Page 16 of A Translation of Desire (The Brazen Curators #2)

R ose frowned as she studied herself in the mirror.

She wore a dark blue gown that sparkled with silver threading in various places.

Begrudgingly, she admitted she loved it.

The lady’s maid Beth seemed to have a better understanding of her unruly curly brownish-red hair—well, at least this evening she had.

The maid had gasped when Rose returned to her room earlier.

Throughout the day, the perfect coiffure she’d departed with had transformed into a wild mass of curls.

Rose explained that her unruly mane didn’t do well in styles designed for straight hair.

Tonight, Beth, determined to get it right, tried several options until they both agreed this one suited her and would survive the night.

A blush formed on her freckled cheeks, and she frowned, hating that she wondered what Sinclair would think.

She’d spied on him today, not impressed with the potential brides he was considering.

The last one caused her stomach to clench because it had been evident he was interested.

Rose hated that she felt anything. Who Sinclair chose wasn’t her business.

Glancing one more time in the mirror, she told herself she could enjoy looking nice without it being connected to a certain duke.

Her dark mane was half up but loosely, allowing curls to fall more naturally.

A knock on her bedchamber door interrupted her thoughts. “Rose, it is Lisbeth. Are you ready?”

She opened the door, and Lisbeth gasped before her mouth tilted into an impressed smile. Rose flushed. “Not a single word.”

Lisbeth sighed. “You look lovely. Is it so wrong to point it out? I wish your father were here.”

Prior to departing for the Derrys’ country estate gathering, they’d received a letter from Benjamin Calvert stating he was headed back to the Syrian desert. Rose missed him more than she cared to admit. As if she could read her thoughts, Lisbeth held out her arm. “Come, let’s go have fun.”

Rose nodded, and they walked to the great hall where everyone congregated for drinks before dinner. As they stepped through the doorway, Lisbeth winked at her. “Time to find you a husband.”

Horror filled Rose’s face, and giggles erupted from Lisbeth. “I’m joking.”

Rose rolled her eyes but smiled, feeling a shocking kinship with the duchess. As they wandered around the room, several people turned to Lisbeth, curtsying. She nodded in response, and sometimes, they stopped and talked for a bit.

“Do you ever hate all that?” Rose asked.

Lisbeth came to a halt, frowning. “What?”

“All the pomp that goes with being you.”

Lisbeth sighed. “I don’t think about it anymore. Is that awful?”

Perhaps Rose would have thought so before coming to London, but now she didn’t think so.

One couldn’t be bowed to and curtsied to for years without it becoming natural.

No, Lisbeth handled it with far more grace and kindness than Rose expected.

In truth, Lisbeth hadn’t been at all what she envisioned.

Guilt surged through her for feeling that way and also because liking the duchess, in some ways, felt like a betrayal of Thomas.

“Why did you leave Tuscany?” she asked, shocking them both.

Lisbeth flushed. “This isn’t the place.”

Horror filled Rose that she asked the question. “I’m sorry.”

Lisbeth smiled tightly. “I wish I hadn’t hurt him, but I can’t change the past. It was never my intent.”

A deep sadness emanated from her, making Rose realize that Thomas wasn’t the only one permanently changed by the situation. “I’m sorry, Lisbeth. It is none of my business.”

The duchess squeezed her hand. “You’re a good friend to him. I’m glad he has that.”

A bell chimed, summoning everyone to dinner. Rose turned, and her eyes met Sinclair’s. He was escorting one of the women from earlier into the dining room. He paused at the sight of her, sucking in a breath. His eyes wandered down her form, warming her at every place they lingered.

He looked far too handsome in his evening attire.

His blond hair was impeccable, and his large frame perfectly fit his tailored-for-him suit.

What was this blasted thing between them?

She knew what it was, even if she tried to deny it.

She wanted him, and want might not be the right word; crave , need , and hunger all seemed far more fitting.

“Ready?” Lisbeth said.

She tore her gaze away from Sinclair, desperately trying to expel her unwelcome thoughts. “Yes.”

They made their way into the dining room, and Lisbeth and Rose were seated across from Sinclair and the young lady who stared at him adoringly.

Rose wanted to gag at the woman’s hero worship.

The Marquess of Derry stood and gave a speech about friends and family that seemed shockingly sincere coming from a peer.

After that, the table filled with almost forty people broke into several different discussions.

