Duchess (20 page)

“Do I have to wear my wig?”

He looked at her, a tiny frown touching his face. Then, “No. Come as yourself.”

She didn't know why her eyes burned, but she gave a tiny, quick nod. “Yes, Rolfe, I would love to go to a party with you.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Yates. I thought you'd have the entire night off.”

She turned so her maid could drape a fur around her shoulders, fasten it at the neck. Mr. Yates brushed off Rolfe's wool coat before helping him into it.

“It is my pleasure to serve at my master's request. I am just appalled that I wasn't on hand to greet him when he arrived.” He bowed his head. “Again, my apologies, sir.”

Rolfe gave him a nod. “It's all very good, Mr. Yates.” He turned to Rosie, extending his hand. “Are you ready?”

Oh, he looked devastatingly handsome in full evening dress, a tailcoat in midnight blue, silk lapels and buttons, white waistcoat and tie. He wore gloves and a silk top hat and any hint of his previous precarious condition had vanished. He smelled freshly bathed, a hint of that spicy cologne at his neck. He'd shaved and slicked back his hair to perfection.

Please, let there be dancing at this party.

“You look lovely, by the way.”

Thankfully, her own maid had appeared without pause when Rolfe summoned his staff into action. Her lady's maid, Miss Gwendolyn, helped her dress in a filmy light blue evening gown that she'd saved for a premiere in Paris or London. But it seemed appropriate tonight, and Gwendolyn had pinned back one side of her hair with a lovely paper flower. The rest of her hair, she left down in soft waves.

She smiled up at him, slipped her hand through his elbow. Allowed herself to lean into him as he helped her down the stairs and into the Rolls Royce. A footman closed the door behind them, and he surprised her by manning the wheel himself.

She looked out the window at the night sky, the cascade of twinkling lights.

“I heard the telephone ring. Did you get your call to America?” He pulled away from the estate and through the gates, turning onto the lane.

She nodded.

“Just for three minutes, then we lost it, but it was enough.” Enough to hear Sammy's laughter. And Irene's breathless thank-you for the sapphire necklace she'd found in Garrard's in London.

“It's too beautiful to wear around the table, just Sammy and myself.”

“You'll find someplace, Irene. Merry Christmas—”

Then, just as she heard a voice, something masculine, vaguely familiar, the line cut off. She hadn't been able to retrieve it.

“I'm sorry you weren't able to return home.” Rolfe glanced at her, apology in his expression. But he gave no other explanation.

She drew the fur around her. “It's okay. Sammy and Irene are fine, and hopefully I'll see them in a few months, when we wrap up filming.”

Again, he said nothing.

“There was a man's voice on the other end of the phone.”

He glanced at her. “Is Irene dating someone?”

“Not that she's mentioned.”

He slowed as they entered the village. Lights slivered onto the packed snow, evergreens wound around the lampposts. He kept driving and, in a moment, they left it behind.

The waning gibbous moon hung in the sky, the dusty side fading in the velvet expanse.

“Why did you take her in, Rosie? After she slept with Dashielle, and had his child, why did you take her in?”

She knitted her gloved hands together. “I know you didn't want to believe it, but Dashielle and I had a marriage of convenience. We were only married, in deed, the night after the premiere in New York. And I foolishly thought he loved me. By the time I met you, I realized the truth.” She looked up at him, wishing he'd glance at her, but Rolfe only stared at the road, the headlights cutting a path through the darkness. “I never meant to deceive you. And I tried to tell you before—well, before I found out I was pregnant. Really.”

His shoulders rose, and fell. Then, “I am sorry I didn't listen to you explain.”

“You were hurt.”

“I was angry.” He looked at her then, but she couldn't read his expression in the darkness. “And jealous.”

And now? She longed for the question to emerge from her lips, but she couldn't ask it. She didn't want to threaten their fragile cease-fire. “Irene had no one after Dash died, and I think he truly loved her. He was going to ask me for a divorce.”

“Did he know about—” he paused, and his voice softened. “About the baby?”

It didn't hurt so much anymore, but she still felt the sting, deep inside. “I never told him. I was going to, but then he—he wouldn't take my calls. And after he passed, I couldn't tell Irene. She would only feel the betrayal I did.”

