Seven Nights to Forever (14 page)

Smiling, she found a few silver pins and pulled up her hair into a loose knot at her nape. Using the mirror, she freed a few select strands and wound them around her finger, encouraging the natural wave of her hair.

She didn’t bother with perfume—her skin still held the light scent of the rosewater she had used in her bath. Nor did she bother to glance about her bedchamber to ensure all was at the ready, but she did douse the candles before going out to check the sitting room. The fire in the hearth was still strong, but she moved aside the screen and prodded it all the same.

Then she settled on the settee and folded her hands on her lap, for once not dreading the sound of that silver bell.

IRRITATION
and impatience rubbed hard and harsh against every one of his nerves. By God, how James hated supper parties. Stuck at the table. Unable to hide himself off in the card room. Surrounded by people he would never choose to acquaint himself with if he had the option. Only Rebecca’s blissfully happy presence across the table from him kept the scowl from his mouth.

Two dozen? It was more like three dozen guests around the long mahogany table inside the massive dining room of the Marksons’ stately mansion. The light from the many silver candelabras glinted off the delicate glassware at each place setting. Stark white linens, heavy silver flatware, fine bone china. The trappings of an elaborate and carefully planned supper party.

His position at the table had been chosen for him by the hostess. An elderly matron on his left who was thankfully more interested in her fish than her supper companions, and Brackley, of all individuals, at his right. The man had tried to engage him in conversation during the first course, but his efforts had been for naught. On the other side of the table, a few places from Rebecca and closer to the vaunted host at the head of the table sat Amelia. If one of those candelabras had been set just half a foot to the left, then it would obstruct his view of her. As it was, the frustration built in tandem with the coarse rub of annoyance every time Amelia batted her eyes at Lord Albert Langholm. At every one of her false, high, tinkling laughs.

At least he now knew the true reason for the acceptance of the Marksons’ invitation. It had had nothing at all to do with a desire to introduce Rebecca to the handful of eligible bachelors in attendance, and everything to do with a need to yet again throw her latest lover in his face.

He leaned back in his chair as a liveried footman took his barely touched plate and deposited yet another. This one contained two neatly arranged slices of roast beef. Who the hell had decided a proper meal needed to include eight courses? Completely unnecessary. It was more food than an army could consume.

Looking over his shoulder, he glanced yet again to the tall clock in the corner of the room. As each minute passed, each minute that felt like an eternity, the worry built, growing from a small nudge of concern until it filled his gut. It took all his self-control not to shift in the chair. If they left now, and if the streets were not crowded, then he could deposit Amelia and Rebecca at home and take a hackney to Rubicon’s and still arrive before midnight. He had given Rose his word that he would arrive early. It had taken a lot to earn her trust, and damn Amelia to hell if she caused him to lose it.

ROSE
stared hard at the little silver bell suspended from the hook in the ceiling.

“Ring.
Please
,” she whispered, desperation heavy in the low tone.

Her plea was met with silence.

Anticipation was indeed a cruel mistress. Her stomach in knots, misery hung about her head like a threatening thundercloud. She tried to push it away, but to no avail. It had simply continued to build as the minutes had slipped away.

Unable to remain seated a second longer, she stood to prod the fire again. Smoothing her hand over the front of her gown, she went into her bedchamber. It took a couple of attempts, but she was finally able to light a candle and check the small porcelain clock on the dresser.

Far later than she had imagined.

Her heart sank.

Why was it that when one anticipated every coming moment, time seemed to zip by at a frighteningly quick pace?

In a daze, she returned to the settee. She hung her head and clasped her hands tight to will the tremble from her arms.

He wasn’t coming.

She bit the edge of her bottom lip, her eyes closed tight. Excuses could no longer fill the void. She could deny it no longer. James had had his fill of her, taken what he wanted, his palate now quenched of her. There was no real reason for him to return tonight. His promise had been filled with empty words, just like all the rest.

Rosie, you have my word I will never lay a hand on you again.
Lord Wheatly’s voice, thick with false contrition, drifted through her head.

Oh no, my dear, I do not have a wife.
How easy it had been for Lord Biltmore to deny the very existence of the pretty, young Lady Biltmore.

And her father’s vow that Dash would never want for anything had been worse than empty. It had been filled with debts that had taken her years on her back to settle.

She was a fool. A fool to believe James. That he could be different than all the others. That he had actually cared about
her
.

Good, decent men did not give a damn about whores.

Why had she allowed their liaison to continue? She should have put a stop to it, whatever the cost. It had been destined to end exactly like this, with her alone, as she always was. Yet still, her heart hadn’t been able to resist the lure of him. Of a precious glimpse of what she had given up all those years ago.

