CHAPTER SIX

Roz looked resplendent.

She was perched on the end of her canopy bed, garbed in Laurel's wedding gown. It was a magnificent garment. When he had been betrothed to Laurel, Devon had spared no expense on his bride, special ordering the dress from Paris. Crafted from creamy white taffeta and Venetian lace, crystals were embedded into the train of the gown, catching the light and allowing the gown to sparkle.

It had looked glorious on Laurel, and it had been such a happy day for all in attendance to the ceremony when she had worn it. It was in stark contrast to the tone of this particular day.

Although Roz was about the same size as her sister, the gown felt constricting, too binding, not allowing her to breathe. She wore the gown, not because Devon was concerned with her appearance on the day of her wedding, but because the garment had been hanging in Laurel's wardrobe, untouched from when she had last worn it, and perfect for an expedited ceremony.

She sat on the bed, hunched over, her brow resting in her hands. She felt incredibly sickened, as though she could disgorge the entire contents of her stomach onto the floor. Her normally pale skin contained even less color than usual. She was as white as a sheet. Her tangles of red hair had not been lovingly preened over professionally as Laurel's had been on her wedding day. Instead, Laurel herself had pulled her sister's hair back into a neat chignon at the base of the neck, securing it with one of their mother's pearl hair pins, a heirloom that had been passed on to them after her passing.

Roz lifted her head from her hands, staring into the full length vanity mirror before her, her eyes trained on her reflection. She cursed the sight of herself. She released a stifled sob, quickly averting her eyes from the mirror. She rose suddenly, striding across the room in the heavy garment, pausing at the set of glass French doors that opened to the balcony, the balcony that had been the genesis of this entire mishap…

Roz gazed out, pressing her forehead and palms against the glass. It was as though Mother Nature herself was showing her disapproval for Roz's actions. It was utterly miserable outside. The usually balmy summer weather had instead been replaced instead today by angry, dark clouds and torrents of harsh rain, instantly soaking anything that dare linger outside too long.

She sighed a melancholy sigh. "I guess the day wouldn't be complete without it, now would it?"

For all her wild, unchecked imagination, never could she have conjured that the events that she had proposed to the newsboy—leader of them all, none the less—would spiral so maddeningly out of control.

As he had promised to her on their last meeting before they had parted under the street lamps on the darkened streets outside Devon's estate, he had shown up on the day prior to ask for her hand in marriage.

The entire scene had been an utter disaster from the beginning, just as the saner half of Roz's mind had warned her. As that balmy morning had segued into an even milder afternoon, Roz had aimlessly lolled about the estate, that friendly pit never once leaving her stomach, as she breathlessly awaited his arrival. Since he had not bestowed upon her a certain time that he might make his presence known at the Northfordshire estate, Roz was kept on pins and needles all day, filling the day with empty tasks to keep her mind preoccupied.

She had been up at the crack of dawn, despite not returning home until late hours of the night, when the first rays of the breaking sun were nuzzling in through the cracks of the heavy drapery that hung over the French doors. She had dressed early, and breakfasted with Laurel and her two little ones. Devon had been conspicuously absent from his customary seat at the head of the table. Laurel, feigning her usual sunny disposition, had spoken nothing of the previous night's events and simply excused his absence from having to be at the bank early that morning. After breakfast, she had toddled about the gardens with the little ones, playing an absentminded game of croquette with them. Little Tory, though, unfortunately had seemed to have more interest in chasing butterflies from flower to flower instead of playing, and dear little Two—the eldest, his true appellation Devon Northfordshire, Jr—took the game far too seriously. So for as many strokes as he had missed, Roz missed twice as many, until the game completed with Two being victorious and shouting with glee.

She had been in her chambers, dressing for afternoon tea, when she had been called for.

Lizzy, a spritely looking little thing with an alarmingly strong Cockney accent, could be heard bounding down the hallway outside of Roz's room, huffing and puffing with each curt stride. "Miss Rialto! Miss Rialto!" she had called. The housemaid's voice had just been outside of Roz's door when she was aware that she was needed.

Lizzy had rapped abruptly on Roz's door, not even pausing for a customary reply of whether she had been granted egress or not, when she threw the door open, and popped her head inside the room.

