Duchess (19 page)

Taking off her cloak, muff, and boots, she laid them over a chair. The matches lay above the stove, and she fumbled for a moment then lit the gas and put on a pot of water. She rummaged around the massive kitchen before unearthing a plate and a tray, and wondered if her mother had ever set foot in her house kitchen.

She put the bag of scones on the tray along with a bowl of raspberry preserves, butter, and a knife. When the kettle whistled, she added water to the teapot then dropped in the netting of tea leaves to steep. She found a teacup and saucer, a few cubes of sugar, and took the entire tray in search of a lit fire, something to warm her bones as she waited for the operator to return her ordered call. She'd asked for 8:00 p.m., which she calculated as noon in Hollywood.

She started for her room then decided to head toward the massive dining room. So what if she dined alone. And certainly she could muster up a fire in the hearth. How difficult might that be?

For today, right now, perhaps she would pretend to be a duchess, the grand mistress of this house. She and her brother Jack had played that game, once upon a time, in her mother's grand chateau in Newport—the game of what if? What if he were Columbus and she the Queen of Spain? Or she Marie Antoinette and he Napoleon?

Their mischief at charades had probably fueled too well her imagination and sparked her desire to see herself on stage, if not on the silver screen.

Sometimes Jack could tiptoe into her mind and feel so close that she might call out his name and he'd simply appear.

Her throat tightened with the realization that she'd never given up hope, not really.

But maybe too, it was time to realize that he'd also left her. That she was alone in this big house, this big life, and had been since the day he walked out.

She drew in a breath then nudged the door open with her foot.

A fire crackled in the hearth, warm, inviting, and she stared at it, her heart thunderous in her chest.

Then, “Where on earth have you been, and what have you done with my staff?”

She jerked at the voice, turned, and the movement sent the teapot sliding off the tray.

It crashed at her feet, along with her bag of scones, soaking into the hot tea.

She looked up at Rolfe, standing there in a brown wool sweater, a pair of striped worsted wool pants, a silk ascot at his neck. He looked tired, red streaking his eyes, fatigue in the lines of his face. Even his hair seemed unkempt, almost as if he'd run his hands through it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and instantly regretted her tone.

Or maybe not, because he raised a glass of something amber to his lips, took a drink, then gave her a wry, almost tragic smile.

“It's Christmas, isn't it? Where else would I be?”

“Rolfe, have you been drinking?”

She wanted to retrieve the mess at her feet, the delicious scones now swimming in the amber liquid of her broken teapot, but she couldn't stop herself from advancing on him, from taking the glass from his hand before he could finish lifting it to his lips. “Are you okay?”

He yanked the highball from her hand, stepped away from her. “I'm fine.”

But he wasn't fine. His hand shook even as he stared at the flames, flickering in the hearth.

“Did you make this fire?”

He sipped his drink and she backed away from him, bent, and retrieved the shards of the teapot, the ruined bag, and piled it onto the tray. She pulled a napkin from the table and draped it over the puddle of tea, sopping up the mess from the floor. Then she put the wet cloth on the tray and slid it onto the table.

The flames glinted against the hard set of his jaw. She stood there, staring at his back, unnerved by his silence.

“When did you get back?”

He took another sip.

“Maybe you should slow down—”

He gestured with his hand. “You should have seen this place when my mother managed the chateau. Every room had a tree, decorated with lights and ribbon, ivy, and cranberries. She spent months planning the decorations. And then, when everything was perfect, she'd invite the village over, her way of continuing the tradition of our estate. She knew all the families and would present them with gifts—trinkets, really, but something that told them that she thought of them, that she cared.”

“When did she pass?” She'd seen a portrait of Lisette in the hallway with a younger Rolfe and a man she guessed must be his father.

He turned. Ran his thumb down his glass. “Mother was German, so she was a target when the Germans betrayed us and invaded Belgium in 1914. If my father had still been alive, perhaps he would have been able to protect her, but he died when I was twelve.”

She stayed silent.

“I was seventeen and ready to go to university in Lueven. They invaded there in August, and ironically, ravaged the city, burned the library, all 300,000 books. They expelled the entire population of the city. My mother nearly cried with relief that I wasn't there yet.”

She watched him, the way he gripped his drink with both hands. “But they didn't stop there. They pillaged our country. My mother heard about it, and in fear, she took in the families of the village, afraid of what the Germans might do. Then—” He looked up at Rosie. “Then she stood at the gate when they motored right into our gates and ordered them, in German, to leave.”

Rosie realized she was holding her breath.

“They beat her.” He looked away. Closed her eyes. “I watched it from the house. Two men from the village held me down, kept me from running out to the courtyard while they beat her, then—” his hand was shaking again. “A few of the villagers ran out to save her, but they were shot, leaving her to struggle on her own.”

She pressed her hands around her waist, seeing him as a seventeen-year-old youth, fighting, panicked, having to be subdued.

She closed her eyes, an old memory passing through her, listening to her father terrorize her mother. Jack had held her, his strong arms around her as she shook.

Rolfe's voice dropped as he stared into his drink. “The Germans took over the chateau, used it for their headquarters.”

“That's why you snuck away, learned to fly in England.”

He nodded but still didn't meet her eyes.

“I'm so sorry, Rolfe.”

