No Other Love (6 page)

“I'm dusting your father's study. It looks as if no one ever has. Goodness, it's dreary in here!”

Walking over to the drapes, she pulled them open one by one until the dust covering the desk and bookshelves was satisfactorily revealed. With a flourish of the feather duster she commenced a vigorous attack on the offending dust.

Luke looked less than convinced.

“My father doesn't allow anyone but Mrs. Craig in here, and even then only when he specifically requests it.”

“I didn’t realize,” she said. “Please don’t tell anyone. I can’t afford to lose my place here.”

Rose bit her lip and clasped her hands in distress, playing on his sympathies and acting as though she were on the verge of tears. Indeed, it was hardly an act.

“You don’t need to be frightened. I won’t tell anyone,” he said, clearly bemused by her overreaction.

Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by an overwhelming awareness of him. Now that she knew he was innocent, all the protection her suspicion had afforded her drained away. Her breath came fast and light, and she couldn’t seem to look away from him.

In the blink of an eye his mood shifted. His gaze swept over her from head to toe and back up to her face, the heat in his eyes holding her where she stood. Neither of them said a word as the tension that had simmered below the surface now shimmered between them.

Then he moved, covering the space between them in two strides. For a moment he looked at her as if daring her to deny him, or perhaps he was giving her the chance to stop him. But a second was all it lasted, for in the next instant those big hands dove into her hair and he bent his head down to her, his mouth claiming hers.

She started at the hot rush of his lips on hers, her hands automatically rising to grasp his shoulders. Never had she been kissed so, without any time to think, only to feel the hardness and heat of him pressed against her. He said her name like a rough prayer and then his tongue was parting her lips, devouring her where she stood.

Rose went utterly still, shocked at this new demand. Part of her wanted to follow where he led, but it was too treacherous, too sudden. Tearing her mouth from his she pushed at his chest, her breathing fast and light as she stared up at him.

Releasing her, Luke backed way and stood with his hands on his hips, his cheekbones flushed and his breath ragged. Then he turned away from her, pressing a hand against the wall as if for balance.

The feather duster lay on the floor by her feet, a laughable reminder of the whole charade gone awry. Quickly she snatched it up along with her pail and rags and nearly ran for the door, desperate to get away.

“Rose. Please wait.”

She stopped where she was, her back to Luke, unable to face him. The feelings were too new, her newly awakened body too inexperienced to contain them. She didn’t understand what had just happened. Why had he kissed her? And how could she have kissed him back? She was terrified at how quickly she had let go of everything she knew of herself. When Luke was near it was as if Will didn’t even exist. Even now she could not so much as summon his face to mind.

“Rose, please look at me,” he said, and she felt his hand on her shoulder, urging her to turn around.

But she couldn’t bring herself to speak to him. Her life had been turned upside down in the space of a few minutes, and she was very much afraid she would not be able to pretend otherwise.

So she ran. He called after her but she didn’t slow down and she didn’t look back. Out of the study and down the servants’ staircase she flew until she was safe from him, if not from herself.

***

Luke ran a shaking hand through his hair. What had he been thinking? Nothing rational, that was certain. He was so utterly drawn to Rose, his reason fled whenever he was around her.

At first he’d just been startled to see her. But when she pulled open the curtains, the sun that flooded the room lit her hair and warmed her skin to a glow. He could see where a sheen of perspiration dampened the fine hairs on her neck, and her worn dress revealed her gentle curves.

And then, sweet heaven, the taste of her. He was so undone by that kiss he could have dragged her to the floor then and there. Even now he imagined Rose opening for him, her skirts up around her waist while he buried himself inside her. A moment of heaven for a lifetime of hell. It might have been worth it, come to that.

But of course it would never come to that. She had stopped him because she was not some strumpet who lifted her skirts for every man who couldn’t control himself. He doubted she’d ever been kissed properly – if indeed she’d been kissed at all.

The last time he saw her she was telling him to leave her be, and now look what he’d done. It hadn’t helped matters that she’d stood there, looking at him with naked hunger. She was so innocent she probably didn’t even know what she was inviting, but he was no saint.

