Page 65 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

Rosalie’s eyes filled at once with tears, grief and joy arriving together in a confusing rush. “Oh, Anna...” She embraced her sister tightly. “That is wonderful... But... does Mama know?”

“Only you,” Anna said. “I do not want to say it while Father is so unwell. Maybe you will think that is selfish of me—and if so, I shall tell Mother before I leave.”

“I think she would like that,” Rosalie said, holding her sister a moment longer before releasing her. “It would give her hope for the future, no matter what comes.”

“You shall be a very wise and kind aunt,” Anna said, beaming. “But come, let us return indoors before the sky breaks. Mr. Sinclair will be wondering where we have gone regardless.”

“Yes,” Rosalie said, a strange knot forming in her chest where the ache had been. “Mr. Sinclair...”

They returned indoors together, arms linked. Anna went up to check on their mother with a plate of breakfast, leaving Rosalie alone at the table with Mr. Sinclair and his book.

She studied him for a moment, his steady hands, the crease of concentration at his brow, the easy comfort of his company. And she asked herself, not for the first time, whether she could ever come to feel for him what Anna so clearly felt for William, whether the quiet warmth she felt in his presence could ever grow, and whether, in his heart of hearts, he genuinely wanted her enough to set the world on fire.

Without meaning to, her thoughts turned to that meadow full of lavender and violets, and a man’s fingers against her cheek. When she raised her cup to her lips, the coffee had gone cold, and her fingers were trembling.

She had tried hard not to think about him in the week since her return. His call with Lady Chipping had been salt in the wound. Why had he come? Just for show? And why did she hope he had been driven instead by yearning for her, a desire to see her again and make the world right?

A knock at the door interrupted them. A footman with the newspapers. Usually, they went to the baron, but in his absence Mr. Sinclair had been handling their delivery. After finishing her breakfast, Rosalie took The Morning Post and rose to take it up to her mother.

She glanced at Edmund, who had gone still with a tightening around the mouth, his eyes moving too quickly down the column for mere casual reading.

“Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.

He did not answer immediately. When he finally set the paper down, he stood up and left the room. Rosalie could not help herself. She inspected the broadsheet he had left open.

There was his name, printed in big bold letters at the top of a column written by one ‘Earnest Truth-Teller’. It was a byline that fooled no one. Beatrice Levant was behind the column.

The item was short and vicious. It read: “A certain widowed gentleman of Grosvenor Square and Truro has not confined his devotions entirely to his intended bride this Season, having been observed these past months in a box at the opera, attending with rather more constancy than mere appreciation of music generally inspires, upon a certain leading lady of the stage whose name Society had once been firmly asked to forget.”

Rosalie stared at the paper, certain she had misread something. Her hands had gone numb. There was no mistaking what had been implied. Mr. Sinclair and an actress, entangled in something forbidden but long-standing. She could not parse the text any more clearly in her mind. Horror washed over her as she heard voices in the hall. Mr. Sinclair was calling for his carriage.

She dropped The Morning Post and ran to catch him before he could leave. He was alone in the entrance hall, standing at the door, his coat hastily cast over his shoulders.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she said.

He did not turn to look at her, but he did not open the door either. He asked, “Did you read it?” And when she said that she had, he turned, his face worn with embarrassment and regret.

“I had never intended you to find out,” he said. “That was my mistake. I should have known she would strike now. Miss Winthrop... You must believe me. There has been nothing improper between myself and anyone else since I have known you.”

“But is it true? Have you set your sights on another? These trips to the opera...” She gasped. “You said weeks ago, something about the opera. It is true.”

“It is.” His voice was low, stripped of its usual easy warmth and colored instead with shame. “Beatrice has done this before, to Rose, and that is why I should have known better. Long before we married... There was another woman first, someone my family decided was unsuitable before I had even properly understood that I loved her.”

“And is she...” Rosalie swallowed. “The woman in the column?”

He nodded. “I am so sorry, Miss Winthrop.”

Rosalie felt the pieces settle into place with a sickening click: the opera, the tiredness he could never properly explain, the instructions to his staff about an important visit. But he said that there was nothing improper between them, Rosalie thought. Could he be lying?

She realized that she did not know him enough to answer the question. She also realized—and this was worse—that she did not care what the answer would be, because he was not meant for her, and she was not for him.

“You must understand, Miss Winthrop. My intentions with you were—they are—still pure. My friend... We have been this way for years... But not with Rose, and never with you... I would not disgrace you in that manner.”

He closed his eyes, looking suddenly younger. “My father threatened to cut me off entirely when he first found out. And I...” He stopped, pressing his knuckles to his mouth for a moment. “I was not brave enough to choose her over everything else. I married Rose instead, and Honora understood.”

“Honora?” Rosalie repeated.

“That is her name.”