The Shamrock & the Rose Page 4

  He glanced across the cabriolet at her, and Rose found herself admitting things she normally wouldn’t. “I am trying to enjoy what pleasure there is for me now without thinking too far ahead. Though, you are right to ask. The play will soon be done.”

  “Is it the acting you like?”

  “I have found much joy on the stage, but mostly that is due to the part I am playing. I have come to realize I am not a creature of the theatre as are some. I do not live for the audience as my fellow actors do, and the repeated performances with few nights off can be tedious. You smile at that. Why?”

  “I cannot see you there forever.”

  He seemed pleased by her plan to leave the theatre, and that rankled. “Well, I could take another part. Mr. Colman has suggested as much.”

  He turned his head for only a moment, but suddenly the carriage was atilt and veering off to the right. Mr. O’Connell tried to regain control, but the horse, mad with fright and fighting the reins, careened toward a copse of trees. Rose clung to the side of the carriage and then to him as they bounced over the rough ground at breakneck pace. Her blood was pounding.

  Mr. O’Connell pulled tightly on the reins, slowing the cabriolet just as the wheel bounced off a tree and shattered with the force of the impact, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt stop. “Are you all right?” he asked Rose with concern. She was righting herself in the seat.

  “Yes, I think so. What happened?”

  “It was my fault. I took my eyes off the road and we struck a rock. Stay here while I have a look at the damage.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Rose said firmly.

  Mr. O’Connell made no objection. He helped her down from the tilting carriage, and together they stared at the broken wheel as he stroked the horse and tried to calm the snorting beast. At last he said, “My uncle’s townhouse is not far. There I can summon help to repair this. We can ride the one horse together—that is, unless you’d rather walk?”

  “It’s awfully cold,” she pointed out. She was shivering, and he noticed.

  “Indeed it is cold. Best to ride then, I think.” He looked discomfited by the situation, but it seemed there were few options. “It won’t be very comfortable, but the horse will get us there faster. There are spare wheels at the townhouse. And while we wait for the repair, you can get warm by the fire.”

  Though she knew it to be improper, Rose was not altogether unhappy with the arrangement that placed her in front of the Irishman on his horse, albeit without benefit of saddle. As she continued to shiver, he wrapped his heavy cloak about them. She could feel his muscled chest at her back as he skillfully guided the horse through the park. He made her feel safe as few London men did. Most looked as if they needed protection. Not Mr. O’Connell.

  Still, for all her comfort in his strength, she knew they made a fine pair for onlookers. It was definitely not wise for them to share a cloak no matter the bitter cold day, nor for him to hold her so close, but she savored the moment nonetheless, nestling into his warmth.

  Just as they left the copse of trees on the edge of the park, a rider crossed their path on a large gray horse. Her heart sank when she saw who it was. Alvanley. The British lord recognized them at once and brought his horse to a sudden stop. “Well, well, if it isn’t the shamrock and the rose! A cozy ride you two are about.”

  “There was an accident with my carriage,” said Mr. O’Connell, clearly annoyed at having to explain.

  “Of course,” said Alvanley. “Such accidents being so common, I do understand.” He then winked at them and swiftly rode away, his laughter sounding loud in the quiet of the trees.

  “Oh, dear,” Rose said.

  “We’re in for it now,” agreed Mr. O’Connell. “The tale he will certainly tell will no doubt be the end of your good reputation.”

  “Perhaps he will say nothing,” hoped Rose.

  “Alvanley say nothing? That hardly seems in character.”

  A few streets later, they arrived at a very elegant though small townhouse not far from the park. A butler bade them enter and asked Mr. O’Connell, “Is anything amiss, sir?”

  “Yes, Smithson,” he said, handing the servant their cloaks. “We had a bit of an accident with our vehicle.”