He needed to put some distance between them. He’d been planning a trip out to survey for possible routes over the hills, so he might as well leave now. When he came back, he’d have his head on straight.

That was the thing to do, but even so he felt an alarming pang at the idea of never touching her again. If only she were not so innocent, or not employed in his father’s house.

If only he were not the man he was.

***

Rose tossed and turned all night, falling asleep only a few hours before dawn, her dreams a disturbing mix of her father and Luke Fetcher, desire and guilt. She woke feeling ragged and forlorn. Fortunately today was her day off and she would see Vivian.

It was a six-mile walk to the March’s modest home just off Tremont Street near the Common, nearly two hours each way. But as it was virtually her only time alone, Rose didn’t mind the long walk. She nearly ran the last few minutes, stopping only at the post office to mail her letter. Though she and Vivian had remained close after Rose’s mother died and she and her father left Boston, the friendship had been conducted almost entirely through letters until Rose’s return two weeks ago. Seeing Vivian once a week while working for the Fletchers was a treat she didn’t take for granted.

“You look tired, Rose,” Vivian observed. “Are you well?”

They were sitting on the front porch where the breeze slipped pleasantly over them, sipping lemonade made by Sally, the March’s housekeeper. Sally was more like family, and in fact it was she who had helped secure Rose’s position at Cider Hill.

Vivian waited patiently, her kind face inviting Rose’s confidence. It felt like months since anyone had shown such concern for her. The thought flashed in her mind that Luke Fletcher had worried for her, but she quickly banished it.

“Oh, you needn't fret over me,” Rose said, smiling at her friend. “It’s not so very bad. In fact, most of the work is no harder than what I do on the farm. The difficult part is that most of the staff dislike me. But I have you, and that will be more than enough to see me through,” she finished, trying to sound optimistic. Like Aunt Olivia, Vivian had been against the idea of Rose going to the Fletcher’s, though her support never flagged once it was clear Rose would go through with her plan.

“We’re always here for you, you know that,” Vivian said. “If you should get into any trouble…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll come straight here if I find I must leave Cider Hill.” Rose paused, trying to find a way to broach the subject that was most on her mind this morning. “There are complications that I hadn’t expected, Vivian. Ones that are dangerous in an entirely unforeseen way.”

“What do you mean?” her friend asked, frowning in puzzlement.

Taking a deep breath, Rose began to tell Vivian about Luke.

Vivian kept silent and let her speak without interrupting, though she leaned forward in her chair, her hands gripped tightly together. She squealed as Rose described the tension of searching the study, and let out a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, when Rose described their kiss.

“So you see,” Rose finished, “the work is actually the least of my worries.”

“This Mr. Fletcher must be very compelling for you to behave so uncharacteristically.”

“Yes, he is. He’s terribly handsome and …there’s just something about him.”

“Something Will doesn’t have, I take it?”

“Next to Luke Fletcher, Will feels like a brother,” Rose replied with dismay.

“Oh dear.”

“I can’t believe I said that, or thought it, but I’m afraid it’s so. Will has never made me feel as Mr. Fletcher does. I’ve always wondered why I never got as excited as other girls do over their beaux. But if Mr. Fletcher were to court me…”

“Oh Rose, do be careful! There are so many things that could go wrong if you get mixed up with him. What if he’s trifling with you?”

“He most certainly is trifling with me. What else could it be? But I’ll be more careful. I’m sure someone in that family killed my father. Jonas Fletcher makes the most sense, though I confess I have difficulty believing it of the man I met. I must contrive to see his business correspondence.”

Vivian looked alarmed. “How will you do that?”

“I have no idea, but I’ll find a way.”

Vivian reached out and took Rose's hand in hers.

“I admire you exceedingly, you know.”

“Whatever for? I'm making a mess of everything.”

“For your courage, your heart, your loyalty. Not to mention that perfect skin of yours,” she laughed, lightening the mood with her smile.

