Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4) Read online

  “Perhaps a simpler selection for your first performance?”

  She jumped, and her hands clashed against the ivory keys, creating a racket.

  Her face flamed. She turned, her heart in her throat, to see the duke behind her, his posture perfect, his eyepatch in place, his eyebrow raised above it.

  Her voice caught. “I—I used to play this perfectly.”

  His face gentled. “Then to not be able to at this moment must be frustrating.”

  “Quite.” She turned back to the keyboard and stared sightlessly at the notes on the sheet music before her. Her heart rushed in her chest.

  “When is the last time you touched an instrument?” He moved around the pianoforte, placing it between them, but putting him in her line of sight.

  “Three years.”

  He nodded.

  Quiet fell between them, uncomfortable on her end, inscrutable on his.

  “The rest of the piece is sounding lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence lingered. She itched to begin playing again but kept herself still as he stood there, his gaze focused on her to the point of discomfort.

  “Forgive my interruption.” The duke bowed and departed.

  Beauty let out a breath and put her hands on the keys again.

  ***

  “Pardon the interruption, Miss Reynolds.”

  Beauty looked up from the pianoforte. Mrs. Haskins stood just inside the music room.

  “Lady Judith has asked me to give you a tour of the house and grounds. Would now be a good time?”

  Beauty hesitated. Lady Judith had foisted her off on the housekeeper. It was probably for the best.

  “If it is a good time for you, Mrs. Haskins. I do appreciate being shown around.”

  “Now is fine, miss.”

  Beauty stood and tried to stretch discreetly as she followed behind the housekeeper. She had been at the keys for what felt like hours.

  ***

  The tour with Mrs. Haskins was a less silent affair than the carriage trip to the castle had been. The housekeeper gave the name of each room, and sometimes its history. The castle was beautiful, ages of time and the ancientness of the family represented in the structure, the carvings, paintings, wall-hangings, and furniture.

  Impressive forebearers lined the portrait gallery.

  One large painting hung in a place of honor: a man and wife with a young son in a rose garden of deep violet roses. Beauty recognized them easily. The artist had captured the color of the duke’s special rose well.

  “It is the duchess with her husband the former duke, and our current, as a young boy.”

  It was a beautiful painting, the duke so handsome, his young wife beautiful, and their son sweet and innocent.

  The tour continued.

  “This is the traditional ducal suite, but the duke has left it untouched since his father’s passing.”

  “That seems unusual.”

  Mrs. Haskins kept walking.

  “This door is to the duchess’s suite, the duke’s mother. Since her blindness, he did not want to change her rooms, and hasn’t.”

  “That was kind of him. Forgive me, but what did cause the duchess’s blindness? She was not always so?”

  “No, ’twas the small pox, as did the duke’s eye. It carried off the old duke as well.”

  ”Oh, how sad. How old was the duke?”

  “Only thirteen. His younger brother and sister were also lost that year.”

  Beauty placed a hand on her chest. Such tragedy to afflict this family in so short a time.

  The thought of it haunted her as they walked more halls and corridors, up flights of stairs.

  “This is the entrance to the duke’s current suite of rooms.”

  The door before them was of heavy wood and carved intricately with hunting scenes of men, dogs, boars, and stags locked in mortal battle.

  “It seems quite remote and isolated,” Beauty said.

  “As he desires it. It is the north tower. His rooms take up the whole of it.”

  That was interesting. “Is there something special about the north tower that he favors?”

  “Besides the isolation?” Mrs. Haskins gave a wry smile. “It is the tallest tower, with the grandest view of the surrounding countryside. And makes for fine viewing of the night sky. Our duke counts in his interests astronomy—the stars, planets, and telescopes.

  “Come along, then.” Mrs. Haskins pulled Beauty away from her study of the duke’s door. Beauty resolutely squelched her curiosity of what lay beyond.

  ***

  “Let us tour the grounds before we see the east wing of the house.”