  While he told the butler where the footmen could find the cabriolet, and what needed to be repaired, Rose occupied herself by looking around the small parlour off the entry hall. She tried not to think about all the trouble she’d be in if Alvanley shared what he saw. That would be disastrous. She might even be sent home to Newcastle in disgrace.

  The parlour suggested the house’s owner was a well-traveled man of means. On the floor was a velvet-like carpet of salmon and dark blue she recognized as a Savonnerie, a costly French weave. Landscape paintings of places she had not seen before graced the walls in between book-filled mahogany cases. A tall secretary stood against the far wall, its glass doors revealing a collection of elaborate snuffboxes. Two tapestry-covered chairs flanked a blazing fire, a small pedestal table between them holding a decanter of brandy that looked especially inviting to Rose. Above the wooden mantel was a portrait of a distinguished older man with gray hair and Mr. O’Connell’s piercing blue eyes.

  “Would you like a glass of brandy to warm you?” he asked from behind her.

  Still chilled from their ride, she turned and said, “Yes, that would be most welcome.”

  He poured them each a glass.

  Sipping her brandy, Rose inquired, “Whose portrait is that?”

  “One of my relations. Count Daniel Charles O’Connell, the last Irish General in the French army before the Revolution. He now serves as a British officer. ”

  “And the red sash?”

  “The Grand Cross awarded him by Louis the Sixteenth.”

  “It seems you have a most illustrious family.”

  Mr. O’Connell’s smile filled his blue eyes with mirth. “Not all are worthy of your praise, Miss Collingwood. I could name some who would shock you. Then, too, smuggling has long been one of the family businesses.”

  Rose stared at the handsome older man in the portrait and wondered if he had been one of the smugglers. Likely so. “No wonder the countess is so knowledgeable about your family, Mr. O’Connell. She likes people with interesting backgrounds.”

  “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to call me Morgan. I would prefer hearing that on your lips.”

  In her mind, Rose could hear the countess cautioning her about Irish rakes, but before she could answer him, Mr. O’Connell closed the short distance between them and took the glass from her hand, setting it alongside his on the small table. She was suddenly aware they were alone. “Wouldn’t my calling you by your given name be terribly familiar after such a short time?”

  Placing his hands on her upper arms, he drew her to him. “I’ve already compromised you, dear Rose, if Alvanley chooses to tell what he’s seen, which I think he can hardly resist.” Drowning in his liquid blue eyes, Rose felt excitement as well as alarm at the powerful hands holding her against his chest. What were his intentions? This could go no further! But then he bent his head toward her and whispered, “I have been wanting to do this since I first saw you.”

  Before she could think to react, he brushed his mouth teasingly over hers. She felt a tingle that ran from there to her toes. His lips glided over her brows and again to her mouth. Like a bird before a snake, she was frozen, unable to move.

  He pulled back and smiled. “You taste better than I imagined, and I imagined you tasted like honey.”

  He kissed her again, and this time it was not so gentle. Despite a fleeting thought to resist, she responded as he wrapped his arms around her. The kiss deepened. Urging her lips apart, his tongue mingled with hers in the most sensual manner she’d ever experienced. Indeed, she’d never known a kiss like this. The gentle assault of his mouth, and his hands, which were sliding up and down her back, made her head spin with new feelings.

  Her body warmed, suddenly alive at his touch. His powerfu
l muscled chest pressed against her breasts, and waves of pleasure coursed through her. As the kiss lengthened, it seemed only natural for her to lift her hands from his arms to his nape and then to his thick curly hair. She could feel all of him, including a very hard ridge pressing against her belly.

  Oh my.

  He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “Say something, Rose.”

  “That was most improper.” It was all she could think to say, though she experienced a pang of guilt at not discouraging his kiss before it took place.

  He chuckled. “You seemed to like it. Was it your first?”

  She could feel herself blush and looked down as she whispered, “Yes.”

  His finger brought her chin up. “Good. Such a passionate English rose. I think perhaps another is in order.”