“My mother gave her life for this village. This estate.” He looked up, offered a wry smile. “She always wanted it filled with family, friends, neighbors. She came from royalty, but in her eyes, it was her job to make others feel royal. I vowed right then that I would use our title to help others. To do something with my life that might be—might be worth hiding in the castle while my mother sacrificed her life.”

His hand trembled again as he finished his drink. It spilled down the front of his sweater.

Rosie picked up a cloth, came over to him, and retrieved the glass from his hand, wiping his sweater. “Come with me.”

She slipped her hand into his, but he yanked it away, as if she might be on fire. “I don't need you!”

She looked up then, saw his gaze on her. Something dangerous, even pained in it.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know, Rolfe. I know I'm just here to play a part. The one you wrote for me.”

A muscle pulled in his jaw as he looked away. His fists clenched at his side. “I didn't mean it like that.”

She had the crazy urge to press her hand to his cheek.

“Why did you go into show business, Rosie?” He looked at her. “You were an heiress. You could be in New York, married to some—”

“Duke?”

His mouth closed.

“I don't know. Why do we do anything? Because we think we can't be complete without it.” She wadded up the cloth, set it on the table. “I was young, and I was in Paris when Sarah Bernhardt died. I watched the entire city mourn her. I thought, what might it be like to be mourned, to be missed so completely? And suddenly I decided to be someone the world would love.”

He looked at her then, the blue of his eyes in hers. “And what if the world didn't love you? What if it was just…one man?”

His words caught her, stole her breath even as she tried to move away. But he caught her arm. “What if I were to tell you that you were missed?”

She drew in a breath. Looked at his hand on her arm and could nearly taste the longing sluice through her.

But… “You're just drunk, Rolfe. And lonely.” She eased out of his grip. “You've been ignoring me for weeks, and I'm not so foolish, or desperate.” She took his hand, gave him a sad smile. “I know your wife died. And I know how that grief can feel so fresh, make you say, and do, something you'll regret.” She took his hand. “C'mon. You just need to sleep it off.”

He stared at her, closed his eyes. “Right. Of course.”

She tugged him away from the table, out of the room. He said nothing as he walked beside her.

Neither, however, did he let go of her hand.

She'd discovered his chamber during her earlier wanderings, knew it from the masculine scent embedded in the dark wood-paneled room. A fire crackled from the black-tiled hearth, evidence that he'd already attempted to ward off the chill in the unoccupied room.

His suitcase lay open on the wardrobe stand, still packed. Mr. Yates apparently hadn't heard his master return.

Then again, she'd given them the night off.

She pushed him down into a chair at the round table. “How about a drink of water?”

He nodded, and she retrieved a glass from the pitcher and brought it to him.

He caught her hand as she turned to leave. “Stay.”

She eyed him.

“I just—it's Christmas Eve, Rosie. I—” He let her go. “Sit and talk to me?”

Sit and talk. To this man whom she wanted to let herself love. Who had once loved her. Maybe she owed him that much.

She sank down on a chair. “Where have you been?”

“Amsterdam. And Austria. And Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

He nodded. “My mother has family there. I—they are interested in the film.”

“It's going well, I think.”

He nodded. “You were the right choice.”

“Of course,” she said, and got a real smile from him.

It caused a forbidden curl of delight inside her.

“I'm glad to hear you don't think you made a mistake.”

He gave a sound that resembled a chuckle but nothing of humor appeared in his expression. “I've made too many of those.” He took another sip of water, made a face.

“No, you can't have more bourbon.”

He did laugh then. Something low that started a rumble inside her. “Actually, I hate the stuff. I'm not sure why—” He took another gulp. Looked at her, leaned forward, suddenly serious. He stared at the fire, his voice soft. “I didn't marry for love, Rosie.”

The words, the admission reeled through her, and she had no words.

He leaned back, nodding, and took a breath, as if he'd let something go. “Bette was a distant cousin who found herself…in trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“She was engaged, and unfortunately that led to a pregnancy.” Rolfe put the glass on the table. “Sadly, the young man died before they could marry.”

“So you did?”

He met her eyes then. “It was a few months after—well, after I came home from America, and I was…I needed something. Some
one
, maybe. So her sister came to me—she lives in Liege—and told me of Bette's predicament. Asked me for the favor of finding Bette a husband. I thought, well, perhaps I could do this one good thing.”

He leaned forward then, ran his hands through his hair. “I grew fond of her, yes. But most of all, I grew fond of the idea of having a family. People to fill these halls. Maybe a son to take hunting, carry on the family name.”

She waited for more, then, “Spenser said she died in childbirth.”

He looked up at her, eyes freshly reddened. “Yes. Two days before Christmas.”

“And the child?”

He leaned back. “A little girl. She—she survived.”

“And yet she's not here?”

“My life has no room for a child.”

Still, the way he said it, it came out more of a question than a statement. Like he may have made a decision he could no longer agree with.

He looked away, as if to confirm it and she refused to ask where he'd sent the child. After all, grief was a powerful motivator. “I understand.”

He looked up, considered her. A frown creased his face. “I guess you do, don't you?” And in that moment, an old tenderness filled his expression. “I'm glad you're here, Rosie.”

Her voice softened, and she reached out for his hand. He didn't pull it away, but let her squeeze it. “I am too.”

She smiled, suddenly unable to speak.

He ran his thumb over her hand. She stared at his grip.

“Rosie. Would you—would you like to go to a party with me?”

“Tonight?”

He nodded. “I wasn't going to go, but…”