  They were impressive.

  There were formal gardens with topiary and statuary, the earliest March flowers beginning to emerge: daffodils, crocus, iris. A cultivated wilderness lay beyond the formal gardens, tamed only enough to be beautiful.

  The stables, the hunting dog kennels, and the walking paths were all designed and kept to the highest standards.

  They entered the greenhouses and succession houses, each filled with exotic plants, fruits, vegetables, and roses in full bloom. In the second greenhouse, they found a riot of sweet-smelling roses in pots, and the duchess with her attendants.

  “Is that Beauty, then?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Come, see my roses.” The duchess held out her hand.

  Beauty curtsied and approached. “They are beautiful.”

  “What colors do you see?”

  “Pinks, reds, and yellow, peach.” She hesitated. There were none of the unique purple shade that had caused so much trouble for her. “And white. They are lovely.”

  “My special Blue Blood rose isn’t flowering right now, else you would see purple as well.” The duchess smiled.

  Beauty froze, darting her glance around. Neither the duchess or her servants appeared conscious of Beauty’s connection to a purple rose. She dragged her voice forward. “Purple is a rare color for a rose.”

  “Indeed, it is! Do you know much of roses, Beauty?”

  “I’m an appreciator. We used to have roses in our London garden.”

  “Do you know something of the development of new types of roses? How one fertilizes and cross fertilizes to produce a new strain, focusing on developing a new color, or scent, or shape, or hardiness?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My late husband and I hybridized roses together. We had the dream to develop the elusive blue. A blue rose. No one has done it before. We did not reach it, but we did come close. We called our most successful the Blue Blood rose. You must see it when it blooms. The most glorious violet-purple. It is my pride and joy.” A smile softened the duchess’s face. “I see the color still in my mind’s eye.”

  It was the Blue Blood rose, then, that was the cause of such trouble. A special blossom, indeed, precious to the duke’s family. Now a sprig of it was in her garden at home, struggling to grow, and here she was, the price of its exchange. Her stomach twisted.

  Though she could not be aware of Beauty’s roiling emotions, the duchess’s smile fell, and a sadness overtook her voice. “But we have not made further progress towards the blue rose. I have let that dream go.” The duchess appeared to shake away her melancholy, and she spoke again brightly. “Now, I focus my hybridization on scent. Would you like to smell one of my recently developed strains?”

  “I would love to, Your Grace.”

  The dark footman cut a rose from a bush of middling pink blossoms and presented it to Beauty. The shape was unremarkable as far as roses went—pretty, but the petal structure was not the most aesthetically pleasing. But the smell . . . it was exquisite.

  It was the scent of rose, but fresher, richer, deeper. It was better than all other rose scents she had smelled before, whether fresh or from perfume bottles.

  Beauty closed her eyes and breathed in deep. “Oh, that is beautiful.” After
having experienced this scent, she would never be able to smell the cloyingly heavy rose perfumes of London’s over-scented older generation without a grimace.

  The duchess smiled. “I thank you. I adore it.” She bent to one of the blossoms on the bush and breathed in. “Do you detect the hints of vanilla?”

  Beauty followed the duchess as she went down the rows of the greenhouse on the arm of her footman, presenting her roses. “And here, this one has a bit of sharpness, some notes of lemon.” And on to three other roses, each unique and exquisite.

  “I’m afraid my nose is losing sensitivity,” Beauty said.

  “I know that feeling well.” The duchess laughed. “And here is the rose that was in your hair last night.” She stood before a bush of pale pink blooms. “You should choose another bloom for this evening. Though not a highly scented one. That would interfere with Andres’ culinary masterpieces. One of the subtle-scented roses.”

  “Oh, I surely couldn’t wear a bloom every evening.”

  “Yes, you may. I wish you to. Now, what color is the dress you will wear this evening?”

  Beauty swallowed in discomfort. “Pink, your grace.”

  “Another pink dress? I assume last night’s was pink as well?”

