Red Rose

Chapter 10

Rosalind woke up the following morning feeling more cheerful and more energetic than she had done for a long time. She had lain awake for a while the night before, hands clasped behind her head, thinking through the events of the last weeks, assessing what had happened, sorting out her feelings, trying to understand why she had felt guilty with Bernard that afternoon.

It seemed that events had just happened to her, almost without her will, since the summons came from her guardian for her and Sylvia to travel to London. She had been so used to ordering her own life. Suddenly to be catapulted into society had been a shock. She had been sure that after that first appearance no one would want to know her and she would be allowed to return to the way of life she knew. She had been somewhat upset by Sir Rowland Axby's attentions and by her guardian's insistence that she listen to his addresses. And she had been relieved to discover Sir Bernard Crawleigh, who had been friendly and relaxed from the start. Her engagement had been embarrassing because she could never be sure if Bernard had been precipitated into it before he was ready or whether, in fact, he would ever have been ready.

These were the facts she set out before herself to consider. No, there was one more. There was the Earl of Raymore himself. Rosalind frowned and gazed up at the darkened hangings above her bed. What was it about him that always hovered in the back of her mind? He was an unpleasant man, cold and domineering. It seemed that she could never be near him without all her nerves bristling. Was it hatred that kept him always there on the fringes of her consciousness?

She found him attractive. Now that she was away from him, out of his house, she had to admit that fact. He was gorgeously handsome with that thick blond hair, aquiline features, and perfectly proportioned body. That she could never deny. Her dream man, Alistair, had looked almost identical. Poor Alistair! She had almost forgotten him. But it was not just Raymore's looks that attracted. He had an almost irresistible magnetism for her. She thought of that kiss again and compared it, point by point, with Bernard's caresses. He had taken every one of the liberties with her that her betrothed had taken, and more, and she had not resisted as she had that afternoon. She grew hot at the memory of how it had felt to be in Edward's arms for those brief moments, the very sexual kiss, his hands moving forward possessively from her back.

Yes, she must admit it. It was the only way she might be able to solve the problem. She found the Earl of Raymore a very attractive man. She felt uncomfortable in his presence, partly because she wanted him. She felt infinitely better just admitting the truth to herself.

Having admitted it, she could look at the situation rationally. It was not love that she felt. She disliked Raymore, even despised him. She could not imagine that they would ever find a topic on which they might agree. The attraction was entirely physical. There could never be a relationship between them, even if he felt the same way. And he had made it quite clear from the start that he returned all her feelings, but that he also found her physically repulsive.

Well then, Rosalind thought with great good sense, she must totally ignore the attraction. It was not worthy of her attention. And having decided as much, she turned her attention to Bernard. Should she continue to feel guilty about having unwittingly trapped him into a betrothal? Today he had not behaved like a man who had been unhappily caught by his own sense of honor. He had quite deliberately invited their t?te-a-t?te by the stream and he had shown every sign of finding her attractive. His lovemaking had not been merely a dutiful embrace. In addition, he was still friendly and teasing.

The fact was that he had proposed, even when she had told him that he need not. She did not have to feel responsible. The only question still to be considered, then, was whether she could be happy with the match. Bernard was a man she could like and respect. And he was an attractive man. She enjoyed his caresses, though she had been somewhat uncomfortable with their ardor that afternoon.

Rosalind fell asleep after determining that, from that moment on, she would accept her betrothal wholeheartedly. She would be confident that she was the woman he wanted to marry and she would allow him to set the pace of the courtship. The Earl of Raymore would exist for the future only as her guardian, and even that position would be his for only a couple of months longer.

All the ladies went shopping the following morning. The village three miles away boasted only a few shops, but the haberdasher's was pronounced to be a very tolerable establishment and Lady Theresa and Sylvia each found straw bonnets at the milliner's that were most becoming.

The gentlemen had had a morning of riding. Both groups were in high spirits at luncheon and greeted with enthusiasm Lord Standen's suggestion that during the afternoon they all walk to the lake that was a mile away through the trees. A picnic tea would be sent by wagon later.

Lord Standen took Sylvia on his arm and led the way through the shady woods to the east of the house. "You will like the lake, my dear," he told her as they walked. “It is most picturesque. You will be able to sketch here for hours after we are married."

"I never did learn to sketch or paint in watercolors with any great success," she replied apologetically. "Ros was always the artistic one."

"Yet drawing is such an important accomplishment for a lady," he chided gently. "I shall hire you a drawing master and you will soon learn."

