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  She went to the wardrobe and retrieved her silk robe. It was the only truly elegant item she’d ever possessed, having been her mother’s back in the day when she’d been the favored daughter of Rose’s much-loathed grandfather, Lord Sidwell.

  Her mother had been charmed by Rose’s father, an inappropriate preacher with a missionary zeal. She’d run away and married him without Lord Sidwell’s permission, so she’d been disowned and disinherited. The breach had never been repaired.

  Her parents had travelled to Africa to distribute Bibles to the natives, where they’d contracted a plague and passed away within a week of each other, leaving Rose stranded in Egypt. Somehow, she’d managed to conceal the robe in her bag, and she’d held on to it as she’d been shipped to England, then to Miss Peabody’s School for Girls.

  Her parents were dead, her grandfather too. Her Uncle George was now the family patriarch. She’d never met him or her cousins, had never so much as corresponded with any of them. All she had to connect her to them was her mother’s robe. She had a vague memory of herself when she was tiny, perched on her mother’s lap and gliding her hands across the soft fabric, and occasionally, she thought she could smell her mother’s perfume in the fabric. But she was never sure.

  Feeling reckless and momentarily wild, she stripped off her clothes. At Miss Peabody’s, there had been few chances for privacy, and with modesty expected at all times, she’d rarely had the opportunity to be totally alone and do whatever she liked. She couldn’t recall when she’d previously shed every stitch, and there was a heady freedom in the act that surprised her.

  She slipped into her robe, relishing how the slinky material slithered over her bare skin. She didn’t tie the belt and let the lapels flop open so her front was visible.

  In the mirror, she studied herself, and it wasn’t vanity to acknowledge that she was pretty.

  Her eyes were green, merry and arresting, her face heart shaped and inviting, with two pert dimples curving her cheeks. She was five feet five in her shoes, her body shapely and rounded in all the right spots, and she prayed Mr. Oswald would be pleased with the bride he’d found.

  Her hair was an unusual shade of auburn, and when she was younger, she’d fussed and fumed and hid it under scarves and bonnets. Every other girl in her world had seemed to be blond, but she wasn’t, and the odd difference had vexed her.

  But as she’d grown older, she’d realized the color was striking and remarkable, and she told herself she’d inherited it from her deceased mother whose features she didn’t recollect.

  There was a brush on the dresser—another of her mother’s belongings. She pulled the pins from her chignon, the lengthy tresses swinging down her back, then she grabbed the brush and began tugging the bristles through her hair. As she wandered toward the bedchamber, she quietly mused, “Oh, I hope he likes me.”

  “I’m sure he will,” a male voice replied. “He’s never met a female he didn’t try to seduce.”

  She halted, frowned, her mind struggling to register the fact that someone had spoken. Had she imagined it? It was an ancient mansion. Were there ghosts?

  She tiptoed to the door that separated the two rooms and peeked out. Her brush fell to the floor with a muted thump. Frantically, she yanked at the lapels of her robe, tied the belt with a tight knot.

  She wasn’t hallucinating. A man—a very handsome, very roguish man—had made himself at home in her bedchamber. He lounged on the chair by the bed, slouched down, his legs stretched out.

  He was about her same age of twenty-five, but there was a hard edge to him, as if he’d seen trouble in his life, as if he’d persevered through adversity. But there was mischief lurking too, as if he would engage in any tomfoolery and enjoy it very much.

  His hair was dark, worn too long and in need of a trim, and his eyes were incredibly blue, his gaze curious and bored. He hadn’t shaved so his cheeks were shadowed, giving him a reckless, negligent air.

  Attired in a flowing white shirt, tan breeches, knee-high black boots, his color was high, as if he’d been out riding.

  He appeared lazy and windswept and dangerous, and she probably should be terrified, but she sensed no menace. He was watching her as intently as she was watching him.

  “I believe you’ve wandered into the wrong room,” she sputtered.

  “I don’t think so,” he responded. “This has been my room since I was a boy. I’m positive I’m not mistaken.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” she firmly said. “The maid brought me here directly from the coach. I’m certain she wasn’t mistaken. She was very clear. This is my room.” She made a shooing motion with her fingers. “You have to leave.”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Talbot. James Talbot.”

  “I’m only newly arrived at Summerfield, and I’m not dressed. If you were any sort of gentleman, you’d do as I’ve requested.”

  “There’s the rub for you, darling. I’m not a gentleman, and I’ve never aspired to gallant tendencies.”

  “You sound proud of it.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “What type of person would boast of low character?”

  “My type, I suppose.”

  “I say it again. Go away!”

  “No.”

  There was a decanter of liquor on the table next to him, and he poured himself a glass and sipped at the amber liquid. He looked vain and imperious and completely in the right, and she had no idea how to proceed.

  As an orphan, then a spinster schoolteacher at an all-girls academy, she’d had very restricted interactions with men. It was a rare occasion when a male crossed her path. She’d never been kissed, had never walked down the lane with a sweetheart. She’d never ordered a man to do something and had him do it.

