Page 10 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“Well, what are you waiting for, Charles?” Lady Winthrop asked, whipping off her bonnet. “Show His Grace into the drawing room without delay.”

Frankly, Rosalie had been dressed so quickly she was not even sure what color she was wearing. Suitably covered, she ran down the stairs where her mother waited at the bottom, somehow completely changed out of her morning gown and coiffed in the matter of ten minutes.

“This will just have to do,” Lady Winthrop said, smoothing Rosalie’s gown and hoisting up her bustier. “Your father is in there with him. I can hear them talking. It really must be His Grace. The duke in our house... How has this happened?”

That was the last question Rosalie wanted to hear. The duke was really here. It had taken every ounce of her courage to leave her rooms once she was dressed. But staying risked raising more questions than appearing would answer.

There was a chance this had nothing to do with her mistake the night prior. Perhaps one of them had forgotten something at Hartmere House and the duke had decided to return it himself. Perhaps he had come to inquire about his aunt, or he had been impressed by the bespoke masks they had worn and had come to discuss their sartorial talents.

But more likely, Rosalie thought as her mother led her down the next flight of stairs, things are exactly as they appear to be, and he has come to denounce me for last night and expose my crime to my parents.

She tried to steady her breathing as they approached the drawing room. “Mother,” she said, pulling Lady Winthrop to a stop. “I should not go in with you.”

“And why ever not?” Lady Winthrop asked, lowering her voice before she gave them away.

Rosalie eyed the door and dropped her voice. “His Grace will not want to see me. He does not know me. He must have come to speak with you or Father. It is not right for a woman to be seen so early by a caller in the first place.”

“This is hardly the time to debate the rules of propriety. There is a duke in our drawing room,” Lady Winthrop stressed, silently mouthing the words that mattered. “It would be worse not to go in. Maybe he has come to ask for your hand in marriage.”

“We have never even spoken,” Rosalie argued, backing away instinctively.

Lady Winthrop smirked. “He may have seen you across the ballroom and felt compelled to meet you.”

“Or, more likely, Father left his hat behind, and His Grace has come to return it.”

Lady Winthrop rolled her eyes. “I like my idea better.”

“Of course you would. And yet⁠—”

Rosalie parted her lips to give another reason why she should not greet the duke. But at that moment, the drawing room door creaked open, and her father appeared, still in his shirtsleeves.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, then added more loudly, “My wife, Lady Winthrop, and my daughter, Miss Rosalie Winthrop, Your Grace.”

With a look of victory, Lady Winthrop led Rosalie into the drawing room.

To be fair to her mother, the Duke of Hartmere did bear a striking resemblance to Lady Chipping. They had the same bright blue eyes, the same heavy brow, and the same broad shoulders that worked better on his masculine frame than on hers. Where Lady Chipping’s hair had turned gray with age, the Duke of Hartmere’s hair was as black as night. It curled around his ears and tickled the top of his cravat, probably windswept from the drive over to Mayfair.

Rosalie could have fainted dead on the spot. He was too handsome for his own good. He looked exactly like the rake some people of the ton claimed he was. They had not received a caller so young since Lord William Howard, and never a caller so handsome and infamous as the Duke of Hartmere. Startled, she only moved once he started to speak.

“You must forgive me, Lady Winthrop, Miss Winthrop, for disturbing you so early,” he said politely.

His voice sent tingles down Rosalie’s back. His timbre was low and rumbling like a storm, but somehow as crisp as lightning. She nodded in acknowledgment and averted her eyes to the ground, hoping to hide her panic and mortification from him.

“You are forgiven, of course,” Lady Winthrop said, performing a curtsy for the duke. “But I admit, I am curious to know why you have come with such urgency, Your Grace. Unless you have enlightened Baron Winthrop while we were engaged with preparing ourselves...?”

“Ah, yes,” the duke laughed softly, and the sound was even more disabling than his usual register had been. “Baron Winthrop and I spoke of other matters entirely. In fact, I was complimenting the baron on his last anthology of poems. My aunt has read a number of them over dinner since her return from the continent. Thank you for taking good care of her while she journeyed with you,” he added to her father.

“Lady Chipping supported us in our travels much more than we supported her,” the baron replied, smiling. “Her knowledge of the continent was a real boon to us. And her company, of course. She spoke highly of you, Your Grace, if it may be said.”

“Of course,” the duke answered in good humor. He seemed like the sort of man who never turned down a compliment. And from the look of him, Rosalie suspected she received plenty. “Though I cannot vouch for the veracity of my aunt’s tales.” Rosalie felt him shift his attention toward her. “However, I have not come here to discuss my aunt, Baron Winthrop. In truth, I was hoping to speak with your daughter.”

The room held its breath—Lady Winthrop most audibly. Rosalie glanced up from the floor to meet the duke’s eyes. He was deadly serious. She could not read his expression beyond that. She did not want to. She was too afraid of what she would discover behind those sharp blue eyes.

“You mean... our daughter Rosalie?” Her father stumbled over her name as if it were the first time he had said it. “I would like to honor your request, Your Grace, naturally. But this turn of events has surprised me. What might she do for you?”

He was asking, in more agreeable terms, when and how they had become acquainted, and what purpose a private conversation could possibly serve. Lady Winthrop glanced at Rosalie with the same unspoken questions in her face, and with a hint of impressed pleasure that made Rosalie want to scream.

“It is an understandable confusion, and yours is a natural reaction.” The duke clasped his hands behind his back. “But I fear I cannot betray the meaning of my visit until I have spoken with your daughter alone. I would not push the limits of your hospitality. Certainly, her maid should remain in the room with us or nearby.”