Sylvia murmured her thanks. She was soon exclaiming in delight at the beauty of the lake, which was larger than she had expected. "And there are the boats," she said excitedly. "Oh, may we take them out this afternoon, my lord?"

"Of course you may," he said indulgently, "provided one of the gentlemen accompanies you. You will find, my dear, that after we are married, I shall be very insistent that you never take out a boat alone. I should not wish my pretty little wife to endanger herself in any way."

Sylvia looked up shyly into his face to find that he was smiling kindly down at her.

Rosalind was walking with Sir Rowland Axby. He was telling her how his children would enjoy Broome Hall and its spacious grounds. The lake too would delight them and the boats, and an island in the middle of the lake for them to explore. Rosalind began to wonder why he spent so much time away from his children if he loved them so much. But perhaps his need to find them a new mother kept him out in society. Rumor had it that he had offered for two other girls, both new debutantes, since his proposal to her. And he had been particularly attentive to Susan Heron in the last two days, though she had made a determined effort to avoid him this afternoon by grabbing Sir Bernard's arm as if it were a lifeline.

Some of the party sat on the grass by the lake, shaded by the branches of a large oak tree, though Lady Theresa still found it necessary to use a parasol that matched so perfectly the light-blue muslin of her dress that Sir Rowland was moved to tell her that she looked as pretty as a picture. Lord Standen, his sister, and Susan Heron decided to stroll around the lake as far as they could before swampland made further walking impossible. Sir Bernard Crawleigh, Nigel Broome, Sylvia, and Rosalind took to the boats.

Nigel pulled hard at the oars of his boat. He deliberately took a different direction from that taken by Crawleigh, who was rowing at a far more leisurely pace directly toward the island. Nigel said nothing until he and Sylvia were a considerable distance away from anyone else in their party.

"I say," he said at last, shipping the oars and allowing the boat to rock gently on the water, "did I get you into trouble last night, Sylvia?"

"No, really," she denied, "you did not force me to speak."

"I'll wager Mama and George did not like it, though," he said. "They consider me the black sheep, you know. I can stand their disapproval because my conscience tells me that I am right. But I would not for the world have you take my part and incur their displeasure too. Did you get a thundering scold?"

"Well, not exacdy a scold," she said unhappily.

"You need say no more," he said a trifle grimly. "I know how both George and Mama can sound so kind and so sincere. They can have one feeling quilty even when one knows that one had done no wrong."

"Nigel," Sylvia said, color rising in her cheeks, "is it so dreadful to disagree with one's husband? I would never openly criticize his lordship, you know, and I will try never to fight with him. I am sure he is right when he says that he knows so much more than I and I should allow myself to be guided by him. But surely it is not wrong sometimes to disagree with him and at least discuss a topic. Is it?"

"Of course it is not!" he agreed vehemently. "Don't let George make a little human doll out of you, Sylvie. You are very sweet and very young, but I have noticed that you feel strongly about some things."

"Yes," she agreed eagerly. "I was very upset when I came to London for the first time and saw the poverty and the dirt. I wanted to stop the carriage and give all my money away. But you have an idea that will really help some people, Nigel, and I do think it so noble of you to want to try."

He leaned forward and touched her hand. "You have a very gentle heart, Sylvia," he said, gazing earnestly into her face, "but you are certainly not a weak person."

She turned her hand so that their fingers clasped. "You give me courage, Nigel," she said. "When I am with you, I feel as if I could stand up against the world."

She tried to smile, but suddenly they were looking intently into each other's eyes. Their hands involuntarily clasped more tightly.

"Oh, God!" he whispered.

"Nigel?" she said, her voice thin and wavering.

At the same moment they snatched their hands away and broke eye contact. Sylvia smoothed her dress over her knees with jerky movements. Nigel snatched up the oars and began to row. They did not look at each other or speak for a while.

"I shall have to go away, you know," he blurted at last. "Tonight."

"Please don't," Sylvia pleaded, her eyes coming back to his face. "Oh, please don't leave me here alone, Nigel."

"Alone?" he said. "You have your cousin here and your friends. You can enjoy what is left of the week."

"No, I cannot," she said, her voice shaking. "Please, Nigel, do not leave. I am mortally afraid of him."

"Of George?" he asked, incredulous. "He won't harm you, Sylvia. He may be somewhat starchy and he may scold a little, but he would never hurt you or be really cruel."

"Oh, I know," Sylvia wailed. "But I cannot be alone with him, Nigel. I do not love him. I have made a terrible mistake."

