The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(3)
Andrew’s gaze clashed with Kitty’s.
She said defensively, “There’s no time for bawling. Black’s not done with us yet.”
Bloody hell, she’s right.
He tucked straw over Primrose, murmuring, “Close your eyes and try to sleep, all right?”
When she nodded, he vaulted into the seat next to Kitty.
He took up the reins. “Where to?”
“Somewhere far,” Kitty said, her features feral. “Somewhere beyond the devil’s reach.”
Chapter One
1835
Looking left and right, Miss Primrose Kent (Rosie to intimates) ascended the stairs of the Hartefords’ elegant townhouse. The Winter Masquerade—her Aunt Helena’s annual January ball—was a crush, a fact that had helped Rosie to escape undetected. As she continued her stealthy mission, she held no illusions about herself, good or bad.
In terms of redeeming qualities, she was possessed of beauty and charm, which had fueled her popularity since her come-out four years ago. Since then, she’d been flocked by gentlemen, her dance card overflowing with names. And if the British Museum were to assemble an exhibit of Meaningless Courtship Artifacts, she could single-handedly furnish the entire collection.
She’d been given sonnets, compliments, and trinkets of every kind.
The one thing she’d not received? An honest proposal.
Which led to her faults. She was frivolous, scheming, and a flirt—and that was just scratching the surface. The list of her shortcomings was too exhausting to contemplate at the present juncture.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she peered furtively around the corner: the first floor corridor was empty, thank goodness. Although she wore a swan costume, the upper part of her face hidden by a feathered white demi-mask, the servants were bound to recognize her. After all, as the only niece of Lady Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford, Rosie had been given free rein of these halls all her life. Or, more accurately, since she’d been reunited with her family at the age of eight.
The earliest years of her childhood existed behind a curtain of fog—one that she wasn’t certain she wanted to look behind, even if she could. Whenever her mind bumped up against that nebulous time, her hands would grow clammy, her pulse skittering. Moreover, her maid Odette (French and a true find) had told her that dwelling upon unpleasant things resulted in wrinkles on the brow and around the eyes, and that was the last thing Rosie needed.
She told herself it didn’t matter that she couldn’t remember her life before age five. Her mama, Marianne, had furnished her with the essential and disreputable details. Rosie was the product of her mother’s youthful indiscretion with Aunt Helena’s brother, Thomas, heir to the Earl of Northgate. Thomas had died in a riding accident, leaving Mama, unwed and in a delicate condition, with no choice but to wed Baron Draven, an evil man. After Mama had given birth, her new husband had taken Rosie from her… and here the facts grew hazy.
The first four years of Rosie’s life took the form of shapeless, nameless shadows. Whenever she’d questioned Mama about it, the other evaded the subject or grew terrifyingly quiet, as if the mere mention of the topic elicited pain. All Mama would say was that, after a long search, she’d found Rosie with Sir Gerald Coyner, a childless gentleman who’d wanted a daughter of his own.
Rosie remembered Sir Coyner, of course: he’d been her guardian from age five to the time that she’d been reunited with Mama. She didn’t like to think of Gerry—that was what he’d liked her to call him—because her memories were… confusing. On the one hand, she recalled that he’d been a doting, if oft absent, figure in her life. When he was around, he’d showered her with gifts, given her anything she’d set her heart upon.
On the other, she couldn’t forget that terrifying night. The night when Gerry had almost killed Mama in order to keep Rosie for himself. If it hadn’t been for the heroics of Rosie’s adoptive papa Ambrose Kent—back then, he’d been a Thames River Policeman assisting Mama in her search for Rosie—all might have been lost. Papa had saved Mama and defeated Gerry, who’d died by his own knife.
Rosie fought off the shivers. Taking a breath, she composed herself with the help of a trick, one she’d used for as long as she could remember. She pictured one of the dolls in her collection: it didn’t matter which one, they all had serene porcelain faces and pristine dresses. As the image of that perfect, impervious countenance expanded in her mind’s eye, a girlish voice whispered soothingly, Be pretty and charming, and nothing can hurt you.
Her breathing calmed. The strategy was childish, she knew, but it worked and had helped her to carry on through the ghastliness of recent months with her chin up, a smile fixed in place. Yet, after four failed Seasons, she had to face up to the undeniable truth: with her infamous origins, there was no hope of her making a respectable match. Even the support of her influential aunt and well-connected family couldn’t nullify the fact that Rosie was a bastard.
Fool that she’d been, she’d once mistaken popularity for acceptance, and she’d learned the hard way that the two were not the same. All along, the ton had been toying with her the way a cat does a mouse before enjoying it for supper. The years of male admiration had come to naught: those so-called gentlemen had only wanted one thing from her, and it wasn’t marriage.