One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney

closed the door, leaning back against it as he knotted his hands into fists. Being a duke was a lonely business. He was flattered to his face and probably cursed behind his back. Except with a handful of friends, he had always felt set apart from the normal run of mankind.
    But tonight, for a few hours, he had been a part of a friendly, tolerant group that had accepted him exactly as he was. The warmth of that was like a goose down quilt protecting him against the bitter cold of eternity.
    He gazed across the dark room at the pale curtains stirring lazily in the breeze from the open window. He had not known how much he craved community until tonight, when he had briefly become part of one. How could he bear to leave these people who made him feel happier than he could ever remember being?
    If it had been only Rosalind or only the companionship of the troupe, it would not be so hard to return to the abbey. But the combination was dangerously potent. That was part of the reason he knew he should leave. It was wrong, unsafe to want something so much. Particularly now, when his future was cruelly limited.
    But when he thought it through, there was no real need to leave yet His health was still good enough that he should be able to conceal his condition. He doubted that anyone in the troupe would tell him to leave, especially if he made himself useful Yes, he would stay on for several days more. Perhaps a week.
    His rush of relief at the decision was so strong that he almost changed his mind again. But what the devil; a condemned man was entitled to some pleasure. A lifetime of discipline should keep him from behaving badly with Rosalind again. He’d avoid champagne, and being alone with her, too.
    Feeling more at peace, he stripped off his clothing in the dark and crawled into bed. But as he lay back against the pillows, he was struck by a vivid, tactile memory of holding Rosalind in his arms here the night before. He rolled to his side, aching with emptiness. Damn the illness that cast a black shadow over everything.
    He closed his eyes, all too aware that he had not behaved well. Yet however ill-advised it had been to kiss her, he would carry the memory of her embrace until that not-too-distant day when he would die.

Chapter 7
    George Blackmer climbed from his chaise and ascended the massive stone steps of Ashburton Abbey. When his knock gained him admittance, he said, “Inform the duke that I’m here to see him.”
    The usually impassive butler, Owens, could not conceal a tightening of expression. “His grace is…unavailable.”
    Blackmer stripped off his gloves. “I’ll wait. When do you expect him back?” When Owens didn’t answer, the physician said impatiently, “Come, come, man, I’m the duke’s doctor, not an importunate beggar. He’ll see me.”
    Owens hesitated a moment longer, as if weighing whether he should speak, then said in a rush, “His grace is not in residence. He left suddenly, without a word as to his plans, and he went alone. I…we are somewhat concerned.”
    Blackmer’s brows arched. “Alone?”
    The butler nodded. “By horseback, without taking even his valet. It happened immediately after your last visit.”
    â€œYou’ve had no word from him for a fortnight?” the physician said incredulously.
    â€œNone at all.”
    â€œHave you informed anyone of the duke’s absence?”
    â€œWho would we tell? After all, his grace has every right to leave voluntarily, as he did. Yet”—Owens swallowed hard—“such behavior is most unusual.”
    Unusual, indeed; Blackmer had observed Stephen Kenyon closely for many years, and doubted the man had ever done anything so unpredictable in his life. But of course, a sentence of death might unbalance anyone. Tersely he said, “If he returns, or you hear news of him, tell me at once. It’s important that I know.”
    Then he left the