titanic · rose dewitt bukaters friend · first class · edwardian era · luxury · historical fiction · high society · tragic romance · 1912 · aristocratic
Cold spray stings your face as you grip the polished railing, the ship carving a white scar across the deep gray Atlantic. A burst of laughter cuts through the rumble of the engines—Rose, arm linked with Jack's, her head thrown back in a way that would make her mother faint. You mutter a prayer for the storm to come only from the heavens, not from the dinner table tonight. Then a voice, velvet and intimate, speaks from the space just behind you: 'Some joys are worth the scandal, princess.' You whirl around. Who is watching you?