They stared at each other, Sylvia's eyes wide and frightened.

Nigel finally stopped rowing and shipped the oars again. "I believe it is quite common," he said carefully, staring down at his boots, "for people to panic before their wedding. It is such a final step, you see. But their fear may not reflect their true feelings."

"Nigel," Sylvia said, "I never did love your brother. I thought I did because he is handsome and has such presence. And it felt so wonderful to attract such a, great lord during my first Season. Cousin Edward was so pleased and thought it such an eligible match for me. Even so, I believe I would not have become betrothed so soon if he had not been your brother, Nigel."

"Did I persuade you to?" he asked aghast.

"No," she replied, "but I liked you so much and I must have felt that I liked him too just because he is your brother."

Nigel ran his fingers through his hair. "It is too late now, Sylvia," he said. "I should be shot. I was so busy courting you for George that I did not fully realize that I wished to court you for myself."

"Oh, did you really, Nigel?" she asked.

Nigel picked up the oars and once more began to row, this time in the direction of the bank. He did not speak until they were close to the small group who had stayed on the grass. "It is no good," he said finally. "I can see no way out."

Sir Bernard Crawleigh, meanwhile, had rowed his boat directly for the small island in the middle of the lake. Rosalind made no objection. In fact, he had noted that her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled today. Her manner was almost flirtatious.

"You look very fetching in that particular shade of orange," he said. "Quite southern. I must take you to Italy for our wedding trip, Rosalind. Do you have relatives there?"

"Yes, several," she replied, smiling. "I have corresponded with them since my parents died there."

By unspoken consent they did not converse again until the boat had been secured to a tree branch that overhung the water at the island, and Sir Bernard had helped Rosalind onto dry land.

She looked down at her feet gingerly. "I do hope this is not just a stretch of swampy land," she said.

"Not at all," he replied. "George tells me there is even a pavilion hidden among these trees that was built for him and his brother when they were children."

He took her hand and led her among the trees. Almost immediately they could see the water at the other side of the island. But the pavilion was there, cleverly hidden among the trees. It was hexagonal, its roof supported by a wooden pillar at each corner. Wooden walls closed it in chest-high, but the upper half was open. There was a doorway but no door. They went inside, Sir Bernard stooping slightly so that his head would not graze the ceiling. Dried leaves crunched under their feet.

"No one has been here for a long time," Rosalind said. "Look, almost all the paint has peeled off the walls."

"What a shame!" he sighed. "I was hoping for a nice cozy structure in which to seduce you."

"Then I am very glad that it is as it is," she said severely, with a twinkle in her eye. "That was not at all a proper plan, sir."

He ducked back through the doorway. "I never said it was," he said. "I am finding Standen's house confoundedly crowded, are you not, Rosalind? I am a frustrated lover."

"I and my honor are eternally grateful for the crowd," Rosalind assured him.

"Well, for the moment at least you are my prisoner," he said with a grin, and circled her waist with his arm.

Rosalind laughed and punched him lightly on both shoulders with her fists. The next moment she was being very thoroughly kissed and clasped against the full length of him. She felt the kiss change tone after the first teasing moments. His mouth became urgent, his breathing faster. His hands roamed her back, molding her to him, and finally pressed down on her hips. Rosalind deliberately allowed the experience. She did not flinch even when his mouth trailed a hot path to her throat and his hands came up to cup her breasts through the thin muslin of her dress. But it was a clinical experience. She could not force herself to feel part of the embrace.

"A frustrated lover indeed," he said ruefully, and nibbled at her earlobe. "I cannot do any of the things I wish to do, love, in this standing position. And there is no grass on which we may lie down. Was ever such a pair of star-crossed lovers?"

"We almost rival Romeo and Juliet," she replied, pushing herself away from him in some relief. "And there are going to be several suspicious people on the bank opposite if we do not reappear soon."

"Ah, the voice of reality and common sense," he mocked as he took her arm and led her carefully back down to the boat.

The picnic proceeded with a great deal of gaiety when all members of the party had returned to the starting point. Sylvia's unusual quietness and Rosalind's forced high spirits did not attract any particular notice.

Sir Bernard Crawleigh, it seemed, was far from satisfied with the events of the afternoon. When the whole party arrived at the house, Rosalind would have ascended the staircase with the rest of the ladies to rest and freshen up for dinner. Her leg was feeling uncomfortably sore after the rather long walk. But her betrothed caught her by the hand and pulled her unnoticed to a reception salon opening off the main hall. He led her inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He drew her to him and kissed her.