  How did a woman make a man behave? Rose had never been told how it was accomplished. In her humble and somewhat limited opinion, men were obstinate, arrogant, and overbearing. They shouted and blustered and acted however they wished. Women had few weapons to fight against their worst conduct.

  She should have hurried into the dressing room and put on her clothes, but she was already sufficiently unclad and didn’t want to exacerbate the situation. Her other option was to stomp out, to summon help, but she didn’t dare inform the servants that there was a stranger in her room.

  She hadn’t met Mr. Oswald yet. If he learned of the scandalous exchange, what would he think? Her betrothal would end before it began.

  She pulled herself up to her full height and mustered her most condemning expression.

  “Mr. Talbot, we’re at an impasse.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “I’m not in any condition to receive you.”

  “I see that.”

  His hot gaze took a slow meander down her body, lingering at several spots where he had no business lingering, and her cheeks flushed bright red. She’d never been ogled, and she scowled and stood even straighter.

  “You must depart,” she fumed. “I’ll repair myself, and then we’ll call on the housekeeper to resolve our quarrel. I’m sure she knows to which rooms we’ve been assigned.”

  “I wouldn’t agree to that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need that old biddy scolding me because I’m sitting in my own room. Nor do I need her to tell me where my bed is located.”

  “Mr. Talbot! Please!”

  “I love it when a woman begs.”

  He unfolded himself from the chair. He was six feet tall at least, broad shouldered, trim and fit and vigorous, his skin bronzed from the sun, as if he labored strenuously to earn his living. But his clothes were sewn from an expensive fabric, his boots obviously expensive too, so he wasn’t a working man.

  Who was he? What was he? If the room was actually his as he kept claiming, he had the superior right to occupancy, so he resided in the house and she’d constantly be bumping into him. The thought of him being on the premises, of having to see him day
after day, was more than she could abide.

  He came toward her, approaching deliberately, like an African lion stalking its prey. She should have shrieked with alarm and fled, but still, she felt no sense of menace. Clearly, he was trying to scare her, to intimidate her, and in some intuitive part of her being, she realized that she shouldn’t let him rattle her.

  He continued until they were toe-to-toe. He was standing so close that his thigh touched hers, and she was frozen in place, having no clue as to what he intended or what she should do. A more volatile female probably would have slapped his face and accused him of misconduct, but she’d never been keen on theatrics and couldn’t imagine she’d pull it off with any aplomb.

  He leaned in, forcing her to take a step back so he had her pressed against the doorframe. She’d never been so near to an adult male—certainly never in such a state of dishabille—and there was an odd and unnoted brazenness flowing in her.

  It dawned on her that she wasn’t concerned about being undressed, didn’t care that her hair was down and brushed out, didn’t care that he was gazing at her in a way that shouldn’t be allowed.

  She wasn’t afraid of him and refused to be frightened. Men were ridiculous creatures, which his boorish behavior had blatantly demonstrated.

  “You must be the blushing bride,” he said.

  “If you mean that I am here to marry Mr. Oswald, then yes. I’ve come to marry him.”

  He nodded shrewdly, as if assessing her for an ulterior, furtive purpose.

  “Are you sure you should?” he asked.

  “That I should what? Marry?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I’m not sure at all,” she bluntly admitted. “But I’m a woman who keeps her word. I agreed to the match, and I shall follow through.”

  “You’re awfully pretty.” He smiled a lazy, devil’s smile. “But you’re awfully old to be a bride.”

  “I’m only twenty-five,” she huffed.

  “How is it that no other fellow has snatched you up? How did you end up a spinster and having to settle for Stanley Oswald? Are you a secret drunkard? Are you a harpy? Why haven’t you wed?”

  “As far as I’m aware, I have no bad habits.”

  “Every female has some.”

  “Not me,” she insisted. “I’m boring and ordinary, and I haven’t married because no one ever asked me.”

  “So lucky Stanley swooped in before anyone else had a chance?”

  “Yes, and I’m not usually so crass, but I find you to be extremely rude, and I’ve been more than courteous. Will you please go away?”

  His grin widened. “You should be nicer to me.”

  “I’ve been plenty nice. In fact, I’ve been much too nice, and you’ve drained all my kinder impulses.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes. Now go.”

  He tarried for the longest while, studying her, his blue, blue eyes digging deep.

  She’d never been so thoroughly evaluated, and the sensation was thrilling in a way she didn’t understand. She was warm all over, her pulse racing, the throbbing beat pounding in her stomach. Her nipples had tightened into taut, painful buds.

  To her astonishment, he reached out and laid a hand on her waist. With her wearing just the thin robe, it felt as if he was touching her, bare skin to bare skin. Her pulse hammered at an even faster clip.

  Cunning and intent, he seemed driven to do…something, and for a wild, shocking moment, she thought he might kiss her. There was a strange charge in the air as if any behavior might suddenly be permitted.

  Then he stepped away. A spark of energy had flared between them, and it sizzled out immediately.

  “I’ll see you at supper.” He hurled the remark like a threat.

  “I’m having a tray sent up to my room.”

