, her beautiful long blonde hair framing her blue, blue eyes; her look of wonder and amazement echoing what he had felt after all those years of longing. He remembered the feel of her; the scent of her skin; the taste of her lips; the look in her eyes as she had pulled away and retreated into decorum. He slammed his hand down on the desk.
“She is not the woman she was,” he said, even while inwardly acknowledging that, in so many ways, she was.
“Then turn back the clock, win her back,” John urged.
Will looked at him, grateful for hisfriendship and support, but knowing that what his friend statedwas impossible. Since they were eleven, John, Will, and Rose had been closefriends. When she married the Duke of Norfolk, John also lost a best friend, andWill knew he missed her too.
“Haven’t you got some gloves to make?” Will smiled kindly, indicating the conversation was now over.
Rose asked for breakfast in her bed chamber, which was a clear signal to her servants that something was gravely wrong. The duchess had never failed to take breakfast in the dining room, even when left alone while the Duke of Norfolk gallivanted in London or in the months after his untimely death. She despised troubling them.
Her eyes were puffy and red—having cried incessantly since the night prior. So when her maid entered her chamber with breakfast, forfear of her witnessing her state, she ordered the curtains to remain closed. Her heart felt like a lump of lead in her chest, and all she wanted was to be swallowed by the earth beneath her feet. Having no idea how to explain her muddy clothes from yesterday, she'd stuffed them into a ball—wanting to rid of them.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?” her maid asked her. “Is there anything I can get you for your headache?” She shook her head.
“Did the new Duke upset you?”
Rose was certain that all of the servants were well aware of what had occurred between her and Ernest Barrington. The grapevine beneath the stairs was incredibly efficient. She imagined everyone was shocked that the distant but kindly Duke of Norfolk had been replaced by his drunken, malevolent brother. She knew she should talk to them, reassure them, but didn't have it in her today.
Rose had spent the previous afternoon, evening, and night staring at the wooden underside of her four-poster bed, attempting to clear her mind of images of Will; a difficult task after nine years of training herself to conjure him up. She reasoned that was why she couldn't do it. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was his lips descending towards hers and the sensation that had ricocheted through her as he claimed them for his own.
For years, she had told herself she could live without that feeling, that the memory of him was enough, that a comfortable sofa and a library full of books were compensation for his absence. But yesterday had proven how wrong she’d been.
When Rose allowed herself to put her hand where his had been, hidden beneath the covers, the sensation roared back inside her as if it had been his touch rather than hers, forcing her to quickly pull her own hand away. Will had somehow primed her body to play that feeling over and over in those few minutes he had held her. Her nipples were still taut and tingly, and a trail of heat ran from the underside of her breasts down across her abdomen to the hollow between her legs, like a never-ending furnace. Even though he hadn't touched her there, she could feel that melting, dissolving sensation.
“I can’t bear it,” she had finally sobbed into her pillow, pulling the cotton-covered down comforter around her face to muffle her crying.
But of course, she knew she could. She had already done it for so long. And she knew he was right; that she did owe him. She had abandoned him, broken his heart, and ignored him for nearly a decade. She didn’t know why she hadn’t written to him when Ambrose die for that was the first thought that had crossed her mind. “I am free. I can go to Will now,” she had immediately thought. But with that initial reaction came shame. Ambrose had not deserved to die in such a horrible fashion without her giving him the son he so longed for. She had failed him in their arrangement, just as she had failed Will. So she realized why she had never written toWill—she was too embarrassed, fearing she'd never be able to undo what she'd done.
Yet, there was one way she could somehow redeem herself; she could give him everything his father desired for him, secure his place in noble society, and elevate him to the same standing she had enjoyed while he had struggled as a merchant.
Rose knew there was one thing she needed most right now if she was to get through the coming weeks. She pressed the bell for her maid.
“Can you ask them to have my carriage ready in an hour? I need you to help me dress,” she said.
Rose took comfort in familiar surroundings as the horses pulled her carriage gently down the driveway of the house where she had spent her entire life, except for the years at the castle. There were so many memories on this land. So many memories of Will Browning. Nonetheless, she did everything she could to let them pass. The house appeared in the distance, a very charming, symmetrical country home that had been in her family for generations. Around the shingled drive, a lush green lawn ran up to a horseshoe flowerbed of roses. Her mother had always loved roses, whereas Rose had despised them because the barbs had scratched her skin as a child.She had not announced her arrival in advance and hoped she would be welcome. If the shrieks of delight behind the massive front door were anything to go by, they were delighted.
Theo and Tara came hurling towards her like they were joined at the hip. Two robust little bodies barreled into her legs as she alighted, screaming, “Auntie Rosie” and demanding to be picked up.
“You tykes don’t understand how big you’ve become,” she chided as she wrestled the three and four-year-old into her embrace. They wrapped their chubby little arms around her neck and rained kisses on her face. Her sister was beaming at Rose over their heads.
“I can’t believe you have come. It has been so long.” Mary wrapped her arms around all three of them and they walked into the house in this unwieldy manner. Inside, two wolfhounds came running.
“Jacob’s other babies cannot be ignored,” Mary laughed as she tried to fend them off Rose’s elegant attire. “He will be so sorry he missed you. He is in London for a few days, so I am afraid it is just us.”
Rose set the wriggling little ones down to play with the dogs.
“Come to the drawing room and have some tea,” Mary urged.
Rose gasped as she walked into the room. All traces of their mother’s rather questionable taste in burgundy and gold brocade had been banished from this once dingy room. Now it was a bright, warm yellow. The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and even the furniture was new. The only piece she recognized was her father’s desk, placed between the two tall windows and obviously still well-used.
“I couldn’t part with it,” Mary said wistfully as Rose trailed her fingers along the glossy walnut top. “I like to think of him still sitting there, watching his grandchildren play in the garden.”