A Difficult Disguise (23 page)

Beck prudently sat down before he fell down, stabbing a fork randomly in the direction of the plate, only to discover a moment later that he had just filled his mouth with cooked carrots. Pulling a face, he asked, “What did she write?”

Fletcher chewed on a piece of ham for a few moments, trying to decide how long he could keep Beck dangling before the man went for his throat. “Rosalie told Mrs. Rimston she had been compromised by a man who didn’t really want her—she referred to me by name, you understand, adding also that she, dear thing, loves me to distraction and beyond—and then begged to be taken in by the woman until such time as she could publish a novel, or become an actress, or take a ship to America. Have I told you, Beck, that Rosalie seems to possess a rather vivid if not exceptional imagination?”

“Still,” Beck said, eyeing his friend carefully, “the whole thing must have given you quite a turn, Fletch, what with Arabella and all.” He lowered his head, knowing he had spoken without thinking. “Sorry. But—but it must be gratifying to know that Miss Darley thinks herself in love with you, I suppose?”

“Thinks herself in love with me, Beck?” Fletcher frowned. “You find that difficult to believe?”

Beck grinned, his appetite returned, his fears flown. “Frankly, Fletch, I find it difficult to believe she hasn’t murdered you in your bed.”

Fletcher’s mouth opened, undoubtedly in preparation of defending himself, when Aunt Belleville sailed into the room, her many flowing draperies in full flight. “There you are, you lucky, lucky man,” she trilled, going to the end of the table to plant a kiss on her nephew’s cheek. “Close your eyes, Fletcher—you too, Beck—and don’t open them until I tell you to. All right?”

Fletcher eyed his aunt owlishly. The woman’s pudgy cheeks were flushed, her small eyes twinkling. “What have you done, Aunt?” he asked facetiously. “I didn’t miss anything, did I? I mean,” he added, his gaze quickly scanning the dining room as if she had just topped her mangling of the yellow saloon with another outrageous redecoration and he had somehow overlooked it, “I don’t see anything different in here. Beck, have you noticed anything?”

“You both will in a minute, you naughty boy,” Aunt Belleville teased, giving him an affectionate slap on the shoulder, for she seemed in a mood that would forgive her nephew anything. “Fletcher, do what I said, please, and close your eyes. No peeking, now. Good! I have to tell you, Fletcher, you gave me quite a turn last night with your news, but you offered me quite a challenge as well—”

“I exist only to please you, Aunt,” Fletcher broke in, his eyes still obediently shut.

“Oh, pooh, you do not. After spending a most unquiet night, I rose early this morning full of resolution. Have I told you, nephew, that Elsie, my abigail, has a most wonderful way with a scissors? Really, she has a veritable genius in her fingertips. Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, espying Beck’s broken plate on the floor. “Has someone had an accident? I should summon Lethbridge, I suppose—”

“Aunt, I warn you, if I keep my eyes closed much longer, they may just stick that way forevermore,” Fletcher interrupted once more. “May I please open them now, or do you think you could possibly get to the point?”

Aunt Belleville only laughed at this silliness, for everyone knew a person’s eyes couldn’t stick that way—unless someone were to deliver a sharp smack to the back of that person’s skull, that is. “Of course we had only one of your dear sister’s outgrown gowns to work with, and would have needed the fal-lals of fashion and such to really do the thing right—ribbons, and bows, and perhaps some jewelry—but although I admit to having had some serious qualms at the outset, it is early days yet, and I see nothing but a continuing round of successes once I have the dressing of her firmly in hand. Beck, I saw that! You’re peeking.”

Squeezing his eyes closed once more, Beck explained that he really hadn’t been looking. He had been attempting to eat and had opened one eye to make sure he wasn’t about to wind up with another mouthful of carrots.

“Beck is starving, Aunt,” Fletcher pointed out, doing his utmost not to laugh aloud. “It will, alas, be on your head if he faints into his plate, but if you aren’t ready to unveil your success, as you’ve termed it, I’m sure Beck will be able to find it in his heart to forgive you.”