"I begin to think it was a mistake to accept the invitation to come here," he said, holding her head against his shoulder. "I find being this close to you more disquieting than seeing you only formally in London."

"Well, in a few more days we will be back there, Bernard," she said, raising her head and lightly kissing his chin.

"Love, let me come to you tonight," he said, clasping her to him again urgently. "I shall make sure that I am not seen, and I can promise you a night of great pleasure."

Rosalind bit her lip painfully. "We are not married yet," she said.

"But we will be soon," he argued. "What difference can a couple of months make, love?"

"Bernard…" she began.

"Hush," he said, stopping her lips with his again. "Don't say no. I know it is only that maidenly modesty of yours that makes you hesitate. You want me, I know it. I shall come tonight and we will make love in peace and comfort."

"Over my dead body," a quiet but cold voice said.

Rosalind jumped away from her companion as if she had been scalded. Where was he? Sir Bernard Crawleigh cursed under his breath and stood with fists clenched at his sides, staring at the high back of a chair above which the top of a blond head was just visible.

"What in thunder are you doing here, Raymore?" he said tightly.

"I am here by invitation," the earl answered, rising to his feet and turning to face the couple who stood just inside the door. "I was shown in here to await Standen's return home. It seems the butler did not quite know what to do with me when I arrived two days earlier than expected."

"You might have made your presence known a great deal sooner," Sir Bernard said testily.

Raymore's face hardened. "It seems to me it was a good thing I did not decide to interrupt a lovers' tryst sooner than I did," he said coldly. "Miss Dacey is my ward, Crawleigh. I am responsible for her conduct until she marries. I find your behavior quite reprehensible. Were you not betrothed to her and within a few months of your marriage, I should feel obliged to call you out for the words you just spoke."

"I think it is well that you remember that Rosalind will soon by my wife," Sir Bernard said, obviously making an effort to hold on to his temper. "And remember, too, Raymore, that she is not a girl from the schoolroom. She is old enough to decide for herself the degree of intimacy she will allow between herself and her future husband."

"Please!" Rosalind interrupted. "Let us end this argument. Bernard, I gave you my answer. And, Edward, I would thank you to at least try not to treat me like a child. I resent your constant interference in my affairs. Soon I shall owe complete loyalty to Bernard."

Raymore's eyes flashed and he turned his attention completely to his ward. Rosalind steeled herself for the type of blazing row that always seemed to erupt when he and she were together. Fortunately, perhaps, for both of them, the door of the salon opened at that moment and Lord Standen walked briskly into the room.

"Raymore," he said, "I cannot think what my servants are about keeping you here like an unbidden visitor instead of showing you to a room and seeing to your needs."

Rosalind, glancing at her guardian, was amazed to see that in the few seconds since she had last looked at him, his manner had been completely transformed. He was bowing and smiling amiably.

"Think no more of it," he said, all affability. "I insisted on staying here when I realized that I was not expected today. And your butler brought me refreshment."

"I see that Miss Dacey and Crawleigh have found you and have been entertaining you," Standen commented.

"Yes, indeed," Raymore agreed, smiling genially at the couple.

"I shall excuse myself," Rosalind said, dropping a slight curtsy. "I feel rather tired after the picnic and need to freshen up before dinner."

All three men bowed. Lord Standen held the door open for her as she left the room with lowered eyes. Raymore noticed that her limp was more pronounced than usual.

The Earl of Raymore had come to Broome Hall determined to have a peaceful holiday. Both his wards were safely betrothed to eligible men. His responsibility was almost at an end. He was determined to keep his distance from Rosalind whenever possible. He wanted to observe her with Crawleigh to satisfy himself that both wished the alliance. But he knew that he could never be close to her without quarreling with her in most undignified fashion.

Now, as he soaked in a bathtub of hot soapy water in the room that had been prepared for him, his valet assembling the clothes he would wear to dinner, he was feeling irritated. He had been in the house less than an hour before he had been arguing with her yet again. Why could she not be more like Sylvia? The latter had apparently gone straight to her room on returning from the afternoon's outing, just as she should. And he could not in his wildest imaginings picture Standen making to her the sort of proposition that Crawleigh had been making to Rosalind.