He said nothing. But then, quietly, his hand moved over to hers, clasped in her lap, and squeezed. “You've got a kind heart, Rosie Worth. I've always known that.”

The gesture, the words pooled tears in her eyes, and she looked away, blinking before they betrayed her.

“People have such a great capacity to make mistakes, to derail their entire lives.” He took his hand away as he turned up a long drive to what looked like another estate house. “My hope is that God never stops forgiving mine, keeps putting me on the right track, despite my own foolish efforts to sabotage it.”

She frowned but didn't have the chance to question him before they pulled into the circular drive of the two-story stone estate. “What is this place?”

“Chateau Le Blanc.” He glanced at her, smiled. “Sophie's house.”

She stilled. Looked at the grand estate. “I don't understand.”

“You will.” He got out and crossed over to the door then helped her out. “But please, don't ask me any questions until after the night is over.”

He looped her hand into the crook of her arm and led her up the steps. Strange, no footman came to claim the car, no butler opened the door. Rolfe didn't knock either, just opened it and let himself in.

Darkness shrouded the foyer. “Where is the footman?”

“They have no footmen,” he said, and cupped his hand over hers. From beyond the foyer, she heard the sound of voices, laughter.

Young voices.

He glanced at her, and even in the shadows, she saw him wink. “Trust me.”

She gave him a shallow nod, and he led her into the next room, a sitting room of sorts with two long divans and a desk. He went straight for the door at the far end and knocked.

After a moment, it opened. Light flooded over him and with it the smells of baked bread and potatoes, roasted meat and spicy vegetables. And, blocking her entrance, Sophie Le Blanc, staring at them with wide eyes. “Rolfe! What an unexpected surprise.” Sophie wore her dark hair up, pulled in a chignon, and a lovely blue dress, a strand of pearls at her neck. Her gaze landed on Rosie then, and instead of a frown, she smiled. “And Miss Price, of course. Welcome.”

She opened the door and stood back and everything inside Rosie froze.

In the massive ballroom, twenty or more children sat at a long dining table in their finest attire, although from the threadbare nature of the clothing it seemed that their finest had endured dozens of Christmas Eve celebrations, maybe passed down each year. The boys ranged in age from four to fourteen, and wore all manner of dress, some in sweaters, frayed at the elbows, others in suit-jackets, and yet others in suspenders and dress pants. The girls too, from toddler to teenager, wore dresses, scarves, or holiday ribbons in their hair. Clean and smiling, their plates seemed cleared of what had been a lavish dinner. A festive red tablecloth covered the length of the table—similar to the one she'd seen in the dining room at the chateau. And, in the corner, a towering evergreen dazzled with glass ornaments. Wrapped gifts piled at the base of the tree.

A robust woman, her black hair piled up on her head, dressed in a gray wool dress and a long hanging cross necklace, rose from the end of the table. “Your Grace. What a surprise.” She had flushed and now hurried toward them. “We were just about ready to serve dessert and then distribute gifts.”

Rolfe removed his hat. “I'm sorry to interrupt your annual dinner. May we join you, Mademoiselle Franc?”

“Of course.” She turned and directed a couple of older children, who scurried to make places for them.

Rolfe never let go of Rosie's hand, still pinched into the pocket of his arm. He leaned near her. “This is the Lady Lisette Van Horne orphanage.”

Lisette. After his mother. Rosie had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around him, press a kiss to his cheek. But then a little girl, maybe five or six years old, ran up to him. She wore a pretty blue polka-dotted dress over a long-sleeved shirt, wool stockings, and a floppy ribbon woven into her long braids. “Thank you, Your Grace!” then she bent in a proper, well-trained curtsy.

He bent, caught her up, kissed her cheek. “Hello, Angelica.” She giggled. He let her go, and Rosie needed to sit down.

“You know these children?”

He shook the hand of a gentleman she guessed might be about fifteen, who appeared before him, bowing his head at the neck.

“Bertrand,” Rolfe said. “Nice to see you. I assume you are progressing in your studies.”

“I am, sir. The Académie Royale in Brussels.”

