And a bit of pain.
She had another sudden flash of memory as his expression as he gazed at the small library in his carriage surfaced in her mind.Thatman—that was the true man. This monster he had created in his mind was a mask that only he seemed to see. Her heart suddenly softened as she studied his beautifully rugged face. A few days of stubble coated his jaw. Come to think about it, she hadn’t seen him cleanly shaven yet, and his hair always seemed wind-swept. Even his clothes were the bare minimum required to keep up appearances. He clearly didn’t like cravats. He always pulled at them and often just didn’t wear them. She supposed they felt rather restricting.
She didn’t like restriction herself.
She preferred to live her life on her own terms. Which was why that loathsome man, Baston, vexed her so.Hewas the true monster.
She suddenly smiled at Blake. Blake, who wanted her to call him by his Christian name, bridging into intimate territory, but couldn’t handle a single kiss. This was but another layer to the man, and Rosilee suddenly wanted to peel them away until he could see what she saw: a man with a good heart.
Her grin widened. “Then I hope we shall have fun at the ball, since it shall be our first one.”
He cleared his throat. “It will be your first one?”
Oh Lord, shouldn’t she have said anything? “Do not dare say anything about defilement.”
“I—”
“Then I have been defiled by you over and over.”
“Christ, woman, don’t say such things!”
“Why not? You used the word first.”
“To my utter bloody regret.”
She laughed, and instantly, the tension gripping her heart lifted. It was almost too much. Learning he was the boy andabout his father. The kiss. His self-loathing. But Rosilee wasn’t a woman who was scared away by the tough things.
He had helped her, was helping her.
So she would help him.
Chapter Nine
Rosilee stared atthe image of herself reflected in the mirror in her vibrant yellow ballgown. The silk fabric shimmered in the candlelight, cascading from the high waist in soft, flowing folds that brushed the floor with every slight movement. The bodice was embroidered with delicate golden thread, roses winding across her chest and shoulders like the finest lacework, their petals and leaves artfully stitched to create the illusion of a single rose in bloom.
The neckline was low.
A bit too low for her taste. But the modiste had assured her that this was the fashion these days. The woman had also insisted this shade of yellow would set off her skin perfectly, bringing warmth to her cheeks and light to her eyes. What could she say to that? She’d never worn anything so fine, so brilliant. It felt like a dream... one that didn’t fit with the reason she was wearing the gown in the first place.
She brushed the fabric hesitantly with her hand, still unsure. And soon she would be attending a ball with the very man who had kissed her only days ago.
Oh!
How was she to do that?
She strode to the bed and fell back on it, brushing a finger over her lips.
The door opened and Mrs. Prune entered. “Oh, dearie, what is wrong? Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m well. I’m just a touch overwhelmed.”
Mrs. Prune looked at Rosilee with a sympathetic smile, but before she could offer more comfort, the door creaked open wider, and Mr. Wiggins ambled in, his grey hair neatly combed and his expression as serious as ever. Behind him trailed Ben, who she hadn’t seen since she arrived.
She sat up straight. “Ben! Where have you been hiding?”
The boy sent her a sheepish glance. “I’ve been helping Mr. Wiggins weed the garden, my lady.”
Ah.