Aunt Belleville sighed, giving up the fight. After all, there would be plenty of time for boasting once she had dazzled the gentlemen with her glorious creation. “Rosalie, you may come in.”

There came a slight rustle at the doorway and Fletcher’s heart began to pound uncomfortably in his chest. He knew what was about to happen. Only a brainless dolt could have heard the near riot and rumpus of activity that had maids running to and fro all morning from Aunt Belleville’s bedchamber and not know. When he opened his eyes, Rosalie would be standing in front of him, no longer the scruffy stable boy, but as his affianced wife.

How would she look?

She would be clean, of that much he knew he could be certain, giving him only his second sight of her without a smudge of dirt appearing somewhere on her face. He had already seen her hair, that mangled tangle of roughly cut ebony, and Elsie’s talents to one side, he held out little hope for much improvement there until it could grow into a more feminine style.

“My God,” Fletcher heard Beck whisper, his voice husky.

Fletcher wanted to open his eyes; heaven knew he wanted to, but something stopped him. Something selfish. Something totally alien to his being. Something he had rarely felt before—fear.

What if Aunt Belleville’s ecstasy had been misplaced and Beck’s gasp had been one of horror? He didn’t care! It didn’t matter. He loved her; he loved her with all his soul.

But what if Billy, the appealing urchin, had been turned into a weak-willed, simpering miss—and not his Billy Belchem anymore—by the simple application of a bit of lace and ruffles? What if Rosalie had turned beautiful and, now that she’d reacquainted herself with female fripperies, had her sights set on a Season in London, wanting nothing more than to break hearts, enjoying nothing so much as the sight of half a dozen young men dangling at her shoestrings? What if she didn’t want him, need him, love him, any more?

“Well, nephew?” Aunt Belleville prompted, preening, her gaze on Rosalie. When Fletcher didn’t answer, she looked down on him, only to see that his eyes were still closed. “My goodness, Beck, look! Do you think Fletcher could have been right and they really have stuck that way?”

“Huh?” Beck responded vaguely, all his attention obviously still intent on Rosalie.

His aunt’s alarm brought Fletcher back from his brown study. “Why don’t you ask me, Aunt? If my eyelids have stuck shut, it does not also stand to reason that I have been rendered deaf.” Knowing himself unable to put off the inevitable, he opened his eyes.

His mind felt struck first by the gown, for it had been his gift to Arabella, when his sister had been little more than fourteen. It was a gown of its time, deliberately styled so that the woman who wore it looked helpless and childlike, as if she had just stepped out of bed. The color was butter yellow, the style consisting of a simply cut, modest bosom, tiny puffed sleeves, an empire waistline accented by trailing yellow velvet ribbon, and a small ruffle at the hem.

It fit Rosalie as if it had been expressly fashioned for her.

The small swell of her breasts had been caught and held; the drape of the fabric followed the gentle flare of her hips, hiding the legs he already knew to be long and straight. Her arms, shown nearly to the shoulder, were soft and white and eminently touchable.

Fletcher swallowed, hard, and raised his gaze to her face.

Rosalie Darley had overnight become the most heart-stoppingly beautiful, most desirable woman he had ever seen.

He didn’t know whether he should rejoice or weep. Elsie was indeed a genius. Rosalie’s small face sat inside the perfect frame of short, tousled ebony curls run through with a butter-yellow satin ribbon, setting off her small, freckled, upturned nose, pert chin, and enormous emerald eyes.

Her eyes saved him from despair, for they were still the eyes of Billy Belchem—alive, inquiring, mischievous, and somewhat challenging. Billy had not disappeared, he had merely gone into hiding.

“Well, halfling,” he said, finding his voice at last, “it seems you clean up rather nicely.”

“Nicely?” Beck exploded, getting to his feet to approach Rosalie and kiss her hand. “Miss Darley, with your kind permission I should like to run that odious man through for you. I may hang for it, but it would have been worth it.”

“Oh, but you can’t do that,” Aunt Belleville exclaimed worriedly. “She is affianced to my nephew here, remember, although I suppose you are only funning, aren’t you, Beck? Of course you are. I’m all about in my head with excitement.”

