In Regency England, two brothers vie for Mabel's affections. Their passionate rivalry puts her reputation on the line and tests both her sense and sensibility to the maximum. On the verge of despair, she must cast the die: to decipher the most enigm...
She dreamed a few times that Radcliffe would be waiting for her in the rosarium. And at the orangerie. And in his study, or even his bedroom. She dreamed of their meeting every night. But on the day of her return to London, it was in the rosarium where she had finally found him. His stooped figure hovered so protectively over the flowers that it brought a fond smile to her lips.
"You didn't come to greet us. Aren't you glad to see me?" she chided him. He turned to the sound of her voice and the crunch of her steps on the gravel path.
Joy that flickered in his eyes was her answer before he spoke. "I'm sincerely glad of your return, Miss Walton. Glad... and dread the conversation we must have."
Mabel's heart skipped a beat. "This sounds ominous."
"Alas, but I'm obliged to do so." His eyes hooded as he gathered the nerve. "Everett travelled ahead of you, in September. He was agitated and, to my shame, I forgot my dignity as well."
She almost gasped in denial. He closed his eyes, reliving the unpleasant memory, then sighed without opening up to her. Protecting her. She wished he'd stop doing it.
"What had passed?"
He rocked his cane a little. "Suffice it is to say, we had a terrible quarrel, and it didn't stay private. As the society is gathering for the new season, the ugly gossip is growing, replete with damaging details."
His eyes stopped on her face heavy with meaning. Breath hitched in her throat. "What do they say about me, Lord Chesterton?"
"I will not repeat this filth to you."
"Your brother had mixed me into this unfortunate situation already. The more I know, the better I can extricate myself."
His jaw tightened. Words came out as if drawn out by a torturer's tools. "The story is that Everett had tamed you... broken you in, to pass you on to me in a twisted gesture of fraternal affection. Only I proved either too miserly to share or ungrateful."
"O, this is filth!"
"You wanted to hear it unadorned." His tone implied that she shouldn't have wanted to hear it at all.
She lowered her head, shamed by her curiosity. "I don't know why I hoped it would be less vulgar."
"Miss Walton, please do not cry."
She wasn't crying. The words sank her heart to the bottom of a glacial crevasse, so deep that crying was impossible. There was no air for it, no moisture. Only cold, dead ice.
"I've thought of a way to repair our reputation," he said hurriedly.
"You are... you intend to sack me..."
What a horrid outcome, being turned off the house, to live in shame. To return home and watch Hazel bask in marital bliss, a new son in her arms. Her love for her husband was blossoming brighter every day, she wrote blissfully, now that the trials of birthing were behind her. Mable didn't envy her sister the happy outcome. It even comforted her until now, because it hardly seemed fair that Hazel had gotten away with everything, when she would be despised as a fallen woman.
Despised, broken and blameless. The bright autumnal sky, the brilliant blooms—every colour drained to gray and everything tilted... tilted.
Abandoning the cane, Radcliffe caught her elbow one-handed to support her. "If you think so little of me, perhaps my plan is doomed."
She twisted her neck to search his face from her angled position. She had never seen it so close. What seemed like eternity passed them by.
"Miss Walton, I propose to marry you and silence the malicious tongues once and for all."
Words fled her, so she only shook her head. This could not be happening to her. First Everett, then Radcliffe both offered to marry her with the casual attention one gave choosing a scone at breakfast table.
Maybe this was enough for Hazel, but she couldn't take the offer made in such a way and live with herself. May she be punished for her pride, but she'd rather remain a disgraced, but once-valued servant—if that was still possible—than a pitied wife hidden away in the countryside for safe-keeping.
"Lord Chesterton, you told me once that you wish to marry for no other consideration but love. Not only you're betraying your own ideals, you are denying me the same need." She took in a shuddering breath to keep the tears at bay. "And for what? To encourage a few bored tongues to eviscerate some other unfortunate soul?"
"I cannot see you maligned. It hurts me."
"The sentiment does you credit. But did you consider my sensibilities? Yes, I am a girl of trifle fortune and appearances—"
"Miss Walton!"
"But I also do not wish to marry someone who doesn't cherish me with his entire heart."
"Miss Walton, your reputation is in tatters."
"Lord Chesterton, yes, I am quite aware where I stand with the society. You were clear about it." She took a deep breath in and looked pleadingly into his eyes. "If you want to help me survive this disgrace, allow me to keep my job. Please?" Anything was better than travelling home. The jitters, the mockery, the disdain... even pity. She could handle it as long as she was in London with the man who knew the truth about her innocence.
"It was never in jeopardy, I assure you. The only thing in question is if you marry me or not."
She didn't reply. Couldn't say a word. The weight of that glacier crushed her to the ground. She almost wished she'd died on the spot, and only a tiny bit of her resented it. Why would she have to die of shame, and not the man who bestowed it upon her? Why not Everett?
Silence fell over them, this one heavy and uncomfortable. For once, it was Radcliffe who walked away, unable to stand its grip. Mabel stayed rooted to the spot, with a bitter ache in her chest.
He didn't walk fast or far, however, before he stopped to lean heavily on his cane. His head twisted awkwardly to look at her over his shoulder. More and stronger emotions changed on his face during the long pause that stretched between them, than she was used to seeing in a week from him.
"Don't answer now. Plumb the depth of your heart until you don't doubt and wear a rose to dinner if you reconsidered. If it's a 'yes', because I'm..." He chewed his lip. "Remember, a rose means yes. Any rose, any colour. A single petal would do."
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