He was probably at his office right now, all thoughts of her purged from his mind the moment he had spilled his seed on the dewy grass. Or worse yet, he could be with his wife, the lucky woman who carried his name and had the right to call him her own.

Something Rose could never and would never have.

Her shuddering breaths echoed in the painfully quiet room, the longing, the need so strong it nearly clogged her throat. Then muted voices seeped through her sitting room door. The rumble of a masculine voice, an answering feminine laugh.

Her head snapped up, her gaze settling on the bell once again. That it had not yet rung caused time to press in on her.

It
was
late. Rubicon would be in the receiving room by now, extolling her virtues, or more aptly her skills and her beauty. Clients who arrived at the brothel with the distinct intention of purchasing her for the night knew not to dally. To do so would leave the door open for another gentleman to take their place. But for nights when no man sought out Rubicon by midnight, the madam went in search of one.

That bell would soon ring. A small part of her lonely heart ached at the hope that it could be
him
. Wanted so badly to believe he was a man of his word, even to those who did not deserve that respect. But the hardened, practical side knew he would not walk through that door again.

She shot to her feet and pulled the bellpull. Acutely aware of how her gown brushed her calves as she impatiently shifted her weight, she waited by the sitting room door.

She had the door unlocked and open before the rap of the double knock faded.

The sight of the silver tray with two cups and a pot that was no doubt filled with coffee caused a lance to pierce her chest. Swallowing hard, she shook her head as Jane lifted the tray. “Please inform Rubicon that I am ill tonight,” she said, doing her best to sound her usual self.

The moment the door was safely closed again, she reached behind her back and tugged, but her fingers were shaking too hard to manage the small fabric-covered buttons. Beyond desperate to get the gown off, she yanked. Hard.

Buttons popped free, skidding across the floorboards. She wrestled her arms free of the sleeves and pushed the gown to her feet. Gathering it in her arms, she darted into her bedchamber and shoved it into the waste bin. The heap of navy silk completely covered the small bin, pooling onto the floor around it.

Clad in her chemise and stockings, she crumpled to her knees. Shoulders hunched, she buried her face in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms hard against her closed eyes, and tried to push back the tears. But to no avail.

“SHE
is unavailable this evening. Perhaps I can interest you—”

“Pardon? What do you mean she’s unavailable?”

“Just that. Rose is unavailable this evening,” the madam responded. Her hands were folded on the neat surface of her desk, her shoulders straight. So calm and composed while a riot of shock and confusion built within him, layered with a distinct note of disappointment.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“It is quite late, sir. Beautiful women never want for companionship. Did you truly expect other gentlemen to allow a woman like her to spend an evening alone?”

She was with another man? At this very moment? Hot and swift, jealousy grabbed hold of his stomach, held it in a viselike grip. It was completely irrational of him to be jealous of another man. Rose’s nights were defined by the various men who inhabited her bed. He knew that. Hell, he was having a discussion with a goddamn madam. But logic seemed to have left him. He despised the thought of another man’s hands on her body. Of another kissing those lush, full lips. Of another man taking from her what she had given him last night. And he couldn’t ignore the rancid taste of betrayal seeping in with the jealousy.

If it wasn’t foolish to feel that she had betrayed him, he didn’t know what was.

Rose was a prostitute. He should not at all feel like she had somehow been unfaithful to him by simply doing her job. If anything, he should feel this way every time Amelia took a lover, but he never had. Not even a glance of this gruesome monster screaming through his veins, demanding he yank that man off Rose and pummel him for daring to touch her.

Hands clenched in tight fists, he eyed the expanse of white paneled wall that held the hidden door. He was vaguely aware his breathing had quickened. Betrayal jabbed anew into his gut, and it was all he could do not to flinch.

“When will she be available again?” He heard himself speak as if from a great distance.

“Rose only takes one client an evening. She won’t be available until tomorrow night.” The madam paused. “Do I need to ring for one of the footmen?”

He snapped his head around. “Why?”

She arched one eyebrow.

He stared hard at her for a moment, and then her meaning sank in. By God, he must look a fool. Poised to come to blows over a whore. “The footman is unnecessary.” Taking a deep breath, he forced his hands to unclench from the arms of the scarlet leather chair and did his best to calm himself. It did nothing to stem the brutal riot that filled his entire being, but at least he hoped he no longer resembled a crazed lunatic.

Even when Amelia had boasted of her first lover, he had not felt even a drop of jealousy, only resignation and a smart smack to his pride. But something about Rose brought out a possessive streak he had not even known he was capable of.