Roz had been in the midst of placing the last few fastenings of a gauzy white gown for tea in front of the vanity, when she abruptly halted and snapped her head over her shoulder at the intruding housemaid. "Lizzy!" she cried, clutching the sheer fabric of the gown together. "What on earth do you think you are doing just barging into my room like a herd of cattle! I am in the middle of dressing for afternoon tea. Please do close the door on your way out!"

Lizzy had apologetically curtsied in Roz's direction as she stepped into the chamber, the door swinging open behind her. Her freckles had stood out almost fluorescently against the blanched paleness of her face from running with such force. Her white cap had been askew revealing a kinked red tendril astray across her brow. Roz had gazed at the housemaid's demeanor reflected by the vanity mirror. Lizzy had appeared too nervous for her liking. Her stomach had once more began performing somersaults.

"I'm sorry, Miss Rialto," she had remorsefully replied. "But Mr. Northfordshire wants to see you right away. He sent me up here in such a hurry to fetch you. I'm sorry, Miss."

The color had been instantaneously drained from Roz's face. Her breath had bated painfully in her throat. She had stared straight ahead into the vanity mirror, staring past her reflection until her image blurred.

He had finally come.

The company that she had been so dreading all day had finally made his presence aware at the Northfordshire estate. While she had been dressing so unawares for afternoon tea, had he already been speaking with Devon, asking for her hand in marriage?

The notion that had seemed so utterly brilliant and full proof the night before, suddenly had descended upon Roz as utterly maddening and incomprehensible. She had issued a harsh epithet under her breath before turning on her heels and bounding out of the room, disregarding the fact that the white gown was not fastened all the way and her hair was still a fright from playing outside with the children earlier in the day.

Lizzy had released a startled yelp as Roz leapt past her, springing out of the door way and sprinting barefoot down the plushly carpeted hallway of the Northfordshire estate. She had taken the stairs two at a time, until she reached their terminus that revealed the foyer. Past the foyer, she had entered into the parlor, where she disrupted a silence so thick it could have been sliced cleanly with a knife.

As she had stood at the parlor entrance, Devon had been closest to her. His back had been to her, but his tall figure was undeniable, clothed in an immaculately tailored ebony suit, his sandy colored hair slicked back from the crown. Laurel had been sitting in a high backed chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her thumbs twiddling furiously. Her eyes had been trained on the gentleman that had been occupying the center of the parlor…

Spot Conlon had been the only one to take immediate notice of her presence. His piercing eyes had been locked on her as soon as she had halted at the parlor entrance. She had noticed immediately smirk that had been ever so slightly upon his face, the way his eyes shown all too bright. Characteristic traits aside, she hardly would have known the man standing in the center of the room as Spot Conlon.

He had stood, proud and erect, displaying his true height. He had been garbed in a dark, elegant pinstripe suit, immaculately tailored to every subtle niche of his frame. His brassy hair had slicked back from the brow, much akin in a fashion of Devon's. Her astonished eyes had even dropped down to his feet. Upon them had been a pair of perfectly shined shoes.

Her lips had parted slightly at the sight of him. Her breath had been stolen once again. He was able to shine up better than a new penny…

Roz had been too busy drinking in the sight of him, her brain racing and inquiring where on earth had he acquired such a lovely suit from, that she had been startled when the two other pairs of the eyes finally fell upon her, recognizing her presence.

She had elicited a gasp, her gaze falling to Devon. He had turned over his shoulder to regard her. His handsome features were twisted into a severe, stern mask.

"Roselyn," he barked immediately, extending a hand to motion at the newsboy, "dare you attempt to fabricate a lie for what the meaning of this is?"

Roz had felt her knees suddenly become weak under Devon's furious stare. She had issued a delicate titter, sweeping into the parlor, leaving a purposeful amount of distance between Spot and she. "The meaning of what, my dear Devon?" she had inquired in a light voice, feigning ignorance.

Devon had resembled a volcano on the verge of erupting. His skin had even been taking on the same fabulous shade of red that lava was colored. "This boy here has the gall to come to me in my own house and ask for your hand in marriage. Not even a full day after he disgraced your name to all good society!"

