He chuckled, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “I look ravishing? Is that that a good thing?”
“Dashing,” Rosilee corrected, feeling some of the tension in her limbs dissipate. “Please, have a seat. I can ring for tea, but I’m afraid we have limited help at the moment, so I can’t promise anything.”
He took a seat, his gaze sweeping over the room, observing. His smile never wavered, but there was something sharper in his eyes now, something calculating. “Ah, yes, I noticed Crane does not keep a full house when he is not in residence.”
Rosilee felt a slight jolt at his observation. Was he referring to the lack of servants? Or the overall simplicity of the duke’s estate? Either way, she had to be careful with her response. “He is not one who concerns himself with keeping up appearances.”
Stagbourne nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the chair. “That much is clear.” He studied her for a moment before speaking again, this time with more curiosity in his voice. “If I may be so bold, Lady Rosilee, why are you the duke’s ward? You mentioned before that you had to find a husband and had little time, yet your brother is Viscount Fairchild, is he not? Your family has no obvious connection to the duke, at least not that I’ve uncovered.” He added in a lighter tone, “I mean no offense, of course. I am merely curious.”
So the earl had done some digging.
It seemed coming to London to find a husband was not as simple as it had sounded. Not even with Blake at her side. No wonder ladies used Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “There are circumstances beyond my control, I’m afraid.” She inwardly winced, however, at how much she had already revealed to him at the ball. “I hope my troubles haven’t burdened you.”
“On the contrary,” Stagbourne said softly, leaning forward just slightly, his eyes clear with purpose. “I want to help.” He paused a moment. “Is your brother the reason you must marry?”
The man was clever, no doubt about it. But she wasn’t ready to bare her soul, especially not to a man she had met only the previous night, which was rather ironic, she supposed, given the way her connection to the duke had unfolded. Another layer of pain crept into her heart at the thought. “Perhaps,” she said vaguely.
Stagbourne’s gaze never left hers, but his smile softened as if he’d expected that answer. “I see,” he murmured. “I cannot help but wonder why the duke himself did not offer to wed you. He seems rather taken with you.”
Her heart slipped into her slippers again. His words struck a chord, pulsing with the throb she was trying so desperately to keep at bay. Their night together had changed everything between her and Blake, and yet, it had solved nothing.
And Stagbourne—even if he were to offer his hand in marriage, she wouldn’t be able to accept it. The earl, for all his charm, had only shown her kindness. He would make a good husband, a steady one. But Rosilee...
She could not fool herself into thinking she could carry on this charade any longer. She was already too deep, too bound to Blake, whether he wished it or not.
But Blake would never marry her.
He would never want to saddle her with the darkness he carried—his name, his past. And she, for all her hope and love, could not pull him from that shadow. He had chosen those shadows over her.
A sharp twist of sorrow clawed at her heart.
There was nothing left to be done.
And she couldn’t forget her mission. She still had to save Leopold. There was just one option left to her: Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
The infamous matchmaker had been her original plan. Blake’s interference, while well-intentioned, had only delayed the inevitable. Rosilee could no longer tether herself to a manwho would never love her the way she needed. She would leave his estate and allow him the freedom to return to his world, unmarred by her troubles. She would free them both of this turmoil, which would only destroy them if it carried on.
“The duke does not think of me that way,” Rosilee finally said. It wasn’t a complete lie. “Thank you, my lord, for wishing to help me, but I’m afraid, in this matter, I can only help myself.”
Stagbourne leaned back, studying her with a contemplative gaze. “And if I wished to marry you?”
The words struck her like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes widened in surprise, her heart racing in her chest. “What?” she breathed, unsure if she had heard him correctly.
Stagbourne’s expression remained calm, his sharp eyes intent on hers. “I’m serious, Lady Rosilee. If marriage is what you seek, I would gladly offer my hand. We’ve not known each other long, but I already admire you greatly, and while I may not be the duke, I could give you the security you need.”
Rosilee stared at him, her mind spinning. Stagbourne’s offer was generous, but her heart rebelled at the idea.
No.
No matter how tempting, she couldn’t bring herself to accept another’s affections or good intentions under false pretenses. And the pain of Blake’s rejection still tore at her. A fog seemed to settle over her mind. But she certainly also couldn’t accept the man Blake had sent her to—it felt wrong.
“If I gave you false hope, my lord, please accept my apologies. But I cannot marry you.”
Stagbourne nodded, his expression gentle. “I see.” He rose from the chair. “Then, I think it best if you do not ring for tea.”
Rosilee felt bad, but sending Stagbourne away also felt right.
Now, all she had to do was slip away herself.