  “It was. It will be the same dress. I’m afraid I have only one evening dress, ma’am.”

  “Well, that will never do. You are to be a junior companion to me, are you not?”

  “If Your Grace so wishes.”

  “I do so wish. You have a pleasant reading voice. Poor Judith is hoarse after an hour. If you can last two, or dare we hope, three, that would be quite ideal.”

  “I will gain strength with practice, I am sure, ma’am.”

  “Good. But a companion to the Duchess of Rosden must be properly dressed. Henry.” Her footman moved with alacrity and offered her grace his arm. She took it, and he led her out of the greenhouse. “Come, we will get started immediately.”

  Chapter 10

  Beauty followed the duchess in bemusement as the woman walked through her dressing room like a whirlwind, touching dresses with deft fingers, and drawing out ones she wanted rid of. Beauty soon had an armful of gowns.

  “I cannot tell color anymore, only my memory of what looked well on me, and the hope that my maid, the dressmakers, and Judith combined can come about to a fair approximation of good taste in my dress. I myself judge by touch and feel, and in that I am very particular. What are your colors, Beauty? Your eyes, your hair?”

  “Brown and brown, ma’am.”

  The duchess tsked. “Marguerite? What are Miss Reynolds’ colors?” She spoke in French.

  The duchess’s youthful French maid answered. “A soft brown in the eyes, not too dark, but not too light. A dark brunette in her hair.”

  Beauty knew just enough French to follow the conversation.

  “Her complexion?”

  “No blemishes, but a few freckles.”

  Beauty’s face heated. The freckles were new, from two summers of gardening, no matter that she had always worn a hat. She was grateful it was March, and the long winter had lightened her skin back to an acceptable level for a lady. If it had been summer, she would have been tanned brown.

  The duchess gave a “hmm,” and fingered an evening gown of blue with net overlay. “I find the netting on this gown particularly scratchy. It will be good for you. Will just need to be adjusted to fit. I do believe I am taller than you, Beauty. Going down in size is simple enough.”

  “You are too kind, ma’am.”

  “This muslin with tambour work, yes, for day wear.” Another added to the pile.

  And, “The silver muslin. Yes. The gilt work is a bother to my skin. But I’m sure it is lovely. That will do well.”

  A beautiful gauzy muslin shimmering with silver threads was placed in Beauty’s arms. She caught her breath. “Your Grace, I—”

  The duchess did not turn but continued fingering her gowns. “It is my privilege to dress you. These are last year’s gowns, are they not? William has two London dressmakers and their wares come up every year when I do not go to London. And I do not go to London this year. Too . . . fatiguing.

  “If you find any of these do not do well with your complexion, you may return them. But I hope you will find several that enhance your beauty, Beauty.” She smiled.

  Beauty’s arms were full of light, frothy dresses fit for a queen—or a duchess. She knew well how much such cost and how much work they were to maintain. Her mind spun with gratitude and guilt.

  “There. Now, go with your maid Lucy, and have her recruit a few others to make those over to fit you.”

  ***

  A knock came on Beauty’s chamber door. The three maids who were busily adjusting the new gowns looked up. Beauty was recently freed from the pinned confines of one of the gowns, and she had redonned her own simple dress.

  “Don’t trouble yourselves, I’ll answer it.” Beauty picked her way to the door through swaths of fabric and trimming to find Lady Judith on the other side.

  “The duchess has commanded I finish your truncated tour of the grounds.” Her face showed no enthusiasm for the task.

  “Oh, that will not—”

  “Get your bonnet and shawl, and hop to it. It’ll be dark soon.”

  Cousin Judith walked faster than Beauty’s legs could carry her. She felt quite short amid all these tall women of the duke’s family.

  The extensive walled rose garden on the west side of the castle looked barren, each bush and vine heavily pruned from winter, with harsh chopped off ends and thorns exposed.

  The hint of small leaves beginning to emerge was all that softened the rows and trellises of spiky limbs.

