Duchess (8 page)

“You left without saying good-bye.”

“I saw the look on your face. You were in love with him. Probably still are.”

“No, I'm not. I—I wanted to run away with him because my mother was setting me up to marry someone I didn't know. A duke from some European duchy.”

“I know.” He met her eyes, a sorrow in them. “I know.”

“What do you mean,
you know
?” and then, “Wait. No.”

“Rolfe Van Horne, Duke of Beaumont, only son of Frederick of the duchy of Beaumont-Belgium.”

She stared at him, those blue eyes—how could she have forgotten them? And his chivalry, yes, she should have spotted that right off. She could see the snapshot in her mind, the memory of him dripping wet as he waded into the cold pond after Finn's boat.

“Don't tell me that you were the duke my mother wanted me to marry….”

“I came to Paris to meet you.”

Their conversations shifted back to her. “You said you moved back to Europe after the war to… Oh no. You weren't planning on marrying
me
, were you?”

He shrugged. Smiled, but it didn't meet his eyes. “I hadn't quite imagined catching up with you in Hollywood, but perhaps fate thought it had a future for us.”

Past tense. “Rafe, please. Wait—”

“The name is Rolfe, I guess. His Serene Highness, Duke of Beaumont would work also.” He said it without humor. As if…

“You're serious.”

“I'm not sure what I was thinking. It would never have worked for me to marry Roxy Price, bombshell actress, to manage the duchy.” His eyes flashed. “She's a far cry from Rosie Worth, heir to the Worth family fortune.”

Rosie sat back, suddenly feeling soiled. Her throat burned. “Get out.” He flinched, and she turned away. “Please. Get out.”

She pressed her hands to her eyes.

“Good-bye, Rosie Worth.”

She heard the door close behind him.

Fate could not be this cruel.

She lay on her side, curling into a ball.

God could not be this cruel.

Not to show her the man she seemed destined to marry only to break her heart with her mistakes. Her failures.

Rolfe was the duke her mother had planned for her. She closed her eyes, remembering their brief meeting so long ago in Paris. She'd remembered him as kind when he rescued Finley's boat. Kind and handsome and with a longing in his gaze she now understood.

She wished for that longing on his face to return as she watched the sun fall into the horizon, a star dying into the magenta of evening. The nurse came and brought her a plate, but she didn't look at it. The room fell into darkness, shadows cascading across the floor, over her body.

The moon rose, an eye in the sky, watching her, unblinking.

Another nurse came into the room. She looked about fifty, with dark, salted hair, brown eyes. Despite being thin, she had a presence to her that reminded Rosie of her mother. Commanding. Her tag read G. House. She reached around the bread and captured Rosie's arm. Took her pulse, timing it with her watch.

“You're going to live, Miss Price.”

“Thank you for that insight.”

The woman reached out, pulled up a chair, sat down.

“What are you doing?”

“Did you know there is a mob of people outside, and I had to wrestle my way into work tonight?”

She wanted to put the pillow over her head.

“People care about you, Miss Price. You should eat something. Losing a child is difficult, but you and your…you can have more.”

Roxy lifted her head, stared at her. “No, I don't think I can, thank you. And it was my husband's baby, contrary to what you're insinuating—”

“I wasn't—”

“And that was my second miscarriage. I had one with my
dead
husband. The one who died in my arms two years ago. But no one knows about him, because that's a secret. And then there's the child I left behind—his child, the one I sat in bed for six months to carry. I left her, my daughter, in the care of my cousin in Montana, who is raising her to think she is her mother. So no, I don't think I'll be having more children.”

She grabbed the pillow, tucked it in front of her, lay back to look at the ceiling. “And the worst part is, the man I love is
not
my husband. He's the man I should have married seven years ago. Which means that, maybe, I would have had his baby instead and never had my heart broken at all.”

The nurse didn't move. Didn't speak. Finally, Rosie looked at her.

Her head was bowed.

“What are you doing?”

“Praying for you.”

“Well, stop. I don't need your prayers. What I need is for God to show me some mercy.”

“He has, Miss Price.”

“Were you listening at all?” Rosie rolled over. “Here's the really sorry part. After saying good-bye to the man I didn't want to marry, I meet him again, seven years later, and fall in love with him. But guess what? I'm already married, to a man who doesn't love me. And I don't love him.”

The nurse bowed her head, started praying again. Rosie could see it in the movement of her mouth. “Are you a nurse, or a nun?”

“A nurse.” She looked up. “But there are some wounds I can't tend. You know what your story tells me, Miss Price? That God has a destiny for you that you can't escape.”

“Don't say that to me. I just need God to leave me alone.”

“God has no intention of leaving you alone. He loves you too much.”

Rosie stared at her, wanting to slap her. “He just took my baby.”

“Your accident took your child.”

“And God doesn't have control over that?”

“He has control over everything—”

“No.” Rosie shot out her hand, closing her hand over the word. “Not over me. Or my destiny. Never has and never will. My life is
mine
.”

The nurse's expression seemed filled with sadness. “You might consider that it is
because
you took your destiny into your hands that you find yourself here today.”

Rosie leaned back against the bed. Dug her fingers into the pillow in front of her.

“Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.' Do you know who the meek are, Miss Price?”

“The cowardly? The quiet?” Not her.

“The ones who hope in the Lord. The ones who wait for Him. Those who allow God to set their course. The Holy Word says that they will inherit the earth. It means they will inherit everything God has for them. His blessings, His love. His destiny.”

Rosie looked away, out the window at the trail of moonlight across the sky. The stars pinpricked the velvet night.

