The Shamrock & the Rose (5 page)

“I may be old, my dear, but I have wonderful
memories of my late husband the Earl of Claremont. He was another
charmer, and we had many happy years together.”

Rose had to agree the Irishman was handsome
and charming. With wonderfully broad shoulders. And a disarming
smile. He almost made her want to wed. But even Portia married a
man who didn’t
truly
appreciate her for what she was. Rose
was not looking to make the same mistake.

* * *

The next day dawned clear and sunny though
very cold. There was still frost on the ground when she
awakened.

Rose dressed warmly with an azure blue day
gown and a cloak of a darker shade. She carried a small, round muff
of beaver fur to warm her hands, but for all that she was still
chilled as Mr. O’Connell arrived and they set off in the cabriolet
drawn by a fine black thoroughbred. The Irishman had remembered the
bricks for her feet, which gave her some comfort.

“You are an experienced driver,” she said as
they dodged an oncoming group of riders.

“In Ireland, one grows up with horses, at
least in my family. Many a time I’ve raced with my cousins over the
hills of Kerry. Do you ride, Miss Collingwood?”

“Yes, though not as often as I’d like.
Northern England has beautiful hills where one can see the view or
enjoy a picnic.”

He turned and smiled. “I’d enjoy a picnic
with you.”

Rose felt her cheeks warm. She could just
see them sitting on a blanket by a stream sharing a picnic
luncheon. In fact, the idea of having a picnic with him was
terribly intriguing.

“So tell me, Mr. O’Connell, what do you
intend to do when your training is complete?”

“I have an offer to begin my practice with a
barrister from whom I’ve received training. Or, I could return to
Ireland to join Daniel. He’s become very successful and could use
another hand.” Looking at her: “For a while at least, I think I
shall remain in London. I might even consider making it my
home.”

She wondered aloud, “Is that what your
cousin had in mind when he suggested you come here?”

“Possibly. It might help the cause if there
were a few more of us Irish here. One day he will be a Member of
Parliament. It is inevitable. The Irish will demand it, as he
speaks for us.” Mr. O’Connell shrugged and shook his head. “What of
you,
Miss Collingwood? What will you do when the play is
concluded?”

He glanced across the cabriolet at her, and
Rose found herself admitting things she normally wouldn’t. “I am
trying to enjoy what pleasure there is for me now without thinking
too far ahead. Though, you are right to ask. The play will soon be
done.”

“Is it the acting you like?”

“I have found much joy on the stage, but
mostly that is due to the part I am playing. I have come to realize
I am not a creature of the theatre as are some. I do not live for
the audience as my fellow actors do, and the repeated performances
with few nights off can be tedious. You smile at that. Why?”

“I cannot see you there forever.”

He seemed pleased by her plan to leave the
theatre, and that rankled. “Well, I
could
take another part.
Mr. Colman has suggested as much.”

He turned his head for only a moment, but
suddenly the carriage was atilt and veering off to the right. Mr.
O’Connell tried to regain control, but the horse, mad with fright
and fighting the reins, careened toward a copse of trees. Rose
clung to the side of the carriage and then to him as they bounced
over the rough ground at breakneck pace. Her blood was
pounding.

Mr. O’Connell pulled tightly on the reins,
slowing the cabriolet just as the wheel bounced off a tree and
shattered with the force of the impact, bringing the vehicle to an
abrupt stop. “Are you all right?” he asked Rose with concern. She
was righting herself in the seat.

“Yes, I think so. What happened?”

“It was my fault. I took my eyes off the
road and we struck a rock. Stay here while I have a look at the
damage.”

“I’m coming with you,” Rose said firmly.

Mr. O’Connell made no objection. He helped
her down from the tilting carriage, and together they stared at the
broken wheel as he stroked the horse and tried to calm the snorting
beast. At last he said, “My uncle’s townhouse is not far. There I
can summon help to repair this. We can ride the one horse
together—that is, unless you’d rather walk?”

“It’s awfully cold,” she pointed out. She
was shivering, and he noticed.

