Chapter fifteen:
Standing at the Savoy, beside his business partner, the two of them were tall, fair and broad. Jack was nursing a brandy and his friend a fruit cocktail of some kind. Despite their heated discussions just hours before, they were in a pleasant mood even though there would be further to discuss, it was nothing that couldn't wait when a masked ball was been held at the best hotel in London. Jack was straight backed, his camera wasn't tucked away or hung around his neck for once. That was the thing about change; he wouldn't miss it, not after he was long gone from London.
''Could you really give all this up?''
Contemplating the crush about him compiling of sequins, cocktails and jazz, Jack leaned into his friend.
''I could walk out of here right now with her on my arm and never look back, my friend.'' Jack responded calmly. The press was there, even royalty...hidden somewhere amongst the masked attendees. An excitement lingered about. People didn't know the purpose of the event, other than it would be wildly reported of and then-
A swell of murmurs surrounded them at the same moment a ripple of awareness coursed down his spine. Anticipation slid through Jack's veins, potently fierce and delicious. He looked at Richard Stannard's face and saw the wide-eyed astonishment with which he stared over his shoulder.
''Who the Devil is that?''
Jack turned about. Slowly. Savouring the fine tension, he felt only when Rose was nearby. The sight of her struck him like a blow, purging all the air from his lungs. Red. She was draped in it. Wrapped in silk like a gift. Her shoulders bared, exposing creamy skin and the lush upper swell of her breasts. Her luxurious hair was styled into a mixture of upswept curls and long, glorious strands. There was something slightly dishevelled about the whole, reinforcing the overall impression of sin and seduction and sex. The pristine white gloves that stretched midway up her arms did nothing to mitigate the overwhelming carnality of her appearance. Although he knew from the dancing in progress that the music continued, Jack couldn't hear a single note of the jazz over the roaring of blood in his ears. Nearly every eye was riveted to Rose, who walked along the edge of the dance floor unimpeded, her stride slow and sensual. Erotic. Beckoning. He sucked in a deep breath when his lungs burned. His chest was constricted with yearning, his gaze devouring every detail in a vain effort to appease the hunger that had grown ravenous over the few days without her. A simple red satin mask was tied around her eyes and as she approached, she reached up and untied it. Letting it dangle from her fingers by the ribbons. Letting everyone get a good, long look at her while she looked at him. Letting them—the peers whose censure he'd feared she could not bear—see the deeply intimate manner in which she regarded him. Her green eyes were luminous, lit from within by the surfeit of emotion she made no effort to hide. There wasn't a person who saw her who could doubt what he meant to her. By God, she was brave. She'd been crushed by loss and before that had conformed to the dictates of the types of people milling around them, yet she came to him without any hesitation or reservation. Without fear. There was no one else in the room. Not for him. Not with her looking at him in that way of hers that spoke more clearly than words—she loved him with all that she was. Completely, unequivocally unconditionally.
"Do you see, Richard?" he asked softly, riveted. "Now you see why I want to leave this place. Why I want to leave the gallery with you. Why would I have an interest in anything else when I need to marry her."
Jack was moving toward Rose before he realised it, drawn inexorably. When he drew close enough to scent her, he stopped. There were mere inches between them, and the urge to reach for her, to pull her close, was a writhing thing inside him.
"Rose."
Jack's fingers clenched and released against the need to touch her soft, smooth skin. Dancers cleared the floor around them, gawking, but he paid them no mind. Her dress was a statement, and he would never fully be capable of putting his gratitude for it into words. She was not the same woman who had stepped aboard the ship. She no longer saw him as being "too much" for her, or herself as inadequate for him. And he loved her more now than he had then. He would certainly love her more tomorrow than he did today, and the day after that would find him only loving her all the more.
"Jack." she breathed, her gaze sweeping over his face as if she had been as starved for the sight of him as he'd been for even a glimpse of her. "The way you're looking at me . . ."
