LOOK INSIDE ROSES IN RED WAX

 
Hell and the devil—he couldn’t feel his bloody fingers.

Percy was supposed to be en route with Beau to Greece, where Mediterranean warmth, sublime scenery, and a luscious woman awaited. Instead, due to his father’s mishap with a horse, he found himself in this freezing, dirty little Scottish city with nothing to look forward to but tedious meetings with solicitors and even more tedious inspections of his father’s mills.

He would never have come at all, had decided not to come, in fact, but then Mother had cried. She’d begged him to do it—for her sake. The fact that Percy didn’t know the first thing about his father’s business interests, and cared even less, was beside the point. The mills had just been purchased, and according to Mother, it was imperative that someone from the family inspect the new holdings. She’d added a stern reminder that it was his father’s wealth that gave Percy the ability to travel and live well. A trip to Glasgow was a small price to pay.

He knew better. The only reason his father gave him an allowance large enough to fund his travels was because Mother pleaded his case. He owed her, not his father, so of course he couldn’t say no.

As soon as he’d assented, she’d launched into the litany of musts. He must tie his cravat in a barrel knot. Must tame his hair into respectability. Must leave the riding boots for riding and instead wear those detestable buckle shoes with the pointy toes. Must wear the stiff woolen trousers and not his comfortable buckskin. She’d even purchased him a walking stick, and a new hat that was too tall and made him look disturbingly like Father.

Damnation.

He’d spent the bulk of the day in his hotel room, lying in bed and drinking terrible coffee. He couldn’t even find the inspiration to pick up his guitar. It just sat there in the corner, glaring at him, demanding to know why they were in this cold, drafty inn where there was no hope of staying in tune, when they were supposed to be playing wine-fueled harmonies to voluptuous Mediterranean beauties. He wouldn’t have ventured out at all, but this call to his aunt and uncle’s house had been another one of Mother’s musts, so he’d come. Reluctantly.

The room was warm, at least. Two women sat on a sofa near the fire, drinking tea. He hadn’t seen his aunt in over ten years, but he recognized her almost white blond hair and warm smile. He had no idea who the other could be—young, auburn hair, heavy lidded eyes, full lips. Her cheeks were flushed, likely due to her seat near the fire. His eyes lingered on her lips as she drew them into a tight yet polite smile. Like a satin ribbon tied into a lush pink bow. She did not meet his eyes.

“Percy. My dear boy.” Cynthia rose from her chair and crossed the room.

He forced his gaze away from the stranger’s lips and greeted his aunt with a bow. “Aunt Cynthia. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. His memory told him that his aunt was a lovely person. Nothing about this situation was her doing.

“May I present Miss Jane Stuart. Miss Stuart, my nephew, Mr. Percival Sommerbell.”

Miss Stuart reluctantly divested herself of her teacup and stood to dip a small curtsey. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sommerbell.” Her voice was a breathy alto, like a bow drawn ever so lightly over the strings of a viola. He could feel her attention like a shaft of warm sunlight as it moved from his shoes to his trousers, his coat, his cravat, and finally, finally his face.

Their eyes met, and everything else blurred.

Her eyes were the dark blue-grey of a summer storm cloud, the type of cloud that made one think to look for a rainbow. But there were no rainbows there now, no joy, no warmth. Only a deep, guarded pool of sadness that drew him in, and down. He felt a moment of vertigo. He was drowning, unable to surface, gasping for air.

She took a sharp breath, turned her head, and the moment was over.

He needed his guitar. Needed to play the music behind the perfect sadness of her eyes.

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied. She did not offer her hand, but he took it anyway, brushing his lips over her bare knuckles, willing her to look at him again. Her cheeks took on a deeper shade of pink, but her gaze stayed stubbornly stuck to the floor.

His aunt cleared her throat. “You must be chilled. Come, join us by the fire.”