He had been at her defense without even missing a beat. "Mr. Northfordshire, as I had explained to you before Miss Rialto joined us, and allow me to reiterate once more to restate my sincerity, I never had any dishonorable intentions for Miss Rialto. I present myself to you, sir, at this moment so that I may right any wrongs that I may have caused against Miss Rialto's character. I am asking for her hand in marriage because I have loved her from afar for entirely too long. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love Miss Rialto."

Had it not been for the grave seriousness of the entire situation, Roz would have openly gaped at the newsboy with complete and unadulterated incredulity. Had he just stolen a quote from Austen, at the moment in Pride and Prejudice when Mr. Darcy finally confesses his true feelings to Miss Bennet?

Alas, Roz had not been allotted time to contemplate the notion, for Spot was immediately at her side, his hands engulfing hers between his. His scent entered had her nostrils and filled her head immediately. It had been a musky scented cologne he had chosen to wear. She had nearly smiled dreamily in spite of herself. She had heard only snippets of the remaining conversation, she was far too preoccupied inhaling his scent, and of ruminating of how his coarse suntanned hands felt clasped around hers.

Devon had been fabulously infuriated, and was asking how in the hell he intended to support her as a newsboy. Spot had replied with some sort of line that he was going to be the owner of a bookshop…Roz's mind had not register his response, and as far as she was concerned it could have been a fabrication for all she cared. She had been enjoying too much his strong grip enveloping her small hands.

She believed that he had gone over the perfectly plotted lie that she had divulged to him the night prior…of the two of them being star crossed lovers who had been secretly seeing each other but now wanted to make it official and tie the knot…

The only fact that perhaps mattered in the end was that Devon had begrudgingly consented to the unholy union. It would be a small, purposely hushed affair, in the Northfordshire house, the following morning. Only the bride, groom, minister, Devon, and Laurel need be present.

And now here the bride sat, perched on the edge of her canopy bed, garbed in her wedding attire, ruminating over the events that brought her to this most unhappy day in her life.

There was a short series of raps on her door, and Roz did not even lift her head as the door was softly opened. It was Lizzy to collect her once more, but this time her voice was quieter. "Miss Rialto, they are ready for ye, Miss."

Roz rose from the bed, her head compounded with too many thoughts to possibly comprehend, and obediently followed Lizzy out into the hallway, and down the stairs, halting when she came to the terminus.

She lingered for a moment, her head still down, when a familiar voice spoke to her, hot breath dancing in her ear canal. Her breath becoming lodged in her throat, she turned her eyes upward to find Spot Conlon at her side. His smile was deceivingly easy going and his eyes misleadingly bright. If he had any reservations about the arrangement they were about to consummate, his body language deceived him.

As Roz stared into his eyes, she came to the rapt realization that she was truly going to marry this man that she had known for less than two days and knew absolutely nothing about.

Of course, it was public knowledge that he was the elusive, notorious Spot Conlon, Fearless Leader of the Brooklyn Newsies, who claimed an unsatiated appetite for women. But here, standing beside this man, as he linked his arms with hers, in his exceedingly tailored suit and immaculately polished shoes, she understood that there was much, much more to his person than just fearsome newsboy leader. His tailored suit, his quoting Austen, some talk of becoming proprietor of a bookstore…all these tantalizing mysteries were just more unexplained pieces in the puzzle that were Spot Conlon.

And she certainly had at least a few months to figure his at least some of his mysteries out…all for the tidy sum of five thousand dollars.

A thought suddenly dawned upon her, and Roz placed her mouth to his ear. "What is your real name?"

"What?" he cried in response, pulling away from her, seemingly taken aback by the question.

"Well, if we are getting married, don't you at least think I should know your real name? I know your parents did not name you Spot."

He studied her for a moment, his eyes scanning her face hurriedly, a pregnant pause hanging between them. He seemed hesitant to reply, before he finally choked out answer. "Jonathan. Jonathan Conlon, Jr."

Roz issued a prolonged sign, staring forward. "Nice to meet you, Johnny," she murmured softly, quickly drawing the sign of the cross over her breast with one hand, while Spot Conlon lead her forward to where the rest of the wedding party was already awaiting their arrival.

A/N: Truly sorry for the lack of updates. Life's been crazy between work/school. And thank you so much to those who review. They keep me writing!