“Your destiny may be more glorious than you think, Miss Roxy. You just need to let go of it. Be meek and find your inheritance.” She got up to leave, but Rosie snaked out a hand and grabbed hers. She didn't look at her.

“Please, don't tell anyone—”

The nurse squeezed her hand. “I'm not a nun, but I will keep your secrets.”

Roxy didn't let go. “Perhaps you could keep praying too?”

The nurse sat back down. “On the condition that you eat your dinner.”

She wasn't going to let Rolfe fly without saying—well, Rosie couldn't quite wrap her mind around what she might say. But outside her hospital window, clouds assembled on the horizon, and his words rippled through her.

Today they'd fly, the dangerous dogfight, complete with Rafe's aerial stunts. And at the rate Rooney's luck seemed to be holding out, someone would get killed.

She shoved her hair into the turban and waited for the nurse to call her a taxi. Two days sitting around the hospital only awakened her to how she'd endured enough grief in her life.

No more letting go of her life. Her destiny. She couldn't let Rafe—no, Rolfe—fly without telling him… Okay, she'd start with
I'm sorry
.

Then, she might go to,
You were right
.

And, finally,
Can we start over? Pretend we're meeting again in the garden in Paris…and I don't turn away into Dash's arms but walk with you instead?

She couldn't seem to escape the nurse's words. “
You know what your story tells me, Miss Price? That God has a destiny for you that you can't escape
.” They sat in her thoughts, churning.

Maybe she had brought all this on herself. Maybe she'd created her own nightmare by taking hold of her destiny instead of letting God deliver His chosen destiny to her.

Imagine the life she'd have if she'd married Rolfe.

Except, then she wouldn't have known Guthrie. She couldn't bear to choose, but perhaps she didn't have to. Not anymore.

Maybe destiny
had
brought them back together. She just had to help Rolfe remember that.

She wouldn't do it as Roxy Price, however. Rolfe had never made her feel like a tramp, a sex symbol, until two days ago when he walked out of her hospital room.

She wouldn't be Roxy, not for him. Not anymore.

She'd waited all day yesterday for Rolfe to return. Watched the press assemble outside. Backed away from the curtain before they could snap a photo.

She wondered what Rooney and Dash might be telling the press. No doubt spinning something about her accident on set.

“Your cab is here,” Amanda said. One of the studio extras Rooney had assigned to her during her convalescence, she'd arrived yesterday with Rosie's makeup and a fresh change of clothing. She'd stayed all night.

Poor girl. Just wanted a chance to be noticed, to be discovered.

This morning, Rosie sent her back to the hotel with specific instructions. Her white sundress, light blue linen jacket, a ribbon for her hair, a pair of pearls, low socks, and her white oxfords.

She spent an hour penciling in her eyebrows, adding rouge to her still wan cheeks, but she left off the heavy lining around her eyes, refrained from painting on a pout.

Not quite so much Roxy, please.

Then, Rosie donned her jacket, her gloves, a smile, and pressed out through the throng of reporters, photographers, without answering their barrage of questions. The convertible and her driver were waiting. “Good morning, Eddie.” She slid into the seat. “Take me to the set.”

“Rooney said you could take the day off. They're shooting the aerial sequences today,” Amanda said.

“The set, please,” she said.

She had to feel a little sorry for Eddie, watching his jaw tighten. He was a good kid, and Rooney didn't like to be disobeyed.

“I promise I just want to watch. I won't get in the way.”

“You should be resting,” Amanda said. Rosie glanced at her. Blond. Blue eyes. Pretty, not striking, but she could stand in for Rosie if she suddenly couldn't perform.

“I feel marvelous,” Rosie said, flashing her a grin.

They drove through the heat, the wind tearing at her hair, her hand white on the frame of the car. Nearing the airfield, the rage of the airplanes thundered through the sky even before she spotted them, dropping from the bulbous clouds, hiding again, spinning, rolling, some with black smoke trailing their fuselage.

“How many planes are up there?”

“Forty or more,” Eddie said. “And Rooney's going to crash the Gotha today.”

The Gotha. The big plane Rolfe flew, with the double wings, made to look like a German bomber. “Who's flying it?” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“Horne. The stunt pilot. He's supposed to bail out before it hits the ground.”

She kept her smile. Searched for it in the sky as they pulled up to the set. Rooney ran from camera to camera across the tarmac, checking shots as the airplanes waged a mock war, the peril ubiquitous. Already she saw smoke drifting up from destroyed planes, now nothing but a rubble of wood and fabric on the ground.

“Stop here,” she said as they reached the edge of the tarmac. The last thing she needed was Rooney seeing her, sending her home.

She slid up to the back of the car, cupped her hand over her eyes. Spied the Gotha bomber lumbering through the sky. A plume of black smoke curled from it. German Fokkers and Sopwith Camels waged a dogfight like flies in the sky.

She might be over a French countryside, watching the Germans and the Brits, for the intensity of it. She fought the urge to put her hand over her eyes and peek through her fingers.

“Look, he put the plane into a spin!”

Her driver pointed to the Gotha. She pressed her hand over her mouth as the double engine bomber began to spiral toward the earth.

“Do you see a chute?” Amanda said, now getting out of the Rolls, standing away from the plane, her hand to her brow.

Please, Rolfe, bail out.

Planes buzzing around the Gotha as it plunged obscured her vision. Two Sopwith Camels suddenly collided, exploded in midair.

Men hung in parachutes across the sky.

“I don't see him,” Amanda said.

The Gotha spun like a drill toward the earth.