Seven Nights to Forever (20 page)

He nodded once, stiff and remote. He turned to the mirror above her dresser and went back to tying his cravat. A sharp tug on the ends, flipping one over the other, forming the knot. But the quick efficient ease he had displayed just last night, of a man seeing to a long-accustomed task, was gone. Lips set in a grim line, he jerked the knot loose and started anew.

She should remain quiet. Should just let him leave silent and clearly hurt. But she did not want their time together to end like this—with him believing she did not want him. For that was what he believed; the rejection reflected in the oval mirror. And it was the furthest thing from the truth.

“James, it’s not that I don’t want to be with you.”

He held up a hand, not meeting her gaze in the mirror. “There is no need to humor me. I understand.”

“No. You don’t. I won’t be here tomorrow. I work one week a month, and tonight is my last night.”

He went still once again. Finally met her gaze in the mirror. A crease marred his brow. “You aren’t here every night?”

“Only every night of the first week of the month.”

“And you’re leaving tomorrow?”

She nodded.

That crease turned into a scowl. “Three-night limit my arse,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“When I arrived late to find you unavailable, I attempted to secure you for the next few days, but Rubicon informed me the limit was three. Gave some paltry excuse, but this is the real reason. She knew you would be leaving tomorrow.”

Slack-jawed, she blinked in disbelief. He had secured her for tonight and the prior two, which meant he had paid Rubicon in advance. Yet he had still asked to see her again at the end of each night. And she knew in her bones that if she would have refused, he would have acceded to her wishes. Not returned the next night, even though he had already purchased that right.

Reeling, all she could do was stare at him. He was such a noble man. So good and so kind. And after he walked out her door, she would never lay eyes on him again.

“Where will you go?”

“Home,” she heard herself say, blinking back the tears that threatened to prick the corners of her eyes. “To the country. Until next month.” When she would return to this room and he would not. Time and distance would dull his memories, though certainly not her own. The conscience that had gripped him on their first night together would have weeks to reassert itself, keeping him far from this house, as well it should.

He turned from the dresser. “Come to the country with me.” The words popped out of his mouth so quickly, it appeared he startled himself.

He had certainly startled her. “Pardon?”

“I—I . . .” He took a moment, clearly gathering himself. She braced for him to rescind the offer. “I have a house in the country. I would be honored if you would be my guest for the next week.”

The fragile hope in his eyes pulled at her heart. Ducking her chin, she twisted the rumpled sheet at her hip. The urge to accept rose within her. To grab hold of that week with both hands and never let go. But she held back. “I can’t.”

“Why not? I’ll compensate you for your time, of course.”

That hurt. She tugged the sheet over her lap, covering herself. “James . . .”

“Seven nights, and days. Would a thousand pounds be enough?”

She shook her head, as her pulse began to skitter through her veins.

“No? Fifteen hundred?”

A wince tightened her brow.
Please, make him stop.

“I’ll have to return in the morning with the money anyway, so whatever the sum, simply name it.”

If he had tried to hand her a fold of pound notes, she would have refused on the spot. Would have shrunk back, not even touching a fingertip to the notes. The concept of selling herself was easier to swallow when the situation wasn’t so blatant. When it didn’t make her feel like a pretty pet purchased at a shop.

“The expense matters not to me. Whatever the price, I’ll pay it.” He let out a frustrated breath. “Two thousand pounds.”

Her heart stilled as the sum echoed in her head. A thousand for Rubicon, a thousand to pay off Dash’s gambling debts, and then some. More money than she had ever had at any one point in time.

“You’d be my guest at my house in Alton. It’s nothing extravagant, but I have a small staff and the grounds are quite nice. You would be free to do as you please, and to leave whenever you please. You have my word, Rose, if you wish to return to London at any time, I’ll see you back myself.” Then he added in a pleading tone, “I just want to spend more time with you.”

“But I don’t have appropriate attire for a holiday in the country.”
Lovely.
Now she was grasping for excuses.

“Not to worry. I’ll see to everything. All you need to bring is yourself.” The mattress shifted as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Come away with me,” he said softly.

He twined his fingers through hers, and suddenly there wasn’t a decision to make.

Peering up at him through her lashes, she nodded.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Capturing her face, he slanted his mouth over hers, the joy and relief clear in his kiss. Pulling back enough to break the kiss, he brushed his nose against hers, the smile back on his lips. “Thank you.”

He stood and tugged on the cravat hanging from his neck, realigning the ends.

Crooking a finger, she beckoned him. “I can see to that for you.” She moved onto her knees and scooted to the edge of the mattress.

He lifted his chin. “I have a few errands to see to in the morning, and I’ll need to make arrangements for my absence,” he said. The backs of her fingers brushed his bristly jaw as she looped one end of the white linen over the other, forming the knot. An intimate ritual, one she really should not get accustomed to performing for him. Still, it felt so very right. “Do you think you could be ready to depart by three in the afternoon?”

A little tug to define the creases, and she produced a neat Mathematical knot. “Of course.” That would give her time to stop by the hells and also to call on Dash.

“Brilliant,” he said, slipping on his brown coat. He tipped his head and made to leave the room.

“Wait,” she called.

He turned from the door.

“Come here.”

He didn’t question, but did as she asked, stopping beside the bed.

“Your hair,” she murmured, as she smoothed the tousled strands. Not quite as neat as when she saw him that morning at the park, but the best she could manage without a comb.

He gave a little chuckle. “Thank you, my dear.” Capturing her other hand, he brought it up to grace the back with a light kiss. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Yes.”
Tomorrow.
She would see him tomorrow, and the day after and the day after. Seven more nights with him.