He did not know quite what to make of that episode or whom to blame. He had been almost blind with anger at the time. That Crawleigh could quite coolly suggest that he spend the night in her bed suggested a want of proper restraint in him. But what did it suggest about her? Surely no man would dream of proposing such a thing to a girl who had not given him much encouragement. And the thought of Rosalind flirting with Crawleigh and inviting his intimacies renewed the earl's anger to such an extent that he scrubbed his arms quite mercilessly and soon had scattered soapsuds in a wide circle around the bathtub. His fury was not in any way mollified by the sudden memory of himself making similar advances to Annette when he was betrothed to her. She had been no innocent, either.

Rosalind had been looking tired. He had noticed the fact even before she had said so herself. Did that mean that her nights were already occupied with Crawleigh? He ground his teeth at the thought. But, no, he did not think so. The man's words to her in the salon had suggested that he still had not conquered her reserve. Or her artfulness!

Raymore, pouring a jugful of clear water over his head to take the suds out of his hair, tried to consider the situation rationally. She was a grown woman, as both she and her fiance had pointed out to him. She was betrothed. She was no blood relation of his. Perhaps he should allow her to make her own decisions about her behavior.

But he could not! He got abruptly to his feet, reaching for the towel that his valet rushed over to hand him. Word was bound to get out if Crawleigh began spending nights with her. Tidbits of gossip like that were harder to keep secret than the man seemed to think. And even if she were a loose woman, Raymore decided, he was damned before he was going to have the fact bandied about among the whole ton. And what if for some reason the marriage never took place? She would be ruined. She might even bear an illegitimate child. She would certainly be a permanent millstone around his neck then. He determined to keep a very close eye on the girl in the coming days. Thank goodness at least that his other ward always behaved with propriety and blessed predictability.

Raymore dressed with care in formal evening dress: pale-blue silk knee breeches, silver waistcoat, and dark-blue velvet coat with white linen. He allowed his valet to arrange his neckcloth into complicated folds and insert a diamond pin into it. In his present mood he realized that he would probably ruin several carefully starched neckcloths before he would arrange one to his own satisfaction. Finally he descended to the drawingroom, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. It seemed as if these few days in the country would not be such peaceful ones after all.

Rosalind had also dressed with care, choosing a gown of kingfisher-blue satin overlaid with sea-green lace, a color combination that looked startlingly attractive with her pale skin and dark hair. She was not sure why she had chosen to wear it tonight. She had been saving it for a special occasion and consequently had not worn it at all, though it had been delivered a month before. Perhaps she wanted to appear attractive to Bernard, whose proposition she had been forced to refuse quite publicly. Or perhaps she needed extra confidence to face the Earl of Raymore. She had been badly shaken to find him at Broome Hall two days before he was expected and under such very embarrassing circumstances. She preferred not to think about the meeting. She would have been glad of almost any other form of interruption. She had been shocked at Bernard's suggestion and did not know how she was to answer it. But Raymore of all people! She was glad that the two men had argued long enough for her to regain her poise. She had had the absurd urge when she first heard his voice to rush across the room to him to justify herself, to explain that she had not said or done anything improper. What a stroke of good fortune it was that she had not so humili-' ated herself.

Rosalind waited until the dresser had added the final touches to an elaborately piled hairdo, then made her way downstairs. She was deliberately almost late. She did not wish to have to make polite conversation in the drawing room with either Raymore or Bernard. She found that she had to cling more tightly than usual to the banister of the stairs. Her leg throbbed so badly that her whole body felt like a mighty heartbeat. She set a smile in place on her lips before entering the drawing room and accepting a glass of ratafia from a footman.

Rosalind's attention during dinner was taken by Sylvia. She was deliberately trying to ignore the presence of both Sir Bernard seated three places from her, and of Raymore seated almost opposite. There was certainly something wrong with her cousin. She was conversing with both Lady Standen and Sir Rowland Axby, but she did not have her usual sparkle. Rosalind doubted that anyone else would notice, but she had grown up more as a sister to Sylvia than as a cousin. And she recognized instantly that the girl was unhappy. Was Standen still displeased with her for the way she had behaved the night before at the dinner table? It seemed possible. The man set great store by his own consequence. Or had Sylvia discovered that she was not in love with him after all? Rosalind had never known the girl to be in love for more than a few weeks at the longest. And the match with Standen did not seem right. This time, though, Sylvie was in much deeper than she had ever been before. A betrothal, especially such a public one to a leading figure of the ton, would not be easy to withdraw from. Rosalind made a mental note to have a talk with her cousin before they went to bed. She held up her hand to refuse the helping of strawberries and Devon cream that a footman was about to set at her place. The pain in her leg was like a gnawing toothache. She could not concentrate upon eating.