She was enthralled by the movement, the atmosphere and the sheer electricity which pulsed through the air. It was something she had never experienced. This...this was nerve-wracking. Jack seemed so sure of himself, and he obviously knew how to dance to this particular song. Before she could give it another moment's thought, her hand was in his and they were sweeping across the floor. They were so close, his cheek almost touching hers and she could feel the warmth from his body; the radiating heat which circled her waist, clasped onto her hand, expelled from his eyes outward to her own. She took particular notice of his ability to dance. Neither had needed to discuss what the steps were, for they just moved in a motion of the music, leading the other in a beautiful sway and footwork,
''Where did you learn to dance?'' Pulling back from his chest, her eyes fell level with his lips. They curved into a smile, dimples revealing themselves as upon finding his eyes, she fell into that intense stare. ''You never did tell me how a man of limited means found himself with the ability to clog brilliantly.''
''From travel, I guess. I watched and learned.'' He paused for a moment to watch her face. ''I liked to express myself in that way, and after a good cheap beer I was known to dance.''
She smiled, leaning into his chest. ''Yes, you did take me all over that dance floor that first night if I remember correctly.''
''Yes,'' Jack smiled, ''you know my parents, they danced every night before bed. Just holding each other. There was never a need for music.''
When Rose was lowering her head to Jack's chest, she stole glances at him. He was striking to her. His blond hair was in his eyes, the same eyes that read her like a book. When Jack looked at her a certain way, she was sure he was looking right into her soul.
''I like that.'' Rose told him, quietly. He rested his chin on her hair so lightly. The gesture was new to her. ''Say we will do that, every night.''
Jack nodded, knowing he was wearing his heart as his feature. His was a glittering, riveting presence with his creamed hair and brilliant aquamarine eyes. He needed no adornments to enhance him. His piercing gaze and slight smile were enough to lure women closer. Even men drifted near, drawn to the air of confidence and command Jack carried so well. The knowledge that this stunning, undeniably sexual creature was hers made her breathless. And the way he looked at her, with such aching tenderness and heated longing . . . Dear God. She'd been mad to entertain—for even one instant—the possibility of letting him to be held so close to his powerful flexing body while restrained by decorum and too many layers of clothes.
"I love you," she said, tilting her head back to look at him. "I won't let you go. I'm too selfish, and I need you too much."
''If there was any uncertainty of how I felt earlier then I am sorry. I wanted to bring you out here to dance this evening, to relax and yet here we are crushed against another arranged party. I want you, just us, somewhere.''
Her eyes glittered with a grateful sparkle. ''Perhaps you can.''
His eyes went down to the floor. "I am going to remove that dress from you as soon as we leave."
"And here I had hopes you would like it."
His eyes gleamed wickedly.
"If I liked it any more, it would be around your waist."
Rose's grip tightened on his. He smelled delicious. Of virile male and sandalwood, with the faintest hint of citrus. She hated the gloves between them and the hundreds of people around them. She could live alone with him for the rest of her days. Working in companionable silence, watching him learn to draw once more, taking photographs of the family which, they would grow; she would even grow to tolerate the flash of it...for him. She saw it all before her, talking with him about her thoughts and feelings until nothing separated them . . . The music began in earnest. His mouth curved in a lazy smile, then he spun her about in a vigorous turn. She laughed breathlessly, awed by how she fit in his arms as if they'd been made to hold her. He danced the way he made love—intimately, powerfully, with exquisite control and aggressive moves. His thighs brushed against her wit of his mouth on her skin, whispering heated erotic threats and promises that made her hot and wet and very, very willing.
"How is your friend?" he asked, the rasp in his voice betraying his returning desire for her. Rose raised her eyebrow in a query until she realised who he meant. Clara...
"She seems well. Her and Stuart were dancing upon arrival, and she looks happier."
''Stuart was the man in question?'' Jack curved his lip. ''Lucky man, she seems to be a caring, loving girl.''