“We forgive you, Aunt,” Fletcher said, rising to kiss her on the cheek. “My compliments, ma’am, for you have indeed wrought a miracle.”

Rosalie, who had passed a nearly sleepless night, only to spend the morning being poked and pushed at and fretted over by Elsie and Aunt Belleville, whom she had deemed a nice old tabby for all her fussing and fretting, had heard and seen enough.

It remained one thing to feel pretty again, to be clean again, to be able to wiggle her toes inside soft slippers, her heavy, chafing boots a thing of the past, but it was an entirely different kettle of fish to be discussed as an object, as if she didn’t really exist. Besides, where was the miracle? She knew what she looked like; she’d had eighteen years to become accustomed to her appearance, and she didn’t think it to be the slightest bit out of the ordinary.

“If we have done with the inspection,” she piped up testily, “do you think it would be possible if this ‘miracle’ partook of some luncheon?”

Beck all but fell over himself to guide Rosalie to the buffet, pointing out the various dishes as if she would be unfamiliar with them, as she stole a look at Fletcher from beneath her eyelashes.

He still stared at her, a dazed but happy look on his handsome face. Her heart, which she had noticed beating in a rather erratic rhythm ever since Aunt Belleville had positioned her outside the dining room to await her summons, picked up a beat as she tipped her head to hide a smile.

He approved of her! Oh, he might not have rushed to her side to kiss her hand, as Beck had, but it was obvious all the same. He really, really approved of her appearance.

She had been so worried, nearly teased to death, wondering how he would react, for she knew that the same slight body that had made impersonating a young boy so successful must look woefully inadequate dressed in a gown.

Although Aunt Belleville and Elsie had complimented her figure, it had taken the appreciative glint in Fletcher’s eyes to assure her that the Beatrices of this world were not necessarily better prepared to attract the attentions of a man—not that Rosalie didn’t still covet the barmaid’s ample bosom at least a little.

Once seated at the table, Rosalie made a mental note to destroy the letter she had penned to Mrs. Rimston upon arising this morning. Although the woman’s kindly worded invitation would be above all things wonderful if Fletcher had rejected her, there no longer existed any need to contemplate yet another escape, yet another masquerade, yet another deception. Truth to tell, Rosalie, who if nothing else had learned from her unintentional lessons at Fletcher’s hand, had become most heartily sick of both masquerades and lies.

Of course, she remembered sadly, the matter of Mrs. Beale—and Sawyer—still lingered on like a nagging toothache, a trial to be gotten through before she could believe she had any real chance at lasting happiness with Fletcher.

Fletcher... She peeked up at him once more, to see him looking at her, a smile in his soft gray eyes. Dare she hope for a happy ending? Had William, in his final request, reached out to assure a lifetime of happiness for his sister and his best friend?

Halfway through the meal, Beck turned to ask Rosalie if she would honor him by riding out in his curricle that afternoon, only to have Fletcher remind him that, much as he would like to allow it, he had several letters in his study that demanded Beck’s immediate attention, and by the by, did his friend recall that Miss Darley had already been spoken for?

“I, on the other hand,” he added as Beck blushed and grumbled under his breath, “am delightfully free for the afternoon and would like nothing more than to take Miss Darley up with me while I make a small tour of the estate.”

Yes, Rosalie told herself, hiding a triumphant smile behind her serviette, a lifetime of happiness might just be a possibility.

A lovely Kashmir shawl around her shoulders and one of Arabella’s feathered bonnets atop her curls, Rosalie relaxed against the wooden seat of the curricle, feeling the smooth fabric of Fletcher’s jacket sleeve rubbing comfortingly, provocatively, against her bare arm.

They had been driving for nearly a half-hour in Fletcher’s curricle, the same one she had first seen pulling in to the stableyard with Fletcher at the reins, his many-caped driving cloak giving him the appearance of a descending storm cloud. Rosalie remembered how he had hopped down from the seat, barking out orders, and recalled her pert response to those commands.