Page 46 of The Rogue’s Embrace

The Royal Opera House, London

December 23rd, 1905

The lady's retiring room had emptied some five minutes earlier, the performance being soon to begin. Estela sat on the circular chaise in the center of the ornately gilded chamber, aware that she ought to join the merry company with whom she'd arrived. However, just the thought of keeping up the pretense of good spirits was exhausting.

She'd filled her evenings with the theatre, soirées, supper parties and balls, the ballet, the opera. Nothing had provided the distraction she sought. She'd contemplated taking a new lover, but even that amusement held no allure.

Rising, she shook out her skirts and proceeded to the floor-length mirrors at the far end of the room. A last inspection, and she would steel herself do as she had every night since her return to the capital. She would smile and flirt and pretend all was right in her world.

She leaned in to her reflection. Her kohl was perfect but a touch more vermillion wouldn't go amiss. She tugged off a glove and then, from her evening bag, extracted the little pot. Using her finger, she applied a smudge to her lips. The remainder she dabbed at the apple of her cheeks, blending to achieve a natural effect. Her history might be more checkered than that of most of the courtesans living in a five-mile radius of the opera house, but she hardly wished her maquillage to mark her out as such.

All things considered, she was in reasonably good looks, for she hadn't been sleeping well. She surveyed her figure from the side. Though she wasn't allowing Antoinette to lace her corsets quite as tightly these days, the dress—her red velvet, as she'd worn on the first night she and Rockley had met upon the ship—still fitted. That would not be true for much longer.

Across the room, the door opened and someone hurried through but, instead of taking herself to the privacy of the cubicles, headed for the mirrors. She twisted about, attempting—rather ham-fistedly—to secure a partially wayward coiffure.

"Please, allow me,"

Estela offered.

"That's very kind."

The other woman accepted gratefully. "I've spare pins in my bag."

She looked admiringly at Estela's costume. "What a beautiful fabric. I must say, it's the one thing I'm looking forward to about being married—wearing more of the darker shades."

The young woman pinked somewhat. "Oh dear, that came out wrongly. My fiancé wouldn't be very flattered."

Estela smiled. "I'm sure he finds you very lovely, whatever color you're wearing."

With her pale complexion, the peach organdy was not the wisest choice, and the bodice was over-fussy, with an effusion of lace ruffles, bows and ribbon work where some simple embroidery would have done better. Nevertheless, the young woman would turn heads. Her hair, almost white in its blondeness, was remarkable.

"There you are, being kind again."

The woman frowned. "I don't deserve it, I'm afraid—or him, I should say. He's been very considerate, and I know I should be gratified, but I just can't bring myself to… That is, I'm sure he's everything a man should be, and, sometimes, I think I might be able to feel properly fondly, as one should, but then I worry that I can't, and never shall. I've a dear friend, Ingrid, who's already been married, and didn't enjoy it at all. She tells me it's hopeless, and I should find a way out, but it would cause such disappointment."

She gave a heartfelt sigh. "It's not that he's awful in any way. It's just that, when I think of how easy it is to be with Ingrid, compared to… "

She stopped abruptly, this time blushing more prominently. "I'm sorry. Forget I said that. I'm rattling on."

Smoothing her handiwork, Estela stepped back. "Understanding and companionship, with someone who wishes only the best for us, are worth a great deal. Don't be blinkered by preconceived notions of how happiness should look."

The woman looked contemplative. "I think I already know where my future lies. The trick is simply not to be afraid of stepping towards it."

"Quite right."

Estela swallowed back the small lump that had formed in her throat.

As the young woman hurried away again, Estela rested her hand low upon her belly.

There was only one man she wanted by her side, but his future was mapped out elsewhere, and she wouldn't be the one to disrupt that.

A baby had not been on her agenda—had not been something she'd even thought possible—yet here she was. An extended trip abroad would be necessary. At first, she'd thought she might locate an adoptive home for the poor thing, but she knew she'd never find it in her heart to part with this child. She'd return to the villa on Lake Como, and conjure an Italian widow as a companion—one who was soon to bear her late husband's child. A few letters to family and friends mentioning the imaginary woman's tragic passing during her delivery would allow Estela to proclaim herself the poor orphan's guardian, and no one would be the wiser.

She would always have this part of Rockley to love. One day, perhaps, she'd be able to read of him in the Society papers—of his wedding, and his children born within the sanctity of his marriage vows—and she'd feel glad to have done what was right.

