Page 43 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“Surely you have not filled your card already.”

“Gentlemen,” a voice cut through the crowd after a few minutes of pleasantries and jokes. “You ask too much of Miss Winthrop. She is only one woman.”

In her confusion, she thought the voice belonged to Gabriel. But it was not. How could it have been? She had not invited him that night. It was Edmund Sinclair.

The men parted for him and fell silent. Mr. Sinclair reached out his arm for Rosalie to take, making some excuse about how he could see Miss Winthrop needed air before the dancing began in earnest.

Together, they slipped out of the large ballroom and into the antechamber beyond that. There was a courtyard behind Almack’s where other guests that evening had gathered. Mr. Sinclair promptly released her once they were outdoors.

The night was cool and pleasant, but Rosalie found it difficult to enjoy. “We left them inside without defense,” she said, watching Mr. Sinclair as he found a stone bench for them and sat down. “What if Mrs. Levant returns?”

“She won’t. She’s had her fill of you for tonight,” Mr. Sinclair said, rubbing his hands on his breeches. “There are more young men to torment than Thomas Harcourt. Are they engaged to be married?”

Rosalie nodded. “Yes, they are.”

“And do they love each other?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Then good for them.”

Mr. Sinclair seemed different tonight, weary about something. She examined his face. It was pale and drawn, and there were dark bags under his eyes. She wondered whether anyone else would notice, or whether they had grown close enough that she could now read his moods.

Something sharp twisted inside her chest. Have we grown close? She wondered. She supposed she did care for him now, in her own little way. But the feelings conjured by Mr. Sinclair were more similar to feelings of friendship than whatever it was she felt for Gabriel.

Who I really should not be thinking about, she scolded herself.

“She has taken up writing, did you know, for one of the papers? A column in some pamphlet du jour,” he said. “My cousin, I mean. She writes under a name that fools no one who has heard her speak for longer than a minute. She wants to be found out.” He said it with tired humor. “We should be careful tonight, Miss Winthrop. Whatever passes here may be in print by Thursday, embellished considerably by her evil-working hand.”

“Has she always disliked you?” Rosalie asked, recalling earlier conversations. She did not sit beside him but remained standing, leaning against a stone pillar, holding her hands in front of her.

“Hm, always.” He turned to look at the courtyard instead of his shoes. “She disliked Rose too, from the start, even though she never said it, and pushed for the match out of boredom. She thought her cousin had married beneath his prospects, though God knows our prospects were never so grand as Beatrice liked to imagine. She made things difficult more than once. I should have known sooner that it was a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Beatrice likes to think she operates a menagerie. She cages people so she can poke at them from a safe distance. It was that way with Rose and me. Two animals from different species, forced into one enclosure...” He gasped softly and let his head hang forward. “Miss Winthrop, you should not listen to me tonight. I am outside myself.”

“You seem tired.”

“Oh, I am. I am quite tired of the social Season.”

Ice settled in Rosalie’s stomach. She did not want Mr. Sinclair to suffer if something was wrong; but she also feared anything that would cause him to propose sooner, if he intended to propose at all.

“I am sorry if our courtship has caused difficulty in your family again,” she said.

“You need not be. It is not your doing. I am a man fully grown, and you are but a...” He stopped himself and glanced at her. “You are lovely, Miss Winthrop. And I am a fool who spends too much time on the arts, at the opera, not sleeping, always thinking...”

He put his head in his hands. Rosalie felt she was missing something. Surely Beatrice’s new post was not the only reason he was behaving so differently? Compelled to soothe him, she sat down beside him. The courtyard was illuminated by lamplight. Men employed by Almack’s were nearby as well as other guests. There was nothing improper about the two of them being outside together, and yet she feared coming too close to him.

“The opera?” she asked, laughing gently to diffuse the tension and release the knot of fear in her stomach. “Is that why you are so tired?”

“What?” He glanced up, eyes wide. “Did I say the opera?”

“You did. You said you spent too much time there.” Rosalie smiled. “I knew you had an artist’s heart. My mother says as much. I did not know you enjoyed music, or the dramatic arts.”

“Your mother is a kind woman.” Mr. Sinclair blinked, then leaned back as though he meant to really look at Rosalie. “And you are very kind too, Miss Winthrop. Much kinder than I deserve. Am I walking you into the same difficulty?”

“With Beatrice?”