Seven Nights to Forever (18 page)

Yesterday Rose had been in no condition to leave her suite of rooms, never mind traipse about town. Her mind fixed on trying to forget James, not on her brother’s evasive and rude behavior. Today though . . . she should not let the day pass without making an effort to discover if Dash was hiding a gambling habit.

“We should leave soon, then. I need to stop briefly at the house and then we can be on our way. How many hells do you think we can visit? I need to return before five.” She wanted to have plenty of time to prepare for the coming evening.
May I see you again tomorrow night?
James’s parting words drifted through her head. He had even promised to leave his desk early, and there was not a bit of doubt in her mind that he would do just that.

Timothy threw another chunk of bread to the ducks. “Three or four should be manageable. Is there a reason why you don’t wish to be late tonight?”

“Perhaps,” she said, fighting to keep the smile from her lips.

“I take it last night went better than expected? You certainly look better today than you did yesterday.”

“Yes, much better. On both accounts.”

Avoiding Timothy’s probing stare, she took a step forward, turning her attention to the ducks. James had been her only client since she had returned to town this month. Something she had a feeling Timothy would not approve of. He would question her, wonder at the wisdom of seeing the same man night after night. It would all be borne from concern for her, but at the moment, she’d rather not be faced with questions she did not want to answer.

Awareness pricked the nape of her neck, the sensation raising the fine hairs.

She whirled around, her gaze immediately catching James’s, as if some part of her knew he was there. Clad in a bottle green coat and dark trousers, he stood along the lane. The sun bathed his strong features, making him appear somehow even more handsome.

A smile curved her lips at the unexpected gift. It would never have crossed her mind that she would see him here. On their first night together, he had told her he could not recall the last time he had visited the park during the day. And this wasn’t just any time of day—it was late morning. A time chosen deliberately to avoid the gentlemen who rode along Rotten Row at dawn and far before the five o’clock fashionable hour. Her hood even draped her shoulders, so confident was she that she would not happen upon anyone who would recognize her.

A furrow flickered across his brow. He broke eye contact, turning his head to his right. And then he turned toward her, stepping off the lane and into the grass, and revealing the young woman at his side. An ivory kidskin-gloved hand rested on his forearm. A pale blue bonnet framed her pretty face. A morning dress in the same shade peeked from the hem of a light brown pelisse that was clearly the work of an expert modiste, one who would charge far more than Rose could afford.

Rose went stiff. Her pulse quickened, a rapid staccato that filled her ears, at the thought of just who this young woman could be. Muscles poised to turn, to walk away, to escape the agonizing truth she had tried so hard to brush aside as a mere possibility. But she couldn’t resist one last look at the woman who had the privilege of calling James her own. Chestnut brown hair peeking from beneath the bonnet. Soft olive green eyes. Where James radiated pure, honest masculinity, she radiated sweet, wholesome femininity. Yet the resemblance was clear.

Relief poured over her. The tingle that started in her belly whenever she laid eyes on him sparked to life anew, bringing the smile back to her lips. “Good morning, James.”

Stopping before her, he tipped his head, his gaze flickering to Timothy, who had gotten to his feet to stand at her shoulder. That muscle didn’t tick along James’s strong jaw, but the question in his eyes could not be more obvious.

“I hope the day finds you well. Please allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Timothy Ashton.”

The two men exchanged greetings, all brief politeness. A half bow from Timothy, a nod from James.

There was a pause, and then he turned to the young woman on his arm. “Rebecca, this is Miss Rose . . .”

Rose caught the leading look from him. Ingrained habit had her holding back, declining the silent request for her family name. Instead she tipped her head in greeting.

“Miss Rose, this is my dearest sister, Miss Rebecca Archer.”

His name was James
Archer
. It fit him. Solid, strong, just like the man himself. Unlike the conventions of polite society, first names held no intimacy with her, but family names . . . a tangible symbol of trust.

“Are there other sisters who are not quite so dear?” she asked.

A short chuckle rumbled in his chest. “No, I’ve only the one.”

“So what brings you out to the park at such an early hour? The sun is still shining.”

“Alas, Rebecca does not share my nocturnal tendencies.”

“And she has my thanks for that.”

Standing in the shade of the tree with her, he looked somehow . . . different. It took a moment for her to identify the cause. The slightly wrinkled air about him was gone. His chestnut brown hair neatly combed, not a trace of a day’s beard on his jaw. The crisp white cravat tied in a tidy knot. Not a hint of lingering tension in the broad line of his shoulders. It was the morning version of James.

Seeing him like this, before the hours behind his desk had a chance to take their toll, drove home just how very hard he worked. He had mentioned his long hours, but so casually, almost waving them aside, that it hadn’t fully sunk in until now. And it made her determined to make his evenings with her as enjoyable as possible.

“James, the ducks have come out today,” Rebecca said, glancing around Timothy’s shoulder. “I should have thought to bring something for them.”

“Not to worry.” Timothy reached for the brown sack on the bench. “Two-day-old bread. They seem to like it best. It is yours if you will have it.”

“Oh . . .” The girl captured the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth, looking far more torn than the offer should warrant. “I shouldn’t.”

“There’s no use in my returning home with stale bread. I don’t much fancy it. But I’m certain the ducks will enjoy it. Shall we?” With a benign smile that nevertheless had an impact on James’s sister, at least judging by the slight blush that rose on her cheeks, Timothy gestured toward the river.

