“Lord Darlington?” Rose blinked in surprise as she opened the door, wondering if her eyes deceived her.

 

The gentleman standing in the darkened corridor outside her bedchamber was the last person in the world she’d expected. 

 

Not that she expected anyone to come knocking at her door in the middle of the night.

 

Only, in truth, this was her mistress Penelope’s chamber, not Rose’s.

 

Holding her candle higher, she confirmed that it was, indeed, Viscount Darlington, one of England’s most proper gentlemen, dressed in formal eveningwear, but quite bedraggled and swaying slightly. His disheveled state was nearly as extraordinary as his visit.

 

“Wake Danbury for me? Or Pen? You’re Pen’s maid, aren’t you? Rosie something or other? Rosebud? Rosalie?” Doubt settled in his gaze when she didn’t answer. “Damn my eyes, is this the wrong chamber?”

 

What on earth was Viscount Darlington doing at her mistress’ door looking like this? Not that Penelope could be found inside. She and her husband rarely slept separately.

 

“They’re abed––In Lord Danbury’s chamber.” She wiped the sleep from her eyes and went to close the door. “I’ll tell them you stopped by—”

 

But he’d moved his rather solid figure against the doorframe, leaning on it heavily, in fact. “Ah, don’t leave me out here. I’m afraid I have a little problem…” He frowned, his eyes lazy and unfocused, his tousled hair begging for a gentle hand to run through it.

 

“Have you been drinking, My Lord?” A ridiculous question. “Fumes of alcohol rolled off him in waves. Again, she attempted to close the door, but he was either too drunk, too stubborn, or both to be moved.

 

“Can’t find my chamber.” Viscount Darlington rubbed his chin and then fumbled at his cravat as though it were strangling him.

 

Her fingers itched to reach out and untie it for the poor dear. In all the years her mistress and the viscount had been 

acquainted, Rose had not once known the viscount to overindulge.

 

“Where’d you say Danbury went off to?” His thick ebony hair stood on end, and red rimmed his normally lovely cobalt eyes. “He’ll know where my chamber is. Don’t want to enter the wrong one.” He waggled his eyebrows uncharacteristically. “Could find myself in a heap of trouble.

 

She knew all too well what sort of trouble he referred to. As one of London’s most eligible bachelors, any number of the ladies attending this Christmas house party would happily claim that the handsome heir had compromised them.

And Darlington, being Darlington, would do the honorable thing.

 

She sighed inwardly as her gaze perused his sturdy, broad shoulders, slim waist, powerful-looking thighs, and… bare feet? “What happened to your shoes?”

 

“Viscounts did not meander around their hosts’ estate without any footwear. But apparently, on this night anyhow, this viscount did.

 

Darlington dropped his chin abruptly to peer down and verify that the toes peeking out from beneath his breeches were his own. “How did that happen?” he slurred, his eyes trying to focus on his missing shoes.

 

Pity for the pathetic creature tickled her conscience.

 

“You’ll take pity on me, Rosie. Won’t you? It is Rosie, isn’t it? Rose petal. Rose blossom. Some sort of flower, right? You are Pen’s maid, aren’t you?” He shook his head as though doing so might clear it for him. “What is your name, miss?”

 

“Ursula Rosamond Waring,” she mumbled. “But I prefer Rose.” Not that it would matter what she preferred, nor would he remember. She was only a maid.