One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney Page A

of the other actors she’d met over the years, but she’d sworn never to marry such a man again. Charles Jordan had been blindingly handsome and, when he chose, utterly charming. He had also been dishonest and unreliable, and he had overrated his acting ability.
    She chuckled at the last thought and lay back across the bed. Obviously she was enough of a Fitzgerald to rate bad acting as a character flaw.
    Yet she was different from the other Fitzgeralds. The mysterious parents she could not remember had left their mark on her, both physically and mentally. The rest of her adoptive family seemed content with their nomadic existence, but Rosalind often looked at the homes she passed and wondered what it would be like to live in one for always. She talked to men like Stephen Ashe and realized how refreshing it was not to have to deal with an artistic temperament. Sometimes she daydreamed about being married to a good-natured country squire and creating a home and family.
    She released her breath in a sigh. Though her dreams were not outrageous, she might as well be wishing for a castle on the moon and a knight in shining armor. The harsh truth was that she was probably incapable of having children, and she never stayed in one place long enough to form a relationship with the sort of man who attracted her.
    Besides, if she ever did meet a solid, respectable gentleman like that, he’d think her a wicked actress. The thought made her laugh, since she was neither wicked nor much of an actress. Nor was Stephen Ashe a jolly country squire by any stretch of the imagination.
    Laughter was better than the knowledge that the most interesting man she’d ever met would be gone in a day or two, and she’d never have a chance to know him.

Chapter 5
    Day Eighty-one
    Stephen was almost asleep when the first pains seared through his stomach. He came to full wakefulness instantly, dreading what would come next. The heat flared into paralyzing agony as he stumbled from bed. Luckily Rosalind had left a candle burning.
    He made it to the chamber pot just before a violent, prolonged attack of retching purged his stomach and left him panting on the floor, skin clammy and heart pounding. Christ, how could he have been thinking about initiating an affair with a woman when he couldn’t trust his own body?
    He pushed himself to a sitting position and wiped his sweaty face with a nightshirted forearm as he grimly forced himself to face the truth. Until now he had not fully accepted that he was dying. Deep inside he’d believed that there must be some kind of mistake. He was the Duke of Ashburton and in the prime of life. Surely he could not be mortally ill. But after tonight’s attack, he could no longer believe that. He was dying. There would be no special exceptions made for him.
    Death be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful . He smiled bitterly as he thought of Donne’s words. He hated knowing that eventually he would surely suffer one of these humiliating episodes in public. The Duke of Ashburton would show himself as a spewing, pathetic wreck of a man. Interesting how illness had brought him face-to-face with his particular sin of pride.
    Though he’d never felt the need to flaunt his wealth and lineage, he was learning that he despised showing weakness. The fact that his illness would soon be visible to the world would doubtless give him a valuable lesson in humility, but he was in no hurry to learn it. The longer he could delay the inevitable, the better. He’d return to the abbey as soon as he was strong enough to ride. There the sight of his failing body would be limited to his servants. As few of them as possible.
    He lurched to his feet, gut burning and far dizzier than he had been earlier. It would be futile to take more opium pills—he’d never be able to keep them down. But he needed something for his terrible thirst. Thankfully he remembered the milk sent by the