  “It will be much more impressive in a few months,” Lady Judith said.

  “Is that all that you will tell her of it, cousin?” A deep voice spoke. It was the duke.

  Beauty’s heart jumped and began to race. How could so large a man, with a limp, no less, manage to continually catch her off-guard?

  “I see no point in rhapsodizing over bare plants, Your Grace,” Lady Judith answered. “When they’re in this state, they aren’t much to look at, and nothing at all to smell.”

  “Then allow me. I believe Miss Reynolds has a love of roses. Perhaps she will be more interested than you think.”

  Lady Judith sniffed but stepped back and waved her hand.

  Beauty blinked with a spike of alarm as the duke approached her.

  “May I be your guide, Miss Reynolds?” He looked at her intently from his visible gray eye.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied.

  He directed them forward.

  “The original rose garden is laid out by color. The perimeter beds surrounding the central contain varieties only of their assigned color: pink, then white, then yellow.” She followed him as he walked around the beds, indicating their color as he passed them. “Then orange and peach, red, and here—” He turned to the central bed of the garden—“In the place of honor, the mauves and purples, the darkest, the closest to blue in the very center.”

  He turned to her, his face smooth of expression, but his eye watchful. “You will know these roses, Miss Reynolds, when they emerge. At the heart of the rose garden, our pride of place.”

  “Your parents’ Blue Blood rose?”

  “Yes. There are only a few bushes of it in the world. We have not gifted it but to a few choice, avid connoisseurs. There is one in the Royal Gardens at Kew. And in the former Empress Josephine’s rose garden at Château de Malmaison in France. She corresponded with Mother directly. That was a unique experience for the family, in the middle of the war with her husband Napoleon.”

  “Goodness!”

  “This rose does have a special place in our hearts, and we’ve guarded it.”

  Her face heated. An offshoot of this illustrious rose bush was in a small cottage garden near North Lenton.

  She looked down, shifted
from one foot to the other. The quiet grew long between them, and lengthened until she had to fill it. “It is a beautiful rose.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Lady Judith spoke with a frown. “It is not in bloom in the greenhouses.”

  “Miss Reynolds has seen a bloom from the Rosden House greenhouse.”

  “Were you in London, Miss Reynolds?” She looked at her with curiosity.

  Beauty’s face grew hotter. “Not recently.”

  “It was a gift, given to her through her father.”

  She gaped at the duke, outrage rising in her.

  He gave her a small smile and a raise of his brows. She snapped her mouth shut.

  “That is a high honor from the duke, young miss. The Blue Blood rose is not distributed indiscriminately.”

  “Indeed,” Beauty bit out with a strangled voice.

  The duke turned and moved up the path once more. Judith followed, and Beauty was pulled along by their movements, her emotions rough.

  They walked into a high-walled garden, a line of densely planted alder trees lining the wall, rising even higher. The gravel path inside was a continual meandering line, never crossing or intersecting. The path was clear to see in the barrenness of post-winter, but Beauty could imagine it would be much harder to see the end if all the leaves and flowers were in full growth.

  “This is the duchess’s passion since her blindness. It contains many types of flowers and plants, not just roses, and is focused on scent. It may look haphazard, but my mother has carefully arranged a scent journey that is wonderous to walk through. I hope you will join me again in summer when it is in full bloom. It is an experience you will never forget.”

  Beauty looked over the barren maze before her and tried to imagine it in full growth.

  “It is quieter here, even in March,” she said.

  “Yes, the wall and the alder trees. They are a windbreak, to try to control the wind and keep it from muddying the scents and the order in which they are experienced.”

  “I look forward to summer. I’m sure it is most impressive.”

  They continued on to the formal French garden, with box hedges surrounding geometric planting beds.

  “This is my grandmother’s garden, quite in the old French style. I’ve always found the strict lines too formal. I have a tendency to let it grow out in summer, to soften its lines.”