Page 4 of The Perfect Rose

Relief swelled in Rose’s chest. She nodded her acceptance before she walked over to the basin and began washing her face.

“We have extended our at-home hours today. Yesterday’s time was not sufficient to give enough attention to all your suitors.”

Rose sighed. At least she could cross Lord Hawthorne off that ridiculously long list inside her dressing room door that grew by the hour lately. “I’ll be down as quickly as possible, Mother. Will you call for Mary?”

Her mother reached out and pulled Rose’s chin into her hand, scrutinizing her face through narrowed eyes. “Mary will have to work a miracle to make you look presentable today. Your face is quite unbecoming. Do your best to get more sleep tonight. We cannot have you wilt right before your wedding.”

The fact that her mother was already planning a wedding to an unknown groom was no surprise to Rose. Her heart would not be a piece of the puzzle, so whether she got married today or in a month mattered little. She only hoped the fortune hunter that won her parents’ competition had a sliver of compassion within him. She would need something, anything, to get her through the marriage.

Lord Hawthorne, as it turned out, had come down with a fever and was unable to parade Rose through the park. And although Rose wished the man good health, she was quite pleased with being excused from that particular excursion. She made her way to the drawing room and took up her embroidery. The roses she’d previously stitched along the hem of her white satin ball gown made her smile. They really were quite beautiful, and she’d only just started the project. She had but picked up the wooden hoop, however, when she heard a knock on the front door. She squared her shoulders and took up her needle anyway, praying the caller was for her mother.

A few seconds later, their butler ushered a beautiful young woman into the room. “A Miss Miriam Hastings for you, Lady Rose.” He dipped his head and withdrew from the room.

A woman? Rose had never received a call from a woman this season; her mother had all but forbidden it. And as the woman entered, Rose saw that she looked about Rose’s age. She seemed familiar, but it took Rose a few moments to place her. Miss Hastings had been in attendance for a tea at her home early on in the season. The young woman must have a brother or some other important connection, otherwise her parents would not have bothered with an introduction. Rose stood and crossed the room. “Good morning, Miss Hastings. Would you care for some tea?”

Miss Hastings’s smile was reserved, practiced. Rose recognized the mask for what it was. She was an expert at producing the same. “I’d love some, thank you.”

Rose led the way to the settee and motioned a servant standing by the door to bring out a tea tray. “My, you look lovely. I love the way the sun shines off your golden curls. It’s the happiest thing I’ve seen in two days. What can I do for you?”

The young woman across from her sat up straighter, reminding Rose of a preening peacock. “You are too kind. My hair is nothing compared to yours.”

Rose shook her head. “Your modesty becomes you, Miss Hastings. Let us agree only that we both can claim beautiful hair. Yours is like the sunshine and mine is like a gleaming puddle of mud.” She laughed a little. Rose knew very well her hair was a spectacular rich brown, but there were few things it could be compared to that sounded the least bit romantic.

The woman before her looked aghast. Eyes as large as saucers and her hand covering her mouth in horror. “No, no, no! I was not being modest. Your hair is perfect. Just like . . .” Her brows scrunched together.

Rose pursed her lips as she tried not to laugh. “Please do give me something to compare it to that is not a horse, a tree trunk, or a variety of nut. Oh, or a dog . . . I do not like dogs.”

Miss Hastings jerked her head back and her eyes flicked frantically about the room. “Dear me . . . I . . . I . . .”

“There is no need to fear Miss Hastings. I have come up with nothing myself, and I’m tired of being compared to horses. I like my hair, actually. But it is nothing that inspires poetry the way yours does.” She smiled to reassure Miss Hastings that she was in earnest. And she was. Rose felt a pull toward this girl. Or perhaps it was simply the excitement of speaking to another female close to her own age. The woman before her looked a couple years her junior, so likely closer in age to Bell. Rose had missed her sisters these past months as they remained at their grand estate near Peterborough, and her mother felt that having too close an association with other women would detract from Rose herself. It had been a very solitary season. On one hand, Rose was spared much of the pointless gossip that filtered through the ton. On the other hand, she’d been the source of gossip without so much as an opportunity to defend herself.

Miss Hastings flashed a smile, although her cheeks were flushed. It only made her more lovely. “You are more than I expected, Lady Rose. I have a mind to flee the room right now, but I have come with an invitation.” She readjusted herself on the cushion and folded her hands almost too primly before her.

Rose could read the signs of discomfort a mile away. Miss Hastings seemed at odds with something. If the past two days had taught Rose anything, it was that this visit had to do with her dowry. This approach was new, though, and Rose could practically smell trouble. She didn’t want to hurt this woman before her, but she knew what was coming and it made her stomach clench. She pasted a practiced smile on her face and waited.

“I’m certain you are quite busy, but we are hosting a house party in two weeks at our country estate in Hereford. We would be delighted if you would join us. The Duke of Gilfordshire will be in attendance as well as some of my brother’s other friends and neighbors.”

Rose’s mother glided into the room as if a cloud deposited her before them. She sat on a wingback chair across from Miss Hastings. “What a wonderful proposition.”

Rose bit her lip. It was obvious her mother would accept the invitation. The season would not quite be at an end by then, but the opportunity of a duke was too much to pass over. Rose immediately wished she could decline the invitation, if only to defy her mother. She was surprised by her rebellious inclination. But, then again, the invitation would ensure that Rose would not be forced into an engagement for at least three more weeks. That alone was enough to entice her to agree.

“What do you think, mother? Can we make room in our schedule to attend Miss Hastings’s house party?” She forced a smile and even breaths, not knowing which answer she preferred to hear.

Her mother swept her shrewd eyes over Miss Hastings. “Whom is it that extends the invitation?”

Rose noticed Miss Hastings’s shaking fingers. “My . . . my brother. Mr. Frederick Hastings, Lady Gardner.” She dipped her head slightly.

Her mother’s eyes were calculating. A rich gentleman and a duke. The math was easy. “Of course. We would love to accept. Please send the specifics of the invitation as soon as you are able. We look forward to it and wish to be prepared.”

Rose smiled at Miss Hastings. “Thank you, for thinking of us. I’m delighted at the chance to get to know you better.”

The countess stood and ushered Miss Hastings toward the door. “We do have quite a full schedule today. We must press upon you to come calling another day, Miss Hastings.”

Rose caught a worried, sidelong look from Miss Hastings, and she smiled her assurance. She liked this Miss Hastings, or at least she wanted to.

As soon as the butler showed Miss Hastings out, Rose’s mother turned her attention back to Rose, one eyebrow arched high on her forehead. “The Duke of Gilfordshire. He would be quite a catch. And with twenty thousand pounds to tempt him, this could be the very miracle we need to save your failure of a season. At least at a house party, he will be forced to endure your presence for extended periods of time. You know your job, Rose. Do not make me regret accepting this invitation.” She paused far too long for comfort, but Rose could sense she wasn’t finished, so she didn’t interrupt. “I recall being invited to tea with Miss Hastings. I knew her parents many years ago. Her brother was handsome and accommodating, a particular friend of His Grace. The gentleman has never showed any interest in you since then. Perhaps he has admired you from afar. The fool.”

Rose couldn’t help but hope that Miss Hastings’s brother was a good man; but the fact that he hadn’t shown any interest in her until her dowry doubled did not bode well. If Miss Hastings was so determined to give her brother a chance at Rose’s ridiculous dowry, Rose could at least be thankful for another three weeks of freedom. A knock sounded at the door, and Rose wished in vain that she could escape. Calling hours were upon her. She straightened her spine and pasted on her society smile, preparing herself for the parade of dogs to enter the drawing room.