Dear Future Husband

46. We Are Betrothed

25 April 1894

Maximilian gritted his teeth to keep his jaw from dropping open at the sight of her. Rosalie. His Rosalie. Beautiful; wan, pale, and flabbergasted, but clad in a white dress that made her look like an angel.

Her hair was put up in what looked like a net with seed pearls and crystals, while her hands fluttered by her sides, encased in white silk gloves. The sight of her made something contract in his chest, almost to the point of pain.

He wanted to take her hand and run out of this place, away from this dark and gloomy house that could hardly be called home; away from these people trying to ruin them. But he knew the moment that he allowed Cornelia Winthrop or Lord Oliver Dennings to see that he cared for Rosalie, that he knew her at all... they would pounce, like vipers.

Rosalie curtsied, sinking deep into the stance in front of him. A sapphire pendant slipped from beneath the bodice of her gown and hung in the air, sending blue fractals skittering across the marble floor. "Enchantee, Mr... Dennings."

"It's lovely to see you again, Miss Winthrop." He swallowed thickly, lifting her hand to his lips.

The heat of her body radiated through the white silk, and he thought of the letters he'd skimmed, the ones she'd penned to her future husband. How she'd mentioned him and thought of him on trips to the Orient and at her boarding school and in Grenledge. How the two of them had always been hovering over the other's shoulder, ever-present but never quite tangible enough.

"Well." Lord Dennings clapped his hands together, the sound jolting him out of his trance. "I do believe that Walker is calling us to dinner."

He stiffened at the sound of the surname Walker. Was the butler where he'd gotten his surname from? His false identity? Had he even been given the name Maximilian at birth?

Navy and wine-red curtains blocked out any traces of the setting sun, draping over the windows in wide swaths of velvet. A chandelier provided the only source of light in the room, every candelabra on the heavy mahogany table remaining unlit. The table was flanked by carved oak chairs with the sigil of a dragon peeking over the backs of the seats, that roaring mythical beast sending a shudder down the back of his neck as though someone had shoved a handful of snow down his collar. Which, coincidentally Billy Masters had done years ago in the orphanage.

That unpleasant sensation did not make him feel welcome as he shoved his hands in his pockets, uncertain of where to sit.

"Please, seat yourself wherever you'd like. I am not a stickler for ceremony, I assure you." Lord Dennings' booming voice and perpetually stern tone did not reassure him, and he noted Rosalie's shiver as she cast a darting glance at his father.

She was frightened of him. His hands coiled into fists, furious at the thought of Lord Oliver Dennings saying–or worse yet, doing–something untoward or hurtful toward Rosalie.

Lady Winthrop sat on Lord Dennings' right side when he took his place at the head of the table, leaving him to sit across from her. Rosalie sat by his side, the skirt of her gown rustling and brushing against his arm when the butler pulled out her chair for her.

"The first course will be out shortly, Your Grace," said Mr. Walker, retreating into the cavernous kitchen.

The smells of roast beef and buttery mashed potatoes drifted towards them, and he suppressed the urge for his mouth to water. He'd barely eaten since arriving from Paris, and was glad a traditional English roast dinner would be served. The thought of picking at some French dish of snails or goose liver was untenable.

"So, Maximilian..." Lady Winthrop rested one elbow on the table, a social faux pas if he'd ever seen one. "You are eighteen?"

"Nineteen, ma'am." He took a sip from a crystal goblet. "Though I shall be twenty in two months."

"Oh, only two years older than my Rosalie." She laughed. He disliked the way her gaze landed on her daughter, as though Rosalie were nothing more than a doll for her to maneuver. "Did you graduate from Eton? Oxford?"

Before he could tell her that the majority of his schooling had come from orphanages, apprenticeships, and living on the streets, Lord Dennings intervened. "My son has had a rather unconventional education but I assure you, he's quite bright."

Maximilian didn't miss the way Oliver Dennings' grip tightened on his steak knife as he said the words.

"Oh, certainly! I assure you, Your Grace, I never meant to question your son's intelligence," Lady Winthrop said. She was the epitome of a social-climber, ready to say anything for her social superiors to approve of. It made his stomach turn.

Rosalie was nothing like her.

"After supper... sir, I thought we might take be permitted to take a stroll in the garden," he said. "Rosalie and I, that is."

Lady Winthrop's blue eyes widened in horror. "An unmarried couple, without a chaperone?"

Rosalie cleared her throat. "We are betrothed."

Her eyes met his, pleading with him to perpetrate the lie that he longed to be true. He smiled at her, the only genuine thing in the room, and fought the urge to reach for her hand. "Yes, we are."

"Hmm." Lord Dennings' dark eyes narrowed. "You hadn't mentioned her, son."

"I wanted to ensure that I had your approval of her, sir." He took a sip of wine, his fingers clenching on the stem of the glass.

"Well, she seems to be a lovely, well-behaved young lady." Lord Dennings' mouth set in a fine line as maids began bringing out trays of food. Well-behaved? Rosalie? Hardly. He tried not to meet her gaze, for sure they might fall into fits of laughter. "I'm sure a short promenade in the garden would be of no harm."

"You ought to bring my manservant, Hugo." Lady Winthrop looked disapproving, but she could hardly risk incurring the Duke's wrath.

"I see nothing wrong with that," Lord Dennings said. Maximilian's stomach sank as he stared at the dishes of sliced beef, potatoes, roast vegetables, and gravy set in front of him.

"Thank you," Rosalie said, her voice quavering slightly. "I'm glad to hear it."

The room fell silent, save the sounds of clinking china and the occasional wine glass being filled. He sat and waited, thinking of his plans.

***

Halfway through the meal, Maximilian excused himself, exiting the dining room under the guise of using the facilities. When he passed the kitchen, a hand grabbed his forearm and pulled him into the pantry. Amid the jars of royal jelly and peach preserves, Redmond stood there, attired in Lord Dennings' livery, having recently taken the place of a footman.

"A telegram from Lord Winthrop," he said in a whisper, pressing it into Maximilian's palm.

"Thank you." He took it, shoving it deep into the pocket of his trousers. "I'm taking her and leaving."

"A distraction should be needed, then. What time?" Redmond asked.

"Around eight, I think."

Redmond nodded, and the two's paths diverged once more.

Once ensconced in the water closet, he unfurled the telegram. EDGAR WAS HERE STOP. LOOKING FOR M STOP. NOT SAFE HERE STOP. ON MY WAY TO PARIS STOP. ALL MY LOVE S W STOP.

On his way back to the dining room, his mind churned with fears and thoughts of what the visit might mean, especially considering Edgar's last encounter with him had been to tell him about his father. He hated the thought of Lord Winthrop all alone in that drafty old house without Rosalie. What could he mean?

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed he'd taken a wrong turn on the way to the dining hall, and stiffened when he saw a tall, imposing man in his way, nearly a head taller than him and broad-shouldered, built like a brick wall. "Excuse me, sir."

"Apologies." The man's voice was far from apologetic. "My mistress has dispatched me to return you to the dining hall. She feared you might have gotten lost."

"You must be Hugo." This was the man that Lady Winthrop wanted to accompany them? Was she worried he might try to abscond with Rosalie? Well, that was his plan, but he hardly wanted the man to know about it.

The man's only response was an affirmative grunt. It was the last thing that Maximilian heard before the world exploded into darkness.