“But regrets are a funny thing,” Mrs. Prune went on. “They’ve a way of coming back to you when you least expect them, like bad pennies. Best to live in a way that you’ve fewer of them weighing you down.”
“I know,” Rosilee said softly. But she couldn’t explain to Mrs. Prune that she had shared a passionate night with the duke. One shedidn’tregret. Never would. Though others might think she should. Blake had touched something deeper. Something insideher had shifted and could never be undone. However, that didn’t mean that things would work out between them either.
She sighed, and Rosilee leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, staring up at the ceiling. “I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something... something big. And once I step off, there’s no going back.”
“Sometimes, you just have to step off, dear,” Mrs. Prune said. “Especially if you are speaking about a certain duke.”
Heat rushed to Rosilee’s cheeks. “I do not know what you are talking about, Mrs. Prune.”
Mrs. Prune resumed her work but kept her eyes on Rosilee. “That’s the way of things, isn’t it? Life’s full of those moments. Question is, what’s waiting for you on the other side? Is it worth the leap?”
Yes.
Rosilee let out a long breath. Blake had made her feel more alive since she’d met him on that dirt road—more than she had ever felt in all her life. With the possible exception of that night eighteen years ago, terrible as it was. It had all started then.
But what did it mean for her future? She was no fool—she knew the dangers, the consequences of giving herself to a man. Yet, somehow, the thought of a life without that passion, that connection, seemed more unbearable than any scandal.
However, she couldn’t forget about Baston.
Leopold.
“But it felt... right,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Mrs. Prune raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment immediately. Instead, she moved to the dressing table and polished the silver brush with care. After a moment, she spoke again, her tone softer this time. “Love is a tricky thing, my lady. It can make you feel like you’re soaring, but it can also make the fall that much harder when it comes.”
Love . . .
Rosilee smiled faintly. “Are you saying I’m bound to fall, Mrs. Prune?”
The older woman chuckled. “I’m saying that if you do fall, make sure you’ve someone there to catch you. The right someone.”
Rosilee didn’t need to ask who Mrs. Prune thought was the right someone. It was most certainly the duke. He would catch her if she fell. Of this, she had no doubt. However, she had come to understand his rescue would never come in the form of a proposal. It would come in other ways, ways that had nothing to do with vows or duty, but were nevertheless steadfast.
Like offering to help her find a husband.
Just one that wasn’t himself.
Which meant he had no plans for marriage. She hadn’t thought about wedding him either. Not until last night. No—the kiss beneath the tree. That was when her thoughts had begun to shift. That was why, regardless of her mission, she had not completely felt comfortable at the ball, and after one turn about the room, she had wanted to return home.
Home.
Did she already consider the duke’s home her home?
A knock on the door sounded, followed by Ben’s voice. “My lady, there is a man here for you.”
Rosilee froze, her eyes jumping to Mrs. Prune. Her first thought was Baston. Had he stormed the castle? She wouldn’t put it past him. But before she could panic, the boy’s next words made her pulse leap.
“It’s some earl.”
Earl? Right! The Earl of Stagbourne! Hadn’t he said he would call on her today? Dear lord, what should she do? Should she receive him? Should she send him away? Should she find Blake first?
“Thank you, Ben. I shall be down shortly.” Whatever she was going to do, she’d best get dressed first.
“I was about to ask after your night,” Mrs. Prune murmured. “But it seems that I don’t have to now. It must have been a success.”
Success isn’t what Rosilee would call it.
Too many parts were moving at a pace she struggled to keep up with, and in directions she was unsure of. She smiled at Mrs. Prune. “There is no success yet, Mrs. Prune.”
