The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Thirty-Seven | ʀᴏꜱᴇ

The next morning, Rose awoke early and began to prepare for her first day of secretarial work. Although her intent may have been false as vows made in wine, she could still pride herself on punctuality. She donned the dress Charlie had helped her choose the previous evening and arranged her hair in a studious updo — the same style her childhood dance instructor had insisted upon.

The absence of her engagement ring weighed heavily on her mind. Her neck felt naked and vulnerable without the chain to which she'd grown so accustomed. But better it be locked in Thomas' desk than sold at some tawdry pawn shop.

With a lengthy gaze into the vanity mirror, she squared her shoulders and recited, "I am Rose Aldridge. I've recently relocated from London. I'm honored to work for Mr. Gallagher at his factory."

Convinced that she "looked the part," she gave her reflection an encouraging smile and left her room. After a brief glance toward Charlie's door, which was predictably still closed, Rose went down the hall to Thomas' bedroom. She needed to be dropped off in town, preferably near her cousin's flat to make the charade fully plausible.

"Thomas?" she called softly through the door. She rapped lightly with one knuckle. "Are you awake? I wonder if I might borrow your driver."

"'Morning, Rose," Thomas' muffled voice responded. It came not from his bedroom, but the en suite. "Come on in."

At his affirmative response, Rose opened the door to his private quarters and strode through, passing into the adjoining en suite.

"Good morning," she chirped. "I was hoping you could lend me your driver for my first—"

Her string of words cut off abruptly as she observed Thomas' current state. She'd expected to find him shaving, or perhaps in the finishing stages of dressing. This, however, was not the case.

He was in the bath.

Arms resting on the porcelain sides of the tub, Thomas lounged with his head back and his eyes closed. Through the steam rising from the water, everything was visible from his midsection up, including a very unique spherical-shaped tattoo on his left pectoral muscle.

A fierce blush erupted on Rose's cheeks, and she spun around so that her back was to him.

"You—! You said I could come in!" she cried, her tone elevated and accusatory. "Why on earth would you tell me to come in if you're bathing?"

Behind her, she heard him loose a lazy chuckle. "Modest now, eh?"

"I'm always modest, thank you!" she spat, glaring at the door.

"Come now, Rose," he said. She could hear the smirk in his voice and found it abhorrent. "You were engaged. Don't pretend ya never seen a naked man before."

"Well, as we are not engaged, it's inappropriate for me to be present while you are so very...exposed," Rose stated, indignant. "I certainly wouldn't allow you to see me in such a state unless it was for a reason of emergent importance!"

"You can do my back, if it'd make ya feel more 'important'," he suggested.

Rose risked a glance over her shoulder. Wearing a sly little smile, he held a sopping sponge out to her. The bastard.

"No, thank you," she snipped, turning to face the door again.

"That's too bad," he sighed. "It's hard for me to reach."

"I'm sure you'll manage. Or shall I call Frances to assist you?"

He let out a low laugh at her retort. Rose then heard him shift in the water. Was he getting out of the tub? With her in the room?