Rebecca tipped her face up to her brother, clearly seeking his approval. He didn’t look to Timothy, assessing his worthiness to be granted such a duty as to escort his sister a few paces, but to Rose.

Holding his intent gaze, she gave him a small nod.

“The ducks await, Rebecca.”

James watched as the girl eagerly joined Timothy on the down-ward-sloping bank of the river. Then she found herself caught by his gaze once again.

“And who exactly is Mr. Ashton?”

There wasn’t a trace of suspicion in his low tone, but it understandably held a definitive need for an answer. “A friend of mine.”

“A friend?”

The slight scowl should not please her so. “Yes, a friend. A very good friend.” The scowl deepened. Somehow she kept from smiling as she took a step closer to him. Pitching her voice low, she said in an effort to clarify the situation and assure him his jealousy was unfounded, “He works at Rubicon’s.”

“He’s one of the footmen?”

“No.” Timothy as a footman? She held back the chuckle of disbelief that tickled her throat. “In addition to the women that fill the receiving room nightly, she has a few men in her employ.”

His upper lip curled. “He’s a—”

She held up a hand, stopping the word
sodomite
before it could leave his mouth. “Please don’t say that word. He’s my friend and doesn’t deserve to be called such.”

His attention flickered over her shoulder, the green depths of his eyes uncertain.

She reached out to touch his arm. If only she wasn’t wearing gloves, perhaps she could feel the heat from his body seeping through the bottle green wool. “Your sister is perfectly safe with him. You have my word. He would never act improperly toward a young lady.” While she understood the need, it hurt to even have to reassure James. It was an ugly reminder that a person’s worth was so readily judged by their lot in life.

The happiness she’d felt upon seeing him drained away.

Her arm dropped to her side.

“He is your friend?”

“Yes. The dearest of friends.” Her only friend. But
oh
, how she would like to be able to add James to the short list. To be able to call him
friend
.

A notched
V
pulling his brows, he considered her. A slight breeze ruffled the neat layers of his hair. The leaves overhead rustled as a bird took flight. Whatever he was looking for must have met with his satisfaction, for he nodded.

He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. “It is good to see you, Rose.”

“As I you.” She flexed her hand by her side. She wanted to reach out, to take hold of his, but proper decorum held her back. It was so very different being at the park with him. Accustomed to the privacy of her bedchamber, without a prying eye to be found, she was suddenly at a loss for what to say, how to behave around him.

There was a splash of water and then a light tickling laugh drifted over her shoulder.

The edges of his mouth quirked. “I should collect Rebecca. She has afternoon calls to ready for.”

“Of course. I shall not keep you.”

He reached out, took hold of her hand, long fingers wrapping around her palm, his grip so familiar, and bowed. Bent at the waist, he looked up at her from his prone position. His olive green eyes were banked with an undeniable promise of more.

Her breath caught. Passion flared to full life, so quick and so fast she nearly swayed on her feet.

“Until this evening.” The low words brushed across the back of her gloved hands, sending a tingling rush through her.

All she could do was nod mutely as her fingers slipped from his. He stood tall, gave his coat a little tug to straighten it, and headed off toward the Serpentine.

SHIFTING
on the leather bench, Rose kept her attention trained out the window of the hackney. Buildings lined the street, but only one in particular—the one with the black door with the plain silver knocker—held any interest to her.

The fourth hell they had visited that day. She hadn’t stepped outside the hackney since they had departed from Rubicon’s a few hours ago, preferring to remain cloaked in the shadows of the interior while Timothy inquired at each establishment. How exactly he acquired the necessary information, she hadn’t a clue, nor had she asked. She had merely handed over all of the pound notes that she had been tucking into her valise after each of Rubicon’s morning visits, with instructions to Timothy to use them as he saw fit. The flare of lust and desire James had left in his wake at the park had been doused shortly after Timothy had exited that first hell. His report from the second had been the same as the first. The third a blessed relief. The fourth . . .

She could only hope his instincts about this one were wrong. She had had enough dreadful news for one day. She certainly did not need any more.

A group of men passed the hackney, briefly blocking her view. She leaned right, hands clasped tightly in her lap, trying but failing to see around them. Strides slow and ambling, the group continued to make their way along the walkway, eventually passing that door.

She had only recognized the names of the first three hells. But this one she more than recognized. Bennett’s, with its lavish yet comfortable interior designed to mimic one of the many gentlemen’s clubs on St. James Street. Five years ago, she had walked through that black door many times, as an ornament hanging from Lord Wheatly’s arm. Clad in beautiful gowns and with jewels draping her neck, she had stood at his shoulder whispering a mixture of encouragement and congratulations as he played the various tables, roulette being his game of choice. She had known her role well and performed to the best of her ability. The smile on her lips effectively masking the sharp jolt of apprehension every time the wheel slowed and the
clicketty-clack
of the small white marble came to a halt. When he did well, her nights passed without incident. His mood pleased, bordering on happy, so much so that it wouldn’t take much to correctly anticipate his desires in the bedchamber. And when the wheel had not favored him . . .

A shudder gripped her spine.

By God, how she had come to dread even the sight of a roulette wheel. As if the man had needed another reason to be an unpleasant, domineering bastard, the gambling tables contained the heavy threat of one more.

The black door swung open and the tall, elegant form of Timothy emerged. The grim expression on his face spoke for itself. She winced.

He entered the hackney, sat on the bench across from her, and shut the door. At his sharp rap on the roof, the carriage lurched forward and the driver began to take them back to Curzon Street.