One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney

“After all, you said I should call you Rosalind.”
    â€œVery well.” She cocked her head to one side. “Stephen Ashe?”
    He considering telling the truth, that his family name was Kenyon, but then he would have to explain the “Ash” that he had mumbled, and the monogrammed As on some of his possessions. Easier simply to nod and change the subject. “So you’re a Fitzgerald daughter. Is Mr. Jordan part of the company?”
    She sighed, some of her brightness fading. “He was once, but that was a long time ago. He’s been dead for years.”
    â€œI’m so sorry,” Stephen said, trying to sound sincere when his real reaction was pleasure. So Lady Caliban was a widow. A lovely, unconventional widow who wasn’t the least upset at lying down by a stranger and wakening to his kiss.
    Mention of her husband brought Rosalind to her feet. “I should be letting you rest. Since you’re doing so well, I’ll go to my own room. Do you need anything before I leave?”
    Suppressing the improper answer that came to mind, he asked, “Will the company be leaving Redminster tomorrow?”
    â€œNo, the town is larger than Fletchfield. We’ll stay for several days.” She smiled. “We even have a fairly decent theater in the assembly room of the Royal George.”
    â€œWhy don’t you stay at the Royal George? Would playgoers pester members of the company?”
    â€œPerhaps, but the real reason is that we can’t afford the rates there,” she said cheerfully as she left the room. “I’ll see you in the morning, Stephen.”
    After the door closed, he got cautiously to his feet. More dizziness, but it passed quickly. He went to his luggage across the room, feeling every bruise he’d acquired in the river, and dug out Blackmer’s jar of pills. He’d been taking the medication faithfully, despite its limited usefulness. At least tonight opium would help his throbbing head. He tipped two pills into his hand and washed them down with water.
    Then he returned to his bed, shaky enough to appreciate lying down again. Yet he drifted toward sleep in a surprisingly good mood.
    After seeing The Tempest , he had decided that he didn’t want either a wife or the synthetic passion of a courtesan. That was easy to say when desire was dormant. But now it had returned in full flood. Perhaps it would be possible to bed a warm, attractive woman who was worldly and unconventional enough to take a love affair lightly. Was Rosalind Jordan such a woman? He wanted to think so.
    God, how he wanted to think so.
    Â 
    Rosalind was grateful to return to her room and find that her sister hadn’t yet returned from the performance. She sank onto the bed, her hand pressing to her mouth.
    As she and Jessica had both noticed even during a performance, Stephen Ashe was…very attractive. And not only because he was tall and strong and handsome. She’d been right to see passion in his features when he was unconscious. In fact, she would be willing to wager that under his facade of light, ironic detachment was a character of Shakespearean complexity. Passion and hidden fires. Dark, compelling currents that contained—what? Anger, sorrow, desire? A decisive Hamlet, a man of natural authority. Yet at the same time, he had a gentle courtesy that she found immensely appealing.
    Plus, of course, he kissed very well. Part of her wished they had stayed longer in that hazy, unreal state between waking and sleeping. In his arms she had felt warm. Secure. Desired. And just a little bit alarmed.
    Firmly she told herself that she was letting her imagination run away with her. She and Mr. Ashe were strangers to each other, and she found him intriguing mostly because he was different from anyone else she’d ever met.
    Her vagabond life meant that she knew mostly actors and other volatile sorts. Not that she didn’t adore her father and many