The opera was not where she ought to be.

Her brother's invitation still stood. On the morrow, she'd put herself on a train and be in Hampshire by the early afternoon. She owed it to her family to see them before she departed and owed the same to Oona and Margaret. Four nights at Yardmore Court would be sufficient, then she could return to London to catch the Scotch Express, to spend Hogmanay with her godmothers. She'd send a telegram ahead, letting them know. It would go some way towards making up for her abandoning them during the cruise back to Southampton. Though she'd left a note, and had corresponded since, she knew it had caused them distress, and amends were due.

At this rate, she thought wryly, she'd hardly recognize herself. For the first time in quite a while, she felt a sense of hope.

Having climbed the red carpeted stairs, Rockley took the passageway to where his box was located: the family box used by generations of Rockleys—although the exact position had changed over the years, with the various rebuildings of the opera house.

He'd missed most of the first act of the gala performance; not that it caused him much sorrow. There were to be arias from the most popular operas—all of which he was familiar with, and would no doubt see again. Slipping inside, he nodded to the Maitlands—who looked understandably nonplussed at his tardiness—and took his seat beside Marjorie.

She turned her head briefly, looking less reproachful than he deserved, before casting her eyes back to the soprano center stage. It was unforgivable really, to be absent when he was their host, but there would soon be other reasons for them to find him unconscionable.

The buxom diva was warbling her way to a grand crescendo, her voice carrying powerfully to the far reaches of the theatre. Rockley let his gaze wander. He glanced first to the royal box, in time to meet King Edward's eye. Despite having failed in his recent mission, the king gave him a civil nod. It was pure luck that things had turned out as well as they had.

Discovering Estela gone, and then the letters with her, had been more crushing than he cared to own. By the time he'd admitted to himself that the acquisition of the correspondence must have been her intent all along, the opportunity to disembark at Marseille had passed.

From there the ship headed south, to navigate the Strait of Gibraltar, and there was no sense attempting a quicker route by land. He'd been forced to grit his teeth for the remaining days until he reached British shores once more, and could take positive action.

It hadn't taken long to track down the address where he might accost her but, before he'd had the chance, the palace had summoned him. There, one of the royal equerries explained that the letters had found their way back into the correct hands; the matter was concluded.

A furious day and night followed, in which Rockley had made it his business to discover why, exactly, Estela had become involved. The answer was laughingly simple, once he'd identified her relationship with that chit, Mathilde. It was not what he'd been expecting but then, nothing ever was, where Estela Bongorge was concerned: stubborn, fiery, ferocious when angered, yet capable of the greatest tenderness, and the greatest passion.

Loyal, too, apparently—at least towards those she trusted.

Clearly, she'd been unaware of who he was working for, and that stealing the letters for herself was entirely unnecessary. He guessed it was Mathilde who'd made the appeal to Estela, all the while in ignorance of the greater forces working on her behalf.

The well-oiled wheels of espionage tripped up by a feather-brained girl and a woman who'd made an utter fool of him! That smarted the most. Not just that he'd failed in his duty but that he'd allowed himself to be so taken in.

On his side, their affair had been the start of something undeniably special. The torture of these past weeks had taught him that. Despite the way she'd used him, he couldn't help the way he felt about her. The connection between them was real—even if she had cultivated it for her own ends. That she would never know his honorable intention in stealing the letters tore jagged at his heart—for her opinion of him mattered.

She mattered.

And yet he'd held himself aloof, avoiding places she might be. He'd done his best to hold himself to the promises made long before Estela Bongorge entered his world, but he couldn't do this anymore.

Rockley was aware of applause around him. The aria had finished. The lights rose and people around the auditorium got to their feet, keen to stretch their legs for a short interval and take refreshment. Mr. Maitland leaned over, and they shook hands. Rockley made an apology for his lateness.

"Come, Judith,"

Mr. Maitland offered his arm to his wife. "Let us leave the young people alone. We'll order you a brandy, eh, Rockley, and lemonade for Marjorie?"

He could only nod.

She looked nervous and relieved at the same time.

"Miss Maitland. Marjorie"—he cleared his throat—"there is something I must speak of to you, regarding the wedding. I've been remiss in letting the days go past?—"

"I have something to say too."

Marjorie jumped in. "I haven't said anything of it yet to my parents, but it's good that we speak first—since it's our future that's affected."

He was intrigued. It was unlike his fiancée to assert herself, but she looked quite determined.

