Secrets of Sloane House(78)
His mother sat down. “It cannot.”
“All right then.” He leaned back. “What is wrong?”
“It is about Rosalind.”
Concerned, he got to his feet. “What is wrong?” he asked again. “She moved in on your invitation, Mother. Yours and Father’s.”
“Dear, I am not referring to that. Rather, I’m more concerned about your relationship with her.”
“Mother, I am her friend.”
“Are you sure that is all it is? Because I am fairly sure I saw something else brewing between the two of you.”
He was taken aback. And more than a bit embarrassed. “I do believe I am long past the age of seeking my mother’s permission for friendships.”
“I agree. But, Reid, I fear you are developing a tendre for this girl—this maid.”
She was hitting closer to the truth than he was comfortable with. He did have some feelings for Rosalind. He wanted to think they only revolved around pity and a need to improve her situation. But if he was honest, he’d have to admit that he’d found himself gazing at her with something more like desire more than once.
What he hadn’t realized was that it had been noticeable to anyone else.
Feeling frustrated with himself, he lashed out. “Perhaps I am.”
His mother frowned. “It is not that she isn’t a lovely girl, Reid,” she continued, just as if he’d not said a word. “As a matter of fact, I think she is very pretty. With the right clothes and hair? She might even be stunning.”
He folded his hands across the surface of his father’s oak desk. “And your point is?”
“My point is that I hope your desire to help a housemaid won’t interfere with your place in society. Your father has sacrificed much to propel you into the upper echelons of Chicago. The young lady you take as your wife needs to reflect your position.”
“In other words, taking an undercover maid as my wife will do me no favors.”
Her eyes flashed. “I am not joking about this, Reid. Do not take my words lightly.”
“I am doing no such thing. But, please, don’t forget that I am no green debutante. I am a grown man who needs to follow his conscience . . . and his heart.”
“I . . . I see.” Standing with a flick of her skirts, she artfully arranged her gown, then left the room.
Only when he was alone again did he dare exhale and face the complete truth: no woman would ever intrigue him like Rosalind did. Actually, he was fairly sure that no woman would ever come close. He was fairly sure he was falling in love.
The only problem was that he had no idea what to do about that.
CHAPTER 28
“Well, don’t just sit there, Rosie,” Mr. Emerson Armstrong barked moments after his son left them alone. “Start talking.”
“What would you like me to talk about, Mr. Armstrong? And I’m sorry, but my name is Rosalind.”
“That’s too stuffy for a girl like you. I like Rosie better.”
She was momentarily taken aback. “So if you like it better, that should become my name?”
“That would be a yes.” He opened one eye, the exact shade of green as his son’s. “Do you have a problem with that?”
She knew she had no choice about what she should be called. The Armstrongs had taken her in and were offering her shelter while so many others had not. With that in mind, she decided she had no problem being called Rosie.
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good. Now start telling me about yourself.”
“You want to hear my life story?” She said the words as a bit of a joke. But by the look on his face it was apparent that that was exactly what he had in mind.
“Perhaps I should pour us some tea? This might take awhile.”
“I don’t want any tea. But go get yourself some. Can’t have you being parched in my company.”
Hiding a smile, she crossed the room to the pretty table, where a full tea service had been placed—by someone other than her. That was something to celebrate in itself.
Another thing to celebrate was Reid’s father. The older man had certainly taken her by surprise. He was nothing like his son. Where Reid was polished good looks and perfect manners, his father was wrinkled, disheveled, and disarmingly blunt. Instead of speaking quietly, his words flew out of his mouth in spurts and sputters, each word hitting her with a staccato beat.
His accent wasn’t nearly as formal or high-class as Reid’s or even his wife’s. Visiting with him made Rosalind feel completely at ease. Though she would never forget their differences in social status, the lines didn’t seem as stark or strict in his presence.
Quickly, she added a bit of milk to her tea, then returned to sit next to him. “Well, I should start by saying that I grew up on a farm in Wisconsin.”