  He started to bend his head toward her mouth, but she forced herself to pull back. “I think one was quite enough.”

  “What? Now that you’re compromised, you would deny me a second kiss?”

  The laughter in his eyes made it difficult for Rose to tell if he was serious, but his words annoyed her. “A gentleman would not ask,” she said, angry at his amusement in a situation that could be her ruin.

  “A gentleman would offer you marriage.”

  Shocked, Rose stepped away from him as he grinned. “Marriage to you? It’s out of the question! I…I don’t wish to marry just now, and you’re…you’re Irish!”

  “You have a problem with my being Irish?”

  “No. Not I, but my mother…the countess… Others would.”

  “I thought that the Portia you admire makes up her own mind.” Then, with narrowing eyes: “I thought that you would not be so influenced. In speaking of marriage to you, I myself would have to face the disapproval of my family.”

  Rose looked into those blue eyes for a long moment. The possibility of fighting the tide of opinion to marry the Irishman was a thought that affected her, but she dismissed the idea, hoping to avoid it. “Alvanley may yet say nothing. At least we can hope for such a result.”

  “Well, in addition to Alvanley crossing our path while I held you in my arms wrapped in my cloak, you are virtually alone in a house with an unmarried man. Doesn’t that signify?”

  “But your uncle—”

  “Has not returned from his meeting.”

  “Oh dear. We must leave immediately. Someone might have seen us.”

  Morgan chuckled. “Someone already has. But to make you happy, as soon as the cabriolet is repaired I will return you home.”

  Rose looked from him to the fire. She might as well be that burning log. He was quite correct; she was in a fine fix. If Alvanley told his tale or word spread of her being alone with the Irishman in the townhouse, the entire ton would believe her ruined. Her being an actress, if discovered, would have proved interesting gossip, but to be caught in a compromising position with an Irish rake was much, much worse. What would become of her?

  Her anger flared. “You knew this would happen! Did you plan it?”

  “Plan the broken carriage wheel? Of course not!”

  “But you could have told me your uncle was gone.” Increasingly anxious, she said, “We must leave at once.”

  He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “It seems a bit late for that remedy, Rose.”

  “Do you think me a common actress to be had at your whim?”

  “No—though the thought appeals,” he admitted.

  “Why…why I am the houseguest of the countess, and a lady!”

  Suddenly serious, Morgan O’Connell said, “Rose, I’m quite sincere, and prepared to make it up to you. Hell, setting aside my own reservations about your being English, I’m prepared to marry you.”

  “Merely because you are a gentleman?” she snapped.

  “That is part of it, certainly. But there is more between us, I think, something quite unique, enough so that I would consider marrying a woman I never would have before. In Ireland, your being English is every bit the black mark to my family that is my being Irish to yours. But I rather think what has begun between us is special. Haven’t you felt it? Certainly others in your English ton have married with less. Much less.”

  His expression caused her cheeks to burn. She did feel a current like a bolt of lightning whenever he touched her. And she had to admit she wanted him to kiss her again. But a forced marriage with the Irishman was out of the question.

  “Regardless what Alvanley does, I want to see you again,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. “Despite our different heritages, backgrounds, social levels, even our ambitions…I find myself unable to stay away from you.”

  She looked into his sincere blue eyes and felt his strong hands pressing into her back. Surprisingly, she did not say no. Not outright. “I do not have many hours that are mine, Mr. O’Connell. I have performances—”

  “I will come to the theatre after the performance tomorrow.”

  “I will not be there tomorrow. Nor the next day.”

  “Then it will be the evening after that.”

  “I cannot go anywhere with you at that time, Mr. O’Connell. You must realize that. It will be late.”

  “Nevertheless, I will be there, Rose, even if only to kiss your hand and bid you good night. Now let us see how quickly we can get you home. We will do our best to avert any crisis.”

