☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
~~~
Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Rose awoke early the next morning. The sun had just begun to climb over the horizon.
Sleep had been an elusive stranger all night. It flitted away from her each time she tried to grasp it, causing her rest to come in fitful little starts and stops.
Still exhausted, she yawned, stretched, and made her way to the en suite. There was no telling when Mr. Mercer would arise, and she didn't want to be caught off guard or in a compromising position. No time to tarry.
After a quick bath, Rose arranged her hair and selected the most conservative dress from her wardrobe. As she had no idea what the day would bring or what would be expected of her, she wanted to appear professional and modest.
A sudden knock on the bedroom door made her jump. The sharp rap had been too high from the floor for little Teddy to reach, and she doubted very much it was the housekeeper asking after her breakfast preference.
That could only mean one thing.
She gave herself a quick glance in the vanity mirror, then squared her shoulders and marched to the door. She flung it open with assertion and, as predicted, found her employer staring back at her, already dressed to the nines in a beautiful bespoke suit.
“Mr. Mercer, good morning,” she said, her consonants crisp and her tone businesslike. “I trust you slept well.”
He gave her a subtle nod as his gaze drifted over her face and attire. She tutted in impatience at his lingering stare.
If he noticed, he didn't comment. “Now that you're stayin' in me house, there's no need to address me with such formality,” Mr. Mercer said. “Liam will do. Or any variation thereof that suits ya. My brothers often call me Will.”
Rose snorted. “I am not calling you ‘Will’.”
“Why not?”
“Such a familiar designation would imply that we're friends. We aren't.”
He seemed amused by this. “William, then.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. And what about you? Can I call ya Rose?”
She studied him for several seconds, her arms crossed over her chest. “As long as it's Rose and not Lady Rose, then, yes.”
“Good,” he said, his head tilted slightly to the side. “We can be friendly without bein' friends, y'know.”
“I suppose we can.”
His heavy gaze meandered over every line, curve, and plane of her face until she felt herself squirm.
“How 'bout you, Rose?” he asked. “Did you sleep well?”
She detested the feeling of being appraised. And he constantly did exactly that: he appraised her. Like a painting he planned to sell at auction. His icy eyes toured over her figure and seemed to be deciding how high a price he could fetch for his current wares. Rose would not accept being treated as a possession. The very notion made her skin crawl.