''She is. And he is too, despite what you think he may feel for me.''
''I know what I once thought, but not now.''
''What changed that?'''
''I realised just how stupid I was. I let jealousy take over but now I have no fear in how you feel for me and I trust your judgement of him.''
''Well, I am glad.'' She found the sincerity within his eyes. ''I do wish we could have been alone, somehow. Away from the crowds of Hell.''
Jack tilted his head forward so that his lips were upon her ear. "Well, would you be well enough to take a trip a week from today?"
She smiled. ''I am well enough.''
Nodding beneath his gaze, Jack tightened his hands upon her hand and waist. He leant forward and kissed her forehead; he shouldn't but was rendered speechless at just how lost Rose really was—or had been before meeting again. The urge to take her away from here right now was nipping at him. Her eyes closed as she relished the tender feeling. Tenderness wasn't something she felt often.
''Why are you so unafraid? You know what to say. What is going on inside me even when I have no clue. I am excited and yet, terrified.'' Clasping onto his hand, Rose stopped her movement, to glance at his watery eyes so hesitantly, knowing that she will yet more answers there within them.
Pressing his lips together in a slight pause, Jack felt his heart ache.
''You astound me. You fascinate me. I flash between wanting to save you, protect you and struggle to realise just how intimidatingly astonishing you really are.'' He wanted to add that he was smitten by her, how she made him ache, and seduced him senseless with her enigmatic beauty was so vulnerable and yet, so strong. Seconds later they stop dancing, it was as though they both knew that they should stop. The shift had happened, as predicted. Barriers had been torn down. With her still encircled in his arms, holding onto his hand, he twitched and resisted every urge in his body.
"I cannot stay much later tonight," she said. He stepped back and lifted her gloved hand to his lips.
"Come. Let me introduce you to Richard Stannard. He is my partner at the gallery." She nodded and, as always, she followed.
The crush of the crowd seemed to part like poison as soon as Jack turned and led her through the throngs. They passed the judgemental faces, the curious ones and then the ones who truly were oblivious to anything but what was at the bottom of their own glass. Her gloved hand was in his own, and she longed for the feel of his bare hands upon her own. In a place which wasn't so crowded.
Richard stood on the fringes, starting another cocktail, his eyes on every skirt which passed him by even though he was now a married man. When he saw Jack's approach, with the woman on his arm, he straightened, slicking back his hair and smiled that lopsided grin.
''Rich, this is Rose, I was telling you of her this morning.''
''Yes, you were. Hello, Rose...do you have a surname?''
Rose glanced to Jack, knowing that revealing her own would indicate something further. ''Yes.'' Jack squeezed her hand, in a small signal to reveal it. Even if just to see the look on his friend's face.
''I'm Rose Dawson.''
''An actress.'' Jack nodded. ''The best stage performer in London they say.''
''Well, I don't doubt that.'' Her hand had slipped into Richard's and his eyes glittered with either confusion or concern. ''I shall be keen to see one of your shows, Mrs. Dawson.''
''Yes, please do, though I do think my days at the theatre will be limited.'' Her gaze lazily drifted to Jack, her face was a picture of glowing beauty; in part from the blush of the champagne, the dancing and how alive she had become just from their trip to the ocean. Jack moved the hair from his face, he was warm. The air was still stuffy and his stomach was still fluttering about. As was hers. Rose had never felt so alive in her life. Everything around her seemed to be beautiful. She could feel Jack's gaze on her every few seconds and had turned to smile at him. She knew that, he too, felt the tension between them.
''That is a shame to hear,'' Richard pressed a napkin to his face, it was growing warmer.
This was the point where they parted ways, she to her residence and he to his; or at least for now. Jack met her gaze; his own sharply focused as he waited. Rose could see the question in his eyes—how would she react now that they were once again faced with the rules of Society? Her reaction was fiercer than she could reasonably share. She wanted him beside her, always. In public and in private. Just behind them, Clara stood adorned in her usual black sequins with Stuart whispering something into her ear. Rose waved to attract her attention but Clara was already gathering within the crowd; forever the social butterfly with a cigarette cloud following her about.