  * * *

  Morgan paid a visit to Claremont house each of the next two days. He’d meant what he’d said. He would do the honorable thing. But more and more he wanted to marry Rose Collingwood regardless of the need, though if it took this incident to do it, to make her family consent to his suit, he was not averse to using it.

  So that she would know he had not lost interest, yesterday he’d brought her a small enameled box containing a carved wooden rose and a shamrock. At least Alvanley got that part right. He thought the two fit together nicely, nestled against the green velvet lining, much as Rose and he had in his uncle’s parlour. He could still smell her light flowery scent and feel her breasts pressing into his chest as he kissed her. Riding back from the park with her perched in front of him had nearly driven him mad with desire as her wriggling bottom pressed against his swelling groin; it took all of his control to settle for the kiss he’d given her when they finally arrived at his uncle’s. Today he wanted to look into those emerald eyes that so reminded him of Ireland.

  As he walked up the steps leading to Claremont House, out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure dart behind a tree. Who could it be? A footman or maid? But why would they act so quick to avoid being seen? Shaking off a concern he could not explain, he knocked on the door and presented his card.

  “Miss Collingwood is not in, sir,” said the butler he now knew as Cruthers.

  Morgan handed him a note and said, “Please tell her I called and give her this. And if you would, Cruthers, remind her I hope to see her tonight.”

  The note was one he’d composed himself after several glasses of whiskey, a pathetic attempt at a valentine, he knew.

  ’Tis said you are the lily fair

  that springs amidst the green.

  I say nay, you are the red, red rose,

  passion’s sister rarely seen.

  A rose with soft petals yet nary a thorn,

  ’tis said you have many suitors.

  But only a tender love will warm your heart—

  one from a shamrock true,

  who counts the days till you are his

  and he’ll ever be with you.

  * * *

  As Rose dressed for the theatre that night, she thought about the gifts the Irishman had brought her. A sentimental poem most recently, but she liked it. The verses brought a smile to her face and spoke to her heart.

  So, he would pursue her! Was it only to play the gentleman, or was he sincere? They had known each other such a short time. Still, he did not act the stuffy man her other suitors had, holding out a dismal future. Morgan, as she now thought of him, was unorthodox, different
. And perhaps he wanted her to be different as well. He was a charmer, yes, and maybe more.

  In addition to the poem, he had sent her a beautiful enamel box painted with flowers that held a rose and a shamrock carved in wood, treasures she would always have from the man who’d given her an amazing first kiss. A reminder, too, of their different cultures, because they could never share anything more. What would her family say if she allowed it to be more? The countess had not truly considered him a suitor, had she? Yet when Rose was with Morgan O’Connell, there seemed no other man in the world.

  The day before, Sir Alex had paid her a call. Ever the gentleman, he seemed stiff and somewhat uncomfortable as he tried to find topics other than some battle or another. She thought it understandable he could only talk of war; it had been his whole life. And she had to admit he was a hero. An MP for less than a year, he did not appear much taken with political life. But, as he explained, his brother Sir John had served before him, and so must he.

  “My one dream has been to return to my family seat in Scotland. I tell myself a fine wife is what I deserve after so many years away.”

  “And so you should have one, Sir Alex. After all you have done for the Crown, you deserve a family and your home.”

  Rose considered what being wife to Sir Alex might look like. Certainly nothing she wanted. She had no desire to marry the man and had tried to discourage him, though she was also glad she’d heard no gossip about herself and Mr. O’Connell. Her mind wandered repeatedly to the handsome Irish barrister who fit neither in Ireland nor in England. It would require much of a woman to stand by his side through that great divide.

  She thought often of his kiss in the time that passed since he brought her home that day, and whenever she recalled his warm lips she trembled. In his arms was the place she wanted to be, though he had taken all manner of liberties with her. No English gentleman would have done the same. But then, she reminded herself, he wasn’t English. She wasn’t even certain he was a gentleman. An Irish charmer and a rogue, that’s what he was, and she should well remember it!