Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One
Beautiful Things: Chapter 31

Rosalie woke early, even before sunrise. Her dreams were filled with Burke and their piano duet. Thinking of him gave her an idea. Slipping into her blue dress, she tied her unbound hair back with a ribbon and snatched up her sketchbook. She’d had precious little time to draw since arriving at Alcott. Burke mentioned last week how he loved best the view from the roof, and she’d learned from the maid Sarah which set of stairs would take her up. If she hurried, she could catch the sun just before it broke above the trees.

She slipped out her door, walking on soft feet down the darkened hallway towards the east wing. From the duchess’ endless tours, Rosalie knew this was where the family lived, or at least Lord James and His Grace had rooms at this end of the third floor. She stopped before what Sarah called “the portrait of the ugly man with an uglier horse.” Rosalie had to stifle a snort, for Sarah was right. This was quite possibly the most tragic artistic representation of a horse she’d ever seen. The features of its face made it look demonic…and why was the neck twisted that way? She dropped her shoulder and tilted her head, trying to see if that helped the proportions seem more correct, but it was no use.

Thump. From somewhere nearby she heard a giggle…perhaps a maid up early? A man’s voice barked a laugh. She glanced around the dark hallway, trying to trace the source of the noises.

Bidding farewell to the ugly knight and his uglier horse, she pushed her way through the narrow door directly to the left of the painting. A tight, spiraling stair led up and down—a servant’s stair. She imagined the house was full of them. She slipped inside and shut the door, reaching for the rail with her right hand as she began spiraling up.

“Oh god—oh, don’t stop—” a woman moaned.

“Fuck—”

“Yes—”

Rosalie froze as the source of the laughter came into sharp focus. There, on the small landing immediately above her, stood the duke, pants around his ankles, rutting into a maid. She faced the wall, breasts bouncing free, as she braced against the stone with both hands.

“Oh, Your Grace, spear me with your mighty cock!”

“Shut up, I’m close,” he grunted, gripping tight to her hips as he made deep thrusts.

Rosalie tried to slip away without being seen, but she miscalculated how the stair narrowed and nearly fell. She gasped, dropping her sketchbook, and clutching the rail, rolling her ankle painfully in the process.

The pair paused, their eyes landing on her.

“Who’s this then?” the maid panted.

“Ah, the little Cabbage Rose,” the duke said, still sheathed. “You’re up early.”

She looked pointedly away as she tried to regain her feet. “I—I—”

The duke chuckled. “Either join in or get out. I plan to finish before my balls turn blue.”

Fighting her furious blush, Rosalie fled down the stairs to the sound of the maid’s laughter, the duke’s groans, and a symphony of slapping skin.

Rosalie stumbled back into the hallway and shut the door with a snap. Even through the door, she could still hear the moaning of the duke and his maid. Wincing on her tender ankle, she took off back down the hall. She rounded the corner to make for the stairs and nearly tumbled again as she ran straight into another soul in the dark.

A pair of strong arms steadied her. “Miss Harrow?”

She looked up to see Lord James. His face was unreadable. His eyes darted over her shoulder. “Lord James, I—”

“Where were you just now, Miss Harrow?” His voice simmered with anger. She could feel it in the way he held her, his grip a little too tight. She fought the urge to whimper.

“I was going to the roof,” she whispered.

“You didn’t come from my brother’s rooms?” His grip tightened, those green eyes molten with unspoken demand.

“No—never—he—” Her mind was a jumble as she tried to push the images from the stairwell away. “That’s not what happened.”

One hand moved from her shoulder to cup her face. His fingers brushed her loose hair back behind her ear. It sent a chill down her spine to receive such an intimate touch from a man who was so clearly ready to burst into flames. “What happened?”

“Servant stairwell,” she murmured.

He looked down the hallway. A low growl rumbled in his throat that made her stomach flip. What did this man look like when he lost control? He dropped his hands away from her. “Stay here, Miss Harrow.”

His order rattled her bones as he took off. He flung open the far door and disappeared.

Recovering her senses, Rosalie moved down the hallway, stopping halfway when she heard the unmistakable sounds of shouting—Lord James’ gruff voice, then the duke. A scuffle, cursing, stomping…

Lord James emerged a few moments later, his cravat looking decidedly ruffled, his cheeks a little flushed. His almond-colored hair bounced across his brow as he stormed back to her side. “Miss Harrow, a thousand apologies aren’t enough, but let me start with one: I’m terribly sorry for what you endured just now. It’s unpardonable. When His Grace is more presentable, he will make his own apology.”

“It’s nothing,” she replied, trying to keep her blush under control.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “We both know that’s not true.”

“I shouldn’t have been in there.”

“Neither should he,” Lord James countered.

He let his eyes drop down her form to take in the odd combination of her loose hair and her morning clothes. She shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t bothered to button her pelisse, and her hair was a tumble of dark curls around her face and down her back. As his heated gaze settled on her face, she blinked slowly, raising a self-conscious hand to flip her hair off her shoulder. The movement made a muscle twitch in his jaw, and she paused, slowly lowering her hand. Why was he looking at her like that?

“What were you doing in this part of the house?”

His gruff voice had her flinching away. Had she done wrong? His emotions were so hard to read. “I…um…”

“I’m not angry,” he added more gently. “Just curious.”

“I was hoping to sketch the sunrise from the roof. My maid told me where to replace the stairs,” she quickly explained. “I’m sorry if I’ve done wrong—oh—my sketchbook!”

“What?”

“I dropped it in the…it’s in the stairwell.”

Lord James frowned. “If it’s all the same to you, Miss Harrow, I think we should retrieve it later.”

She smiled. “Yes, my lord.”

“James,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I prefer you call me James.”

She swallowed, fighting the urge to step back…or closer. “James,” she repeated.

Before she could decide what to do, he was the one closing the space between them. He cupped her face again. Her heart thrummed at his closeness. Surely, he could hear it beating too, like the wings of a bird. This was dangerous. She risked her position if she let him take this any further. She was about to say as much when he lowered his face inches from hers. He surrounded her—his warmth, his control, the clean wool smell of his morning coat.

“Miss Harrow…”

She could feel his warm breath fanning across her lips. The tension between them simmered. Oh heavens, why were her hands on his waistcoat—

The servant stairwell door snapped open, and James and Rosalie jolted apart, hands dropping to their sides.

The duke emerged fully clothed. “If I can’t get fucked this morning, neither can you!” he called down the hall, slamming his door hard enough to rattle the paintings.

“I’m sorry,” James said as soon as the echo of the door slam dissipated.

“It’s fine—”

“No, I’m sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have done that.”

He looked desperately miserable. Rosalie wanted to offer him comfort, but she didn’t trust herself. Thank heavens the duke emerged when he did. This was Lord James Corbin, Viscount Finchley. He was the definition of unavailable. If his mother found out about this, she’d be putting Rosalie on the next coach back to London. It wasn’t worth the risk. She took a firm step backwards. His eyes narrowed at the act. They stood there like that, an arm’s breadth apart, chests rising and falling in sync. Rosalie began to turn away.

“Do you ride?”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder. He watched her with that intense gaze, his eyes the color of a forest glen in summer—deep green with little flecks of gold. “I…yes.”

“I needed to ride into Finchley. You can join me, if you’d like.”

Riding was done outside…on separate horses…in full view of anyone who happened to pass by. Riding involved sweat and horse dung and many layers of clothes. Yes, riding was a good idea. “I’d love to,” she replied.

He sighed with clear relief. “Perfect. Get changed and meet me at the stables in fifteen minutes.”