"You mustn't think I came to this decision lightly. In fact, I've thought of not much else since Frederick died; even before that…"

She looked down, at her lap.

"Please. Do go on."

Rockley laid his hand over hers. Clearly, she had something on her mind and, though his own news would likely turn hers on its head, she deserved her chance to speak.

Her gaze darted to the curtain separating the box from the passageway, as if fearful of her parents returning. "You are a gentleman, and perhaps we'd be happy together, in the end. I know it's what you wish, because you are good and kind."

Miss Maitland bit at her lip. "But the truth is that I have feelings for someone else."

It was last thing he expected her to say.

"I see this is a shock to you."

She pushed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "It's almost a shock to me, but I had a conversation this evening that showed me what I already knew, and it made things so much clearer."

"A conversation?"

He was most confused.

"Yes. Someone in the retiring room. A stranger who knows nothing of me, nor of you. She made me see that I need to follow my heart, and not be afraid."

"I see."

He didn't, really.

Miss Maitland had led a sheltered life. Her parents had only allowed them this time alone together because they were due to marry within a matter of weeks. Nevertheless, she'd surely met someone to have inspired this change of heart. Whomever the fellow was, Rockley imagined her parents would have something to say about it.

"You're telling me that you're in love with another man?"

"No!"

She declared abruptly, then looked taken aback by the strength of her own reply.

Now he truly was baffled.

"I'm sorry."

Miss Maitland looked as perturbed as he felt. "I don't think I shall ever be someone's wife. I don't think I even wanted to marry Frederick, though I was much younger then, and for a time I thought everything would come out alright. The person I'd like to be with can't marry me."

Rockley spoke softly. An inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn on him. "But you are in love?"

"I think I am."

She nodded. "I don't know what else to call it—when you want to be with one person all the time. When their happiness is as important to you as your own."

She raised pleading eyes to his. "That's love, isn't it? To want someone so much that the idea of being without them is desolate?"

"Yes."

He knew that feeling all too well. There had been a hollowness inside him since Stella had walked off the ship and out of his life. He'd accepted it because he believed it must be what she wanted—to have nothing more to do with him. But the pain remained.

If he had to carry on, living like this, without ever seeing her, without letting her know what she meant to him, he didn't know how he'd bear it.

If that wasn't love, what was?

"We haven't much time."

Miss Maitland was speaking quickly again. "You do see? I don't think I can marry you. It's an awful spanner in the engine. Mummy will have to uninvite all the guests, and there will be a lot of brouhaha. She and Daddy will be cross, but they'd be even crosser if they knew who it is I really want to be with. They'd say I didn't know my own mind and try to persuade me to reconsider."

"Don't let them do that."

Reaching across, Rockley squeezed her hand. "You're being brave, standing up for what you truly want. You'd be surprised how many people don't."

Himself for one, although he was going to do something about that.

Miss Maitland sniffed. "If I'd known you'd be so nice about it, I'd have told you sooner. We've rather been wasting time, haven't we; and time is a precious thing."

"It is."

A curious lightness had come upon him. The weight of worry had been lifted, though it hadn't come about at all as he'd been expecting.

However, there was something he still needed to say, if he was to resolve the situation in a worthy way.

"I can't let you bear the brunt of your parents' disappointment, nor face wider censure for having thrown away what Society will view as a desirable match. You must let me intercede."

She blinked, waiting for him to go on.

"We may say that I am the one in love with someone else, and the breaking of the contract is entirely at my door. I shall pay all expenses and settle a large sum upon you—enough that you shall be independent, regardless of how your parents react to the news. The sum will enable you to live however you should like, and with whomever"—he held her gaze—"regardless of there being a marriage between you. You will need to continue being brave, but if the person you love feels the same way, you may conquer anything together. It may mean making your home somewhere quietly—on foreign shores, if that appeals—but you'll find a place in which to claim the happiness you deserve."

The way Miss Maitland threw her arms around his neck, her parents had quite the wrong idea, upon their return. It was up to Rockley, however, to explain things as they really were.

As he'd known, and Miss Maitland had herself, there were tears, but there was also the hope of much better things to come.

He would call upon Mrs. Bongorge in the morning and leave her in no doubt of his devotion. If she had no love for him, he would walk away, as he must—but he'd be damned if he'd do so without laying every last one of his cards on the table. There was nothing to lose and so very much to gain.

One thing he vowed: the woman he desired as his duchess would be in no doubt of his true feelings.