“Very good. ” He turned to her. “Bertrand surprised us with a one-act soliloquy of Hamlet last spring at our annual academia show.”

“Indeed,” she said.

He turned to Bertrand. “Miss Price is a gifted actress, and she is starring in a film I'm producing.”

“I know Miss Price, sir,” Bertrand said. Was that a blush? He took her hand, bowed his head. “A pleasure, m'lady.”

“I'm not a lady,” she said, but Rolfe leaned in to her.

“Tonight, you are.” He smiled again, and she couldn't breathe for the power of it to wind through her, undo her.

They pulled up chairs for them, and she sat beside Rolfe, aware of his presence, the rich timbre of his voice as he laughed with each child. It seemed he knew them all by name, knew about their studies in school and even their dreams.

“Nicole, have you applied to the
Conservatoire Royal de Musique de Bruxelles
yet?”

“No, Your Grace. It is quite expensive.”

He took a sip of the juice Sophie had given him. She stood at the end of the table, watching the conversations like an older sister.

“Perhaps there will be a scholarship available.” He lowered his voice, turned it stern. “I expect to hear of your application by the time I return in the spring.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and glanced at the girl next to her, who held a hand to her mouth, giggling. Oh, of course they had a crush on Duke Van Horne. Who wouldn't?

A village woman, dressed in serving attire, emerged from the kitchen with a plate covered in cloth. Behind her, a trail of helpers followed, all with similar plates. She set hers before Rolfe and removed the cloth with a flourish.

“Well done, ma'am,” Rolfe said.

The Christmas bread. Cut, presented, and ready for celebration. Rosie recognized the woman from the bakery. The woman caught her eye and smiled, ever so briefly.

Tea and bread. She was back in Paris, or perhaps New York City, dining in gloves.

Mademoiselle Franc rose. “Let us gather around the tree, read the Holy Word in remembrance of this blessed evening.”

The children rose, and Mademoiselle Franc read the story from Luke, the one about Mary and Joseph and the holy infant born on this eve.

“And who remembers why the Christ child came to live among us?”

One of the little girls raised her hand, glanced at Rolfe before standing. “To redeem us from our sins.” She smiled at Rolfe then at Rosie. “Because He knew that no matter what we did, we would always need Him.”

“Very good, Claire,” Mademoiselle Franc said. “And this holy night is the reminder that, before we even realized we needed a Savior, Christ appeared. And He came in the form of a child so that we would accept Him instead of fear Him.”

Accept instead of fear. But what about God the Father? Wasn't He to be feared? Rosie had spent most, no,
all
of her life fearing the God she'd met in her Episcopal church in New York, the one who gave and took—especially took—away. The one who reminded her that no matter what she did, she'd lost His favor, and had no way to redeem herself back into His grace.

Yes, she feared God. But she hadn't, perhaps, considered the Christ child. “
Because He knew that no matter what we did, we would always need Him
.”

“We always need to remember that Jesus didn't have to come to earth—but He was trusting His heavenly Father. And His trust, His meekness, led Him to save us all. Perhaps someday, God will do something amazing through you because of your trust.”

Rosie glanced at Rolfe. He had his hands clasped between his legs, his gaze beyond the children, lost somewhere.

Mademoiselle Franc turned to Rolfe. “Some music perhaps, before the gifts?”

He roused, back from his roaming, and nodded. Soon the children gathered a small ensemble of violins and flutes, playing Christmas hymns.

She sat in her chair, laughing and clapping while Rolfe directed, so much delight on his face, it could fill her right up, spilling over.

“Perhaps a song from our guest? Something from America?” Sophie asked, emerging from her corner. She smiled, nothing of malice in it. In fact, she seemed delighted at Rosie's presence.

“I can't sing—”

Rolfe stood before her. “Yes, you can. How about something simple? ‘Love Me or Leave Me'?” He held out his hand.

She couldn't read him, the power of his eyes on hers stealing her breath. She started to shake her head, but he crouched before her. “Together, perhaps?”

Together.

Like they did on the beach, his arms around her, swaying to the waves. She looked at the faces of the children, heard them clapping.

“For the children,” she said.

“For the children.”

She got up, let him lead her to the front of the room. “I would do better with music.”