Page 12 of Cocky August Rake

SUMMER’S HEAT BUILDING

It was nearly noon on the last day of July, and the summer heat had settled over London without mercy. Relief would come in time. Until then, there was nothing to do but endure it.

Mercifully, The Domus remained cooler than the street outside. Nell had ordered the shutters closed against the sun that morning, while the windows overlooking the shaded courtyard stood open to catch whatever breeze might find its way between the buildings. The thick walls and high ceilings held back the worst of the heat.

Even so, the house was warmer than usual, and heat prickled beneath Rose’s ebony wig as she fastened the final pin into place.

In the mirror, the woman looking back at her appeared composed enough. The dark hair made her pale skin almost translucent. A touch of paint deepened her eyes and made them seem more mysterious.

With small pearl drops at her ears and a plain dove-gray gown buttoned neatly to her throat, Rose might have been anyone. A lady calling upon a friend. A widow of modest means. A woman with nowhere particular to be.

In daylight, most of the ladies at The Domus could pass for anyone at all.

The brighter gowns, the perfume, the careful display of shoulder and bosom—that belonged to the evening.

Rose pressed another pin into place, though the wig already felt far too heavy for such a day.

And despite doing her best to bury the memory, her thoughts drifted, yet again, to that masquerade.

That morning after, she’d had no choice but to admit to her failure. Lord Reginald had left before she could find him.

That was all she’d told Nell.

She had said nothing about the masked stranger in the garden. Nothing about the way she had clutched his coat or the rough sound he had made against her throat. Nothing about how, for one reckless stretch of time, she had wanted rather than performed.

Rose had expected the memory to fade.

It had not.

Weeks had passed, but the encounter remained strangely clear. The moonlight. His trembling hands. The fierce, almost startled way he had responded to her.

Her monthly course had arrived when expected, there had been no danger of that sort.

And yet the memory lingered—the reckless intimacy of it, and the unsettling knowledge of how badly she’d wanted him.

She had known dozens of men, yet she had never experienced anything quite like that night. She suspected she would remember the masked stranger for the rest of her life.

Rose pushed the final pin into her wig with more force than necessary.

The stranger was gone.

Until this morning, Lord Reginald Preston had been beyond her reach as well.

The Duke of Malum’s brother, it seemed, had taken to sea almost immediately after the masquerade, leaving The Domus and everyone inside it waiting.

Rose had told herself his absence was a good thing.

Life went on as usual.

Many of their regular gentlemen had gone to their country estates, and the house had grown quieter. They still received clients, of course, but the long evenings were less crowded. Tempers had eased. The ladies lingered over breakfast. Even Nell had stopped prowling the corridors as though expecting disaster to come through the front door.

It had almost been peaceful.

Almost.

The question of Lord Reginald’s plans had still hung over them all.

Would he keep The Domus? Sell it? Close it outright?