“Oh, but you can’t admire my hands. Look at them,” she said, holding out her chapped hands for her friend to see. “No one could ever mistake me for a gently bred woman now. I never thought I was vain,” she sighed ruefully, “but I must admit, I did set a store by my hands. I suppose I got that from my mother. Every night we smoothed salve over them and wore kid gloves to bed. I never stopped doing it, even after she died, though it doesn’t seem to make much difference these days.”

“I always thought the way your parents fell in love was the most romantic thing I ever heard,” Vivian confessed. “The way your mother gave up her family in England to live with your father here. I made my father tell me the story every night at bedtime for a year at least.”

“They were very much in love until the day she died. I always hoped I’d find that sort of love myself.”

“Yes, we all hope for that,” Vivian murmured.

“Has Mr. Mitchell gotten up the nerve to speak to you yet?” Rose asked.

This elicited a telling blush from Vivian, who shyly told her about Mr. Mitchell’s careful approach after church the previous Sunday. They sat happily for hours, enjoying one another’s company, and Rose joined Vivian and her father, Edward, for an early supper. She left soon afterwards, promising to be careful and return the next week.

The town still held the day’s heat, but once she left Boston proper the air cooled. Houses fell away and farmland took over, most of it bordered by low stone walls running along the side of the road. The soft light of early evening descended as she approached Fletcher land, blurring the landscape until it felt almost dreamlike. On either side of the road freshly tilled soil alternated with pastureland, the peaceful goats and cows bestowing an air of serenity. These gave way to the apple orchard Cider Hill was named for, the trees with their froth of late-blooming white blossoms stopping Rose in her tracks.

They looked so full of promise, so graceful in a week perilously short on grace. Rose stood and gazed at their long, arcing branches and delicate flowers, drawing strength from them before continuing on.

She was no more than half a mile from the house when she heard someone call her name.

“Rose? Rose, is that you?”

Startled out of her thoughts, Rose stopped and looked up to see Mrs. Fletcher's son, Mr. Byrne, sitting in a brougham watching her expectantly. A coachman sat atop it looking the other way.

“May I offer you my carriage the rest of the way?”

Rose began to object, but he would have none of it.

“I insist you let me convey you to the house.”

Rose hesitated, unsure what to do. She had been enjoying her walk and wanted these last few minutes to herself before returning to the house. But it was not only that. There was something about Mr. Byrne that made her uneasy, yet in a way unlike his stepbrother did. Maybe it was his smile, which held no warmth, or the way his pale blue eyes traveled over her figure.

Still, it seemed ridiculous to refuse, and she didn’t want him to make a greater fuss.

“Thank you. You're very kind,” Rose replied without feeling, unsuccessfully trying to calm her misgivings as Mr. Byrne watched her climb in.

It was luxurious inside, far nicer than she would have expected, given that he did not have a great deal of money. It struck her as an affectation for a bachelor to keep a coachman, particularly as he did not have the means. But then, perhaps he had his mother’s ambition for greater social standing.

He was smiling to himself as if terribly pleased. He had a dissolute look about him, his eyes bloodshot, his clothing wilted as if he'd been up all day and night in the same attire.

The carriage had just begun to move when he spoke.

“I cannot help wondering how you came to work at Cider Hill. You're much too pretty to be a servant.”

Rose stared resolutely ahead, her hands curled into fists on her lap. How dare he speak to her so? She should never have accepted the ride. Though she had only to bear his company for a few more minutes, even that was intolerable.

“Cannot a servant be pretty?” she countered, more sharply than was wise.

“I suppose, but there are so many other things pretty girls may do if they like,” he replied with an insinuating smile.

Rose shook with fury, but she could not afford to insult him. Though she’d once feared that Luke Fletcher would have her dismissed, she understood now he would never do such a thing. She had no such confidence in Mr. Byrne.

“I prefer an honest day's work. In fact I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Rose replied, refusing to look at him.

Mr. Byrne shot her a quick look and she worried she’d gone too far. Then he chortled as if amused.

“I guess you came to the right place then. Just remember, if you ever tire of it there are easier ways to make a living.”