''Excuse me just a minute, I have to speak to my friends.''
''Of course.''
Rose came to Stuart first. His handsome face softened, once tight knit brows sagged. She stared at him for a long moment, looking fragile and beautiful. He was dressed wonderfully smart in a three-piece black suit, without a mask. His moustache was clipped and his hair creamed but his eyes were sparkling with some sort of unshed emotion.
''Why, my darling Rose, do I get the feeling that the reports are correct. Are you to leave the play?''
She sighed, her gloved hands wringing at her stomach before glancing back to him without a word.
"I cannot alter your mind about this, can I?"
''Why must this always be about what you read and never about how I truly feel?'' Her sorrowful tone prompted him to lean forward. He was struck by the change in her; the weight of unhappiness suppressed the vibrant spirit she was best known for.
"Why does a simple headline worry you so?"
''Because they like to win. To cause the damage. To spiral lives.'' Her gloved hands clenched and unclenched in her lap.
"Regardless of who wins or loses, it will not end well."
"Stu—"
''Your life is on that stage, Rose.'
"I took to the stage as a distraction from the person who I was," she said without inflection, "but then I met you, and you became the only person I have ever truly cared about aside from Jack. I have suffered for so long that I don't truly know if I could remain on that stage and be true to me. Last night, on that stage, I felt like an imposter."
A pistol's report could not have jolted him more violently.
''You suffered?''
''Deeply.''
"I would say none of this to anyone else." Stuart knitted his brows together in a quiet agony. ''Will you truly leave us?''
Her chin lifted, reinforcing her quiet dignity. "I think I have to.''
He had no right to ask, but he couldn't withhold the question any longer. "Are you happy?"
"Worry about you," she admonished, managing a smile that did little to alleviate his suspicions.
''I have to know, Rose.''
''Yes, Stuart Black. I am the happiest that I could truly be in a party at the Savoy hotel. I would be happier elsewhere just with the man that I love.'' Rose exhaled, deeply. ''And I suspect that you would also be happier if you weren't tied to this place.''
''Yes, I do feel unattached of late. The reason I stayed was you.''
''And now, say that I do leave?''
Stuart paused, his onyx eyes darting about in the crowds and they settled as he appeared to find his affection. Rose turned, to see how Clara softened and started towards them upon seeing.
''She is in love with you.''
''Yes, she told me so this afternoon.''
''And do you love her?''
''I suspect that I will grow to.'' A smile pulled at his lips, and he couldn't help but gaze back at her. ''She's truly mad and flighty but she makes me laugh, rivets me and then she kisses me as though she is the most innocent of creatures.''
Rose reached out a hand to touch Stuart's face; that lovely face which had come to be the one she read daily. How she knew it better than anyone she suspected. ''I have never heard you tell me a time of you been in love.''
''I don't think I ever have. I don't know how to love. Aside from you. You're the only one I ever loved but never a feeling of possession, but of care, as though you were my sister.''
''For that I will be grateful for the rest of my life.''
Clara reached them a moment later and her arms were around Rose's neck with such force that she sent them almost tumbling backwards.
''He wants me.'' Clara whispered, excitedly and drunkenly into Rose's ear. ''He bloody wants me!''
''What could be more wonderful than that?'' Rose held tightly onto Clara, as she was almost dragged downwards.
''Oh, nothing.''
Pulling away, Rose smoothed out Clara's straight hair and glanced into glazed eyes.
''Stuart, you need to take your lady home. I think the champagnes lightened her head.''
''Of course.'' He clasped his hand to Clara's. ''Will you come with us?''
''No, I must find Jack.''
''He left already.'' Clara mumbled from Stuart's shoulder. Rose frowned, turning back to where he was stood just minutes before with his friend. He was no longer there.