Raymore noticed nothing strange about Sylvia's behavior, perhaps because he was sitting at the same side of the table as she and could not see her without leaning forward and turning his head. However, he was pleased to note that she was seated beside Lady Standen and that the two ladies appeared to be conversing. She was a crusty old bird, he understood. Standen might not be so eager for the match if his mother disapproved of his chosen bride.

He did watch Rosalind, though, without appearing to do so. He conversed politely with both Lady Theresa Parsons on his left and Letitia Morrison on his right. He felt an amused contempt for Lady Theresa, who was sending out very obvious lures in his direction. Women were all the same. Set a man with a title and wealth within their reach and they would use all the wiles at their disposal to trap him into matrimony. Rosalind was very subdued, he noted, probably feeling cramped by his presence. He drank from his wineglass and glanced across at her as she refused dessert. She would feel a great deal more cramped in the next few days if he had anything to say in the matter. She would find it far more difficult to meet her lover t?te-a-t?te

In the drawing room afterward Rosalind played the pianoforte while Lady Theresa and Letitia took turns singing. Sir Bernard joined them briefly, but he did not have the chance for personal conversation, as Letitia was seated on the stool beside Rosalind sorting through a pile of music. Within a few minutes he was called away to make up a table of cards with Lady Standen, Susan Heron, and Thomas Morrison. Rosalind limped to a sofa and sank down thankfully onto it, trying to find a comfortable position for her aching leg. The Earl of Raymore seated himself beside her almost immediately and handed her a cup of tea.

Rosalind looked up in surprise and not a little alarm. "I trust you had a pleasant journey, my lord," she said with chilling formality.

He inclined his head but did not reply. "You have a headache?" he asked abruptly.

"Why, no," she replied. "What gave you that idea?" She had been quite deliberately smiling brightly all evening.

"You are in pain," he stated. "Do you think I do not know you well enough to notice the strain on your face?"

Rosalind was completely amazed. No one had ever known that she suffered occasionally from the old injury to her leg. Not even Sylvia or her aunt and uncle had ever guessed. She had always considered it a matter of pride to hide the fact from them. "My leg aches a little," she admitted.

"I would guess more than a little," he replied, no trace of sympathy in his voice. "Does it often pain you?"

"No, not often, my lord," she said. "Sometimes in cold or wet weather, or when I have had too much exercise."

"How far did you walk this afternoon?" he asked.

"The lake is about a mile away," she said. "We all walked there and back."

"And did neither Standen nor Crawleigh realize that the distance was too far for you?" he asked. Rosalind was surprised to detect a note of anger in his voice.

"I am not an invalid, my lord," she replied rather stiffly.

"Would you like me to help you to your room," he asked, "and have some laudanum sent to you?"

Rosalind had been wishing for just such an escape since she had come downstairs to dinner. Perhaps it was fortunate for her that Raymore asked rather than ordered.

"Would it be very ill-mannered to retire so early?" she asked, looking full into his face for the first time.

"Not at all," he replied, rising to his feet and extending a hand to her. "I shall make your excuses when I return."

Rosalind placed her half-empty cup of tea on the table beside her and put her hand in his. She found it surprisingly strong and supportive. She was able to rise to her feet without putting weight on the aching foot. He offered his arm and she leaned on it heavily as they left the room.

Sir Bernard Crawleigh, his attention distracted from the card game, watched them go, a frown creasing his brow.

Rosalind felt a powerful urge to rest her head against the broad and inviting shoulder that was so close to the side of her head. She supposed that the unusualness of having the pain recognized by another person was making her a little self-pitying.

Raymore paused when they came to the foot of the broad marble staircase that led to the upper apartments, and looked down into the drawn face of his companion. He said nothing, but quietly disengaged his

arm from hers and stooped to lift her up into his arms. Rosalind said nothing, either. One of her arms, in a reflex action, went around his neck. She did not even feel surprise or outrage. Time and reason were suspended as he carried her up the stairs and along the upper corridor to her room. He set her gently down outside the door and they suddenly found themselves staring uncomfortably into each other's eyes.

"Thank you, my lord," she said.

"I shall have some laudanum sent up to you," he said at the same moment.

There was another awkward silence.

"Good night, Edward," she said, smiling slightly.

"Good night, Rosalind," he replied. "Go inside now and lie down. If the leg pains you in the morning, I shall have Standen send for a physician."

"These bouts do not last," she assured him. "I am sure I shall be better in the morning."

She smiled briefly again and went into the room. Self-pitying indeed, she told herself in mockery as tears that she could not control coursed their way down her cheeks.