  “Pity.” He extracted a key from his coat and offered it to her. “You’d better keep this and use it. In this ghastly house, if you don’t lock your door, there’s no telling who might sneak in.”

  She grabbed the key and flashed her most stern schoolteacher’s frown.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Talbot.”

  “Not goodbye,” he said. “We’ll be together soon—and often.” He spun and started out, muttering to himself, “This is going to be so amusing.”

  The comment aggravated her. He aggravated her, and though she should have kept her mouth shut, she couldn’t help saying, “Mr. Talbot?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Who exactly are you, and what is your position at Summerfield?”

  “Me? Why, I’m no one at all. But trust me, we’re about to become very closely acquainted.”

  He left, and she staggered over to the bed, waited a few seconds as she listened to his boots stomping down the hall. Then she rushed to the door and turned the key in the lock, double-checking to make sure it fit and that it worked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Your home is lovely.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.”

  Rose forced a smile and tried to look happy.

  She’d had the past week to conjure up images of what Mr. Oswald would be like, but none of them came close to the reality.

  He appeared hale and hearty, but still, he was seventy, and she was twenty-five. She emphatically scolded herself to stop fretting over the obvious, to stop concentrating on the negative, but it was difficult to ignore the facts.

  He was thin and wiry, bald as a ball, and while his eyes had probably once been a striking shade of blue, they’d faded to gray. Most disconcerting to Rose, he was shorter than she was, only by an inch or two, but it was odd to have to glance down whenever she spoke to him.

  It just seemed…peculiar. And jarring. Scraped raw were any foolish romantic notions she’d ever possessed about a handsome swain sweeping her away. From the moment Mr. Thumberton had explained the match, she’d understood that Mr. Oswald was older. She had to let it go, had to focus on the truth of her circumstances.

  He was wealthy and settled, and he was prepared to marry her and provide for her for the rest of her life. There was some satisfaction to be had in knowing she would finally be allowed to mingle in the social echelon that would have been hers had her mother not run off with the wrong man. That one, rash act had permanently altered Rose’s path, and she’d never envisioned that her social position could be regained.

  Few women in her situation were ever offered the chance Mr. Oswald was willing to bestow, and she had to remember to be grateful. So far, she hadn’t mustered much appreciation, but once she caught her breath, she was positive she’d be delighted.

  They were walking in the park behind the mansion, so it was the perfect opportunity to have some questions answered. She was curious as to how their betrothal had come about.

  “How were you acquainted with Miss Peabody?” she asked.

  “I’d known her for decades.”

  “I didn’t realize that. Did you ever visit the school? Would I have met you there?”

  “No. My first wife, Edwina, was friends with Miss Peabody from when they were girls. Edwina was an early patron when Miss Peabody was starting out.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  So…he’d known Miss Peabody forever. His wife had been a childhood friend. How long had Miss Peabody planned Rose’s engagement? How long had the idea been brewing as a possibility?

  Rose had assumed it was a last-minute arrangement, made as Miss Peabody’s health was failing, but now, Rose wasn’t so sure. Now, she wondered if the marriage hadn’t been percolating for years.

  “Miss Peabody has been dead for several weeks,” he said. “Do you consider yourself to be in mourning for her?”

  She was taken aback by his query. It was crudely posed. “I suppose I’ll always mourn her. In many ways, she was a mother to me.”

  “But she wasn’t kin.”

  “No.”

  He looked impatient and slightly irritated. “I only raise the iss
ue because I’m in a rush to wed. If you’re in mourning, there would have to be a delay.”

  At his blithe mention of a hasty wedding, she grew weak in the knees, and she missed her step and stumbled. He grabbed her arm to steady her.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yes. I’m just…”

  She halted, wishing she could expound on the myriad of panicked emotions swirling through her, but she was certain it wouldn’t be appropriate to tell him she was terrified.

  He’d paid for her coach fare, for the inns where she’d stayed along the road, and she’d accepted his proposal. It seemed a tad late to complain.

  She peered out at the beautiful park, the rolling hills beyond, the splendid mansion nestled in the trees. It was all too much to absorb.

  “You’re just…what?” He sounded impatient again. He was brusque and gruff, and it would definitely require some adjustment on her part to grow accustomed to his mannerisms.

  “Everything is happening so fast.”

  “I never dawdle. I reach a decision and move ahead.”

  “I see that.”

  “I’ve never understood why a person would dilly-dally. I’m not getting any younger, and I need to wed as rapidly as possible.”

  It was such a cold, pragmatic statement about their pending nuptials, and it hurt her. It made her feel superfluous, as if he could have chosen her or any female, which he absolutely could have done.

  Stop it, Rose! You’ve said you’d do it. You agreed. You knew he was in a hurry.

  Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Aren’t you worried about the fact that we’re practically strangers?”

  “No. Men and women are always strangers when they marry—whether they’ve been acquainted for a day or a decade. You’ll be my fifth wife. There’s no mystery on my end.”

  “Your fifth?” she wanly inquired.

  “Yes.”

  She forced another smile, but couldn’t hold it. It was their initial meeting. Couldn’t he have tried to charm her? Couldn’t he have pretended he was glad he’d picked her?