A Rose At Midnight. Jacqueline Navin

dared request more than was already being so generously offered.

      “Hmm. Someplace close.” He thought for a moment. “I cannot think of a thing. Unless.”

      “Yes?”

      “Until something suitable can be agreed upon, or until my death, I will continue to make the suite at the Ordinary available to her.”

      It was then it happened. The smile he had wished for, fulfilling the promise of all he had dreamt it would be. She clasped her hands together and nodded, as if speech failed her.

      It certainly failed him. There was a long pause as he studied her unguarded delight. Recovering, he cleared his throat. “Very well, I will make the necessary arrangements.”

      When they had signed the papers, he called in Mr. Green, whom he had kept waiting in the parlor, much to the solicitor’s obvious and abundant displeasure. The sourfaced man looked over the adjustments, giving Caroline a slow, disdainful perusal when, Magnus guessed, he came to the annotation about her allowance. Shifting his gaze to his client, Green opened his mouth and was about to say something. Magnus bestowed a quelling glare, stopping the objections before they were spoken. With a snort and a “Harumph!”, Green stuffed the papers into his portfolio.

      “I shall see to these, my lord,” he said, darting one more disapproving glance toward the future countess before taking his leave.

      Caroline visibly relaxed in his absence. Catching Magnus’s eye, she gave a sheepish smile. “He does not like me, I am afraid.”

       But I do, Miss Wembly.

      “He is merely looking out for my interests,” Magnus explained. “Come, I shall take you on a tour of the house. My brother said he would be arriving today, and with any luck he will be here in time to join us at luncheon.”

      “Oh,” Caroline said, surprised.

      “That is, if you do not have other plans?” He meant his tone to communicate she would certainly break any other commitments should that be the case.

      “No, as a matter of fact I had nothing other than returning to the Barrister’s Ordinary to take luncheon with Mother.”

      Pushing his chair away from his desk, he rose. “I will send a man to inform her you are spending the afternoon with me. Would that be acceptable?” Before she could agree or disagree, he came to take her elbow and proceed with her out into the corridor. “Would you care for tea now?”

      “N-no,” she answered. “I am not hungry just yet.”

      “Excellent. Then we shall start on this floor and work our way up.”

      She stopped. “Up?”

      He turned. Her eyes, those magnificent depths which had seemed indigo or violet or some indefinable color he had never witnessed before, were in fact a deep blue shot through with swirling gray, rather like a storm cloud. Thickly fringed with dark blond lashes, they possessed a haunted, otherworldly quality. She stared at him now, her features signaling mild alarm.

      He chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Wembly, I am content to wait out the week until you are my wife, properly wed. The tour is not a ruse to compromise your sterling respectability.”

      Those eyes he had just studied flashed blue fire. Ah, yes, they were nearly violet. “Are you mocking me, sir?”

      “Not at all. Simply trying to reassure you I am not half the reprobate I am reputed to be. Have I not acted the gentleman thus far?”

      She seemed unsure. “Yes,” she admitted.

      “See? It is just that my circumstances defy propriety’s dictates. I haven’t the time to import my great-aunt, who is the reigning matriarch and acknowledged authority on the family history. Thus, I must do it myself. Besides,” he said, pausing as he gave her a lazy look, “it will give us time to become better acquainted.”

      She regarded him for a moment, her face unmoving and unreadable. At last, she said, “Very well, my lord.”

      They started in the huge, circular entryway with its twostory Palladian windows and Ionic columns. As they wandered, the earl kept up a running monologue of the history of the house.

      “This is my mother’s salon, which you’ve seen. She used to gather with her friends here each day. They were all artists and musicians—Bohemian types. That is why there is no music room, it was incorporated as part of this one. Now, down here is the grand dining room. I rarely use it.” He paused, looking about. “Come to think of it, I have never used it.”

      He showed her the other rooms: a smaller dining room, a cozy parlor, a large mirrored ballroom with so much leaded glass and gilt it made her dizzy. He introduced her to every servant they came across and even took her into the kitchens where his appearance was met with an enthusiastic reception from Mrs. Bronson, the cook.

      “Mercy, aren’t you a love?” she cooed to Caroline, smiling and clasping her pudgy hands together. “It’s wonderful, we all say. What a lovely thing, the two of you meetin’ like that and decidin’ to marry right off. Oh, terrible romantic it is!”

      Caroline’s eyes rounded and shot to Magnus. He merely grinned back at her and purred, “Yes, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, heavens, you poor ducky, you’ve gone all pink. Well, of course she has, my lord, when an old woman rattles on at her, don’t ya know. All right, I’ll get back to my puddings. I hope you’re hungry, miss. I’m whipping up a rack of lamb.”

      “For luncheon?” Caroline asked, her voice almost a whisper, having not yet recovered from her former shock at hearing how she and the earl were so enamored of each other.

      Magnus beamed at the older woman. “Mrs. Bronson is a wonderful cook. She loves to spoil me.”

      “Ah, be gone with ya.” Mrs. Bronson blushed, shooing them out of the kitchen. She could be heard fussing to the scullery maids as they headed down the corridor.

      “My lord?”

      “Magnus.”

      She paused. “Pardon me?”

      “Please call me Magnus. It is unseemly for you to be referring to me as ‘my lord’ all the time.”

      “Yes, well,” she stammered. “I-I shall call you. Magnus.”

      She was unsure of herself, a new facet to her he had not glimpsed before, and he enjoyed the girlish way her teeth worried at her bottom lip.

      “I wish you had informed me you planned to put out the story that we were.ah.”

      “In love,” he supplied.

      “Yes, exactly.”

      “My dear Miss Wembly—or may I call you Caroline? I think it would be best. Caroline, why else would we wish to marry in such a hurry if not for the sheer impatience of true love?”

      The dripping sarcasm in his tone caused her to flinch, and in an instant of pure understanding he knew this was a woman who had always thought to marry for that most tender of emotions. Love. Magnus was not certain if he even believed it existed. It hardly mattered, having no relevance in his life. There was duty, there was need, there was pleasure. Love was not a part of any of it.

      “I see,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I am not criticizing. I only wish you had told me. I was caught unawares.”

      “You are correct, of course. You should have been prepared. I apologize.”

      She seemed relieved, and even slightly amused. “Tell me, my lord—” She stopped. “Magnus,” she corrected with determination, “where did we meet?”

      He laughed. “Don’t you recall? A mutual friend of ours in London presented us to one another at a small gathering.”

      They ascended the grand staircase, Magnus pointing out various paintings and describing