FINGERTIPS
brushed lightly against her side, gathering fabric into a neat dart. Rose braced for the prick of the needle, but it never came. The woman was clearly an expert. With quick, efficient, and deft movements, the modiste focused on her task, which was rather monumental. Three young assistants were scattered about the sitting room. Two on the settee and one on a chair Rose had borrowed from another room in the house. Baskets of sewing accoutrements were at their feet, their heads bowed over the garments in their laps.

Rose had not known what to expect when James said he would see to everything, but she certainly hadn’t expected this. His generosity knew no bounds.

The modiste and her assistants had arrived at a little after ten in the morning, approximately an hour and a half ago, bearing partially sewn day dresses, traveling dresses, a couple of simple gowns for evenings, a riding habit, and a pelisse. There was no way the women could have started the garments today. They had to have been intended for another, likely a wealthy woman, given the fine fabrics, and James had commandeered them for her. Certainly a considerable sum had been needed to accomplish the deed.

The modiste even did a decent job of masking her scorn for having to dress a whore at a brothel. It had to have been more than a considerable sum. The assistants weren’t gawking at her, either.

The money was definitely not something to wave aside as insignificant, but that James had gone out of his way that very morning to arrange a wardrobe for her . . .

The smile that had been hovering on her lips broadened into a grin as warmth filled her chest. She could imagine him, his imposing, masculine presence in stark contrast to the modiste’s feminine shop, as he relayed his request and the way the woman’s initial refusal had quickly turned into complete acquiescence. She could almost hear his deep, baritone voice—
The expense matters not to me. Whatever the price, I’ll pay it.

A distinctive double knock sounded on her sitting room door. “Come in,” she called.

The door swung open. As one, the assistants paused, hands suspended above the garments in their laps, as Timothy entered the room dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, his usual morning attire. He didn’t spare them more than a curious glance as he took up a place near the fireplace, resting a shoulder casually against the wall.

The modiste cleared her throat, the abrupt sound jolting the assistants back to the tasks before them. Though Rose noticed how the one with the mousy brown hair kept sneaking not-so-covert glances at him. She was tempted to tell the girl the effort was futile. To her knowledge, Timothy never dallied with anyone, female or male, unless he was working.

“The pins are in,” the modiste said, as she unbuttoned the neat row down the back of the simple evening gown. “Off with this one.” She paused, her hands on Rose’s shoulders, poised to drag the short cap sleeves down her arms. “Perhaps you would prefer to make use of a screen?”

Rose shook her head. It wasn’t as if she was bare beneath the garment, and it was only Timothy. He regularly saw women in a considerably greater state of undress. “Here is fine.”

“I heard you had guests.” Timothy motioned to the room, the gesture encompassing the modiste and the assistants. “Care to explain?”

She chuckled as the modiste exchanged the dress for another. A lovely muted green lightweight cashmere. A day dress perfect for walks on a brisk spring day. She had never had a small army’s worth of tradespeople all focused on her. It was quite the experience, one that fluffed her feminine vanity and made her feel rather like a princess. “I’m in need of a new wardrobe.”

He arched a light brown brow in a silent request for more.

“The gentleman you met at the park has extended an invitation for a short holiday in the country.”

“And you accepted?” The disbelief was clear on his face.

“Actually, I refused. This lovely modiste showed up on her own, bearing the makings of a necessary wardrobe for such a holiday.” She let out an exasperated sigh, but the effect was surely dampened by the smile on her lips. “Of course I accepted. We depart this afternoon.”

“You agreed because of Dash’s situation, didn’t you?”

His suspicious tone prodded her protective instincts, yet she stayed silent. If she agreed, he’d pin the blame on Dash when the full blame should not be laid at his feet. But a denial contained an admission she didn’t want to examine.

The modiste bustled about her as Timothy slouched against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and lips pursed.

“Are you certain about this?”

“Yes. It’s only for a week.”

He raised both eyebrows. She knew he was concerned for her, and she adored him for it, but he needn’t be. It wasn’t as if James was setting her up in a neat little town house on the edge of Mayfair. The arrangement didn’t hold even a shade of permanence. It was only for a week. That was all. A week to see to his pleasure and nothing more. She knew better than to allow softer sentiment to enter the arrangement, to read something into his offer that wasn’t there.

As long as she kept their holiday in perspective, she would be just fine. And for all she knew, perhaps he wasn’t married. Perhaps he was a recent widower. A rather unlikely notion, but surely not outside the realm of possibilities.

If she was being honest with herself, she would admit she was merely trying to move aside immovable objects. To fool herself into believing her original objections no longer held merit. But . . .

It was only for a week. No true harm could come from it, and she’d be able to spend another seven days with James.

“Do you know where you are headed?” Timothy asked.

“To Alton. He has a house there.”

He furrowed his brow, doing a very good imitation of a stern, suspicious father. “What sort of house?”

“A country house. And he has a staff, so it’s not as if I’ll be there alone with him.”

“When are you leaving, and when are you returning?”

“We leave later this afternoon and return next Wednesday. The fourteenth. He will see me back to London himself, and if I wish to leave before then, I am free to do so.”

He looked down to his shoes and then back up at her. “Are you certain you can trust him?”

His dark eyes were filled with unmistakable worry. He was the only person she had ever confided in. The only soul who knew exactly why she preferred the brothel over life as a mistress. She had not divulged the full truth to Rubicon when she had first presented herself in the woman’s office four years ago. Even after she had struck her deal with the madam, she had only revealed enough to gain Rubicon’s assurance that Lord Wheatly would no longer be a concern.

But James had nothing at all in common with his lordship. James never demanded, never expected perfection, never raised his voice nor his hand to her. He wouldn’t turn into a different man once he had her under his thumb. He asked and allowed her the courtesy of refusing, though she had yet to actually outright refuse him anything. He was her client, after all. But the opportunity was there if she ever wished to exercise it.