“Indeed it is cold. Best to ride then, I
think.” He looked discomfited by the situation, but it seemed there
were few options. “It won’t be very comfortable, but the horse will
get us there faster. There are spare wheels at the townhouse. And
while we wait for the repair, you can get warm by the fire.”

Though she knew it to be improper, Rose was
not altogether unhappy with the arrangement that placed her in
front of the Irishman on his horse, albeit without benefit of
saddle. As she continued to shiver, he wrapped his heavy cloak
about them. She could feel his muscled chest at her back as he
skillfully guided the horse through the park. He made her feel safe
as few London men did. Most looked as if they needed protection.
Not Mr. O’Connell.

Still, for all her comfort in his strength,
she knew they made a fine pair for onlookers. It was definitely not
wise for them to share a cloak no matter the bitter cold day, nor
for him to hold her so close, but she savored the moment
nonetheless, nestling into his warmth.

Just as they left the copse of trees on the
edge of the park, a rider crossed their path on a large gray horse.
Her heart sank when she saw who it was.
Alvanley
. The
British lord recognized them at once and brought his horse to a
sudden stop. “Well, well, if it isn’t the shamrock and the rose! A
cozy ride you two are about.”

“There was an accident with my carriage,”
said Mr. O’Connell, clearly annoyed at having to explain.

“Of course,” said Alvanley. “Such accidents
being so common, I do understand.” He then winked at them and
swiftly rode away, his laughter sounding loud in the quiet of the
trees.

“Oh, dear,” Rose said.

“We’re in for it now,” agreed Mr. O’Connell.
“The tale he will certainly tell will no doubt be the end of your
good reputation.”

“Perhaps he will say nothing,” hoped
Rose.

“Alvanley say nothing? That hardly seems in
character.”

A few streets later, they arrived at a very
elegant though small townhouse not far from the park. A butler bade
them enter and asked Mr. O’Connell, “Is anything amiss, sir?”

“Yes, Smithson,” he said, handing the
servant their cloaks. “We had a bit of an accident with our
vehicle.”

While he told the butler where the footmen
could find the cabriolet, and what needed to be repaired, Rose
occupied herself by looking around the small parlour off the entry
hall. She tried not to think about all the trouble she’d be in if
Alvanley shared what he saw. That would be disastrous. She might
even be sent home to Newcastle in disgrace.

The parlour suggested the house’s owner was
a well-traveled man of means. On the floor was a velvet-like carpet
of salmon and dark blue she recognized as a Savonnerie, a costly
French weave. Landscape paintings of places she had not seen before
graced the walls in between book-filled mahogany cases. A tall
secretary stood against the far wall, its glass doors revealing a
collection of elaborate snuffboxes. Two tapestry-covered chairs
flanked a blazing fire, a small pedestal table between them holding
a decanter of brandy that looked especially inviting to Rose. Above
the wooden mantel was a portrait of a distinguished older man with
gray hair and Mr. O’Connell’s piercing blue eyes.

“Would you like a glass of brandy to warm
you?” he asked from behind her.

Still chilled from their ride, she turned
and said, “Yes, that would be most welcome.”

He poured them each a glass.

Sipping her brandy, Rose inquired, “Whose
portrait is that?”

“One of my relations. Count Daniel Charles
O’Connell, the last Irish General in the French army before the
Revolution. He now serves as a British officer. ”

“And the red sash?”

“The Grand Cross awarded him by Louis the
Sixteenth.”

“It seems you have a most illustrious
family.”

Mr. O’Connell’s smile filled his blue eyes
with mirth. “Not all are worthy of your praise, Miss Collingwood. I
could name some who would shock you. Then, too, smuggling has long
been one of the family businesses.”

Rose stared at the handsome older man in the
portrait and wondered if he had been one of the smugglers. Likely
so. “No wonder the countess is so knowledgeable about your family,
Mr. O’Connell. She likes people with interesting backgrounds.”

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to call
me Morgan. I would prefer hearing that on your lips.”

In her mind, Rose could hear the countess
cautioning her about Irish rakes, but before she could answer him,
Mr. O’Connell closed the short distance between them and took the
glass from her hand, setting it alongside his on the small table.
She was suddenly aware they were alone. “Wouldn’t my calling you by
your given name be terribly familiar after such a short time?”