She missed the simplicity of tavern or café food.

Her gaze darted down to the other end of the table, where Diana happily sat with her betrothed Sebastian Devons.

Frowning, Rose at least wished she were sitting somewhere else—closer to her friends.

A lady Rose didn’t know, studied her intently.

The woman’s lips pressed together, and judgment flared in her eyes.

“Miss Calvert, are you enjoying your Season?”

She was older and swathed in jewels. Lisbeth smiled at her. “Lady Baston, Miss Calvert is more my guest than pursuing a Season.”

Lady Baston tilted her nose up higher. “That makes more sense.”

The table descended into shocked silence at her obnoxious response.

Rose couldn’t think of a time when she had been insulted in such a passive-aggressive way.

She wished somehow she could be transported back to the desert instead of dealing with the rude woman.

Before she could respond, Sinclair said, “I’ve tried my best to get on Miss Calvert’s dance card, but it always seems full whenever we’re at the same ball. ”

Her eyes flew to the duke, knowing he was defending her. She didn’t need that, but appreciation flared in her. The woman beside Sinclair demurred, “Mother, she is deciphering ancient text for the Historical Society for Female Curators.”

The harpy was Sinclair’s lady’s mother. Rose lifted a brow in his direction. His face turned stony at her silent point. The older woman darted a glance at Lisbeth and Diana. “I almost forgot about that little club.”

The entire table remained focused on their conversation, but neither Lisbeth nor Diana said anything. Rose frowned at the woman. “My lady, the club is no small feat. The plan is to be as informative and successful as any existing establishments.”

Lady Baston scoffed. Trying to be polite, Lisbeth said, “We all have our passions.”

The grumpy lady scowled. “Yes, but not all passions challenge the very structure of society.”

Rose snorted. “Yes, surely one antiquities club will ruin London.”

The young woman next to Sinclair, trying to ease the tension, said, “Mother, I’m certain they aren’t competing with the men’s only London Society of Antiquaries.”

Shocking everyone, Diana, from the other end of the table, said, “And if we were?”

Several people gasped. Rose sat up straighter, ready for a debate with the lady. However, it didn’t happen because Sinclair said, “There is nothing wrong with clubs competing with each other, regardless of whether women or men run them.”

And just like that, everyone nodded because, as much as Rose hated it, Sinclair was the duke.

No one argued with him. The table broke back into several conversations.

Her gaze darted to Sinclair, engaged in a lively discussion with Lady Baston’s daughter.

Rose took a sip of wine, discreetly watching them.

Her name was Lady Viviene, and she was perfect for Sinclair—the duke who had just defended the Historical Society of Female Curators.

A club she was very much starting to feel part of.

*

Later that evening, Augustus rolled his shoulders as he made his way down the wide hallway of the first floor of Derry Hall. He’d retrieved a book from the main library, hoping it would help him sleep. Restlessness thrummed through him. The words would do nothing.

He reached the elegant staircase leading to the guest wing of the Hall, but the patter of feet jerked his gaze in the direction of a hallway off the kitchen.

His brows drew together. Who was up at such a late hour?

It was likely a servant, but he still walked towards the source of the sound.

He spotted a flash of brownish-red hair before the kitchen door swung shut.

A frown flitted across his face. Was it Rose?

What was she doing up so late? He went down the hallway and opened the door to find the lady whistling while she looked through the cabinets.

His gaze swept over her slender frame. The wrap and nightdress covered her entirely but seemed to emphasize her curves, sending a jolt of awareness through Augustus.

Annoyed with his reaction, he scowled. “Don’t you know it is inappropriate to wander about in someone else’s home in your nightclothes?”

She spun around, startled, but sighed and rolled her eyes at him. “Well, thank goodness you’re here, Augustus, to remind me of all the rules of polite society.”

Turning back, she rummaged more before holding up a jar triumphantly.

She placed the jar on the kitchen table beside a cloth covering something.

He folded his arms over his chest and didn’t miss how her eyes lingered on his front.

He, himself, was only dressed in a shirt, pants, and shoes. “I’m pointing it out to help you.”

Her mouth twitched up, and she scooped jam out of the jar with a knife. Rose swiped a little of the sweet spread off the utensil with a finger. She brought it to her mouth, sucking on it, and Augustus’s body hummed.

“This is delectable,” she gushed.