Placing his hands on her upper arms, he drew
her to him. “I’ve already compromised you, dear Rose, if Alvanley
chooses to tell what he’s seen, which I think he can hardly
resist.” Drowning in his liquid blue eyes, Rose felt excitement as
well as alarm at the powerful hands holding her against his chest.
What were his intentions? This could go no further! But then he
bent his head toward her and whispered, “I have been wanting to do
this since I first saw you.”

Before she could think to react, he brushed
his mouth teasingly over hers. She felt a tingle that ran from
there to her toes. His lips glided over her brows and again to her
mouth. Like a bird before a snake, she was frozen, unable to
move.

He pulled back and smiled. “You taste better
than I imagined, and I imagined you tasted like honey.”

He kissed her again, and this time it was
not so gentle. Despite a fleeting thought to resist, she responded
as he wrapped his arms around her. The kiss deepened. Urging her
lips apart, his tongue mingled with hers in the most sensual manner
she’d ever experienced. Indeed, she’d never known a kiss like this.
The gentle assault of his mouth, and his hands, which were sliding
up and down her back, made her head spin with new feelings.

Her body warmed, suddenly alive at his
touch. His powerful muscled chest pressed against her breasts, and
waves of pleasure coursed through her. As the kiss lengthened, it
seemed only natural for her to lift her hands from his arms to his
nape and then to his thick curly hair. She could feel all of him,
including a very hard ridge pressing against her belly.

Oh my.

He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes.
“Say something, Rose.”

“That was most improper.” It was all she
could think to say, though she experienced a pang of guilt at not
discouraging his kiss before it took place.

He chuckled. “You seemed to like it. Was it
your first?”

She could feel herself blush and looked down
as she whispered, “Yes.”

His finger brought her chin up. “Good. Such
a passionate English rose. I think perhaps another is in
order.”

He started to bend his head toward her
mouth, but she forced herself to pull back. “I think one was quite
enough.”

“What? Now that you’re compromised, you
would deny me a second kiss?”

The laughter in his eyes made it difficult
for Rose to tell if he was serious, but his words annoyed her. “A
gentleman would not ask,” she said, angry at his amusement in a
situation that could be her ruin.

“A gentleman would offer you marriage.”

Shocked, Rose stepped away from him as he
grinned. “Marriage to you? It’s out of the question! I…I don’t wish
to marry just now, and you’re…you’re Irish!”

“You have a problem with my being
Irish?”

“No. Not I, but my mother…the countess…
Others
would.”

“I thought that the Portia you admire makes
up her own mind.” Then, with narrowing eyes: “I thought that you
would not be so influenced. In speaking of marriage to you, I
myself would have to face the disapproval of my family.”

Rose looked into those blue eyes for a long
moment. The possibility of fighting the tide of opinion to marry
the Irishman was a thought that affected her, but she dismissed the
idea, hoping to avoid it. “Alvanley may yet say nothing. At least
we can hope for such a result.”

“Well, in addition to Alvanley crossing our
path while I held you in my arms wrapped in my cloak, you are
virtually alone in a house with an unmarried man. Doesn’t that
signify?”

“But your uncle—”

“Has not returned from his meeting.”

“Oh dear. We must leave immediately. Someone
might have seen us.”

Morgan chuckled. “Someone already has. But
to make you happy, as soon as the cabriolet is repaired I will
return you home.”

Rose looked from him to the fire. She might
as well be that burning log. He was quite correct; she was in a
fine fix. If Alvanley told his tale or word spread of her being
alone with the Irishman in the townhouse, the entire
ton
would believe her ruined. Her being an actress, if discovered,
would have proved interesting gossip, but to be caught in a
compromising position with an Irish rake was much, much worse. What
would become of her?

Her anger flared. “You knew this would
happen! Did you plan it?”

“Plan the broken carriage wheel? Of course
not!”

“But you could have told me your uncle was
gone.” Increasingly anxious, she said, “We must leave at once.”