Red Rose

Chapter 11

As Rosalind rose early the following morning, she remembered that she had not had the talk with Sylvia that she had promised herself. She had intended to wait up until her cousin came to bed, but her leg had been aching quite severely and the temptation of the laudanum had proved irresistible. Rosalind had never taken any sedation in a similar situation before. She had been fast asleep long before anyone else went to bed.

Perhaps there was another reason why she had taken the draft. She had wanted to drug her mind. She was so used to hating the Earl of Raymore and believing that he did not possess one redeeming feature. It seemed out of character for him to be the first person in her life to know when she was hiding pain. How was she to reconcile that sensitivity with the cold, unfeeling man she had always known him to be? She did not want to like him in any way. If she did, the attraction she felt toward him would be dangerous. As it was, she had wanted to lay her head down on his shoulder as he carried her upstairs and breathe in the very masculine scent of him.

She had sobbed and sobbed after coming inside her room, but could not adequately explain to herself why she did so. Was it the pain? But she was accustomed to coping with that, although it did not happen very frequently. She had just felt hopelessly depressed. Consequently, when a maid had brought her medicine a mere ten minutes after Raymore had left her, she had taken it and lapsed into blessed unconsciousness soon after.

Now she felt considerably better. Her leg had stopped aching and she was cheered by the sight of a clear blue sky and sunshine when she drew back the curtains at her window. Her head was feeling a trifle heavy from the drug-induced sleep, but fresh air would soon dispense with that problem. She decided that she would take a brisk ride before breakfast. She doubted that anyone else was up yet.

Less than half an hour later, having washed, dressed, and combed her hair into a loose knot beneath her feathered riding hat, Rosalind was walking across to the stables, the loose gravel of the driveway crunching beneath her boots. The Earl of Raymore, seated alone in the breakfast room with yesterday's paper spread before him, saw her go. He frowned. She was up very early and seemed to be in a great hurry. Was she keeping a tryst? It was hardly likely this early in the morning, but he would not exclude any possibilities as far as Rosalind Dacey was concerned. Sbe must be made to realize that she could not come and go with total freedom even if she was now in the country. Once she was married, it would be up to her husband to set the limits. In the meanwhile, she would have to accept the restrictions he chose to impose upon her. He folded the newspaper, threw his napkin onto the table, and rose to follow her.

Rosalind was impatiently tapping her riding crop against her boot waiting for a groom to finish saddling the stallion that she usually rode when Raymore entered the stable yard. The crop became still when she saw him.

"Good morning, my lord," she said warily. Why did he always have to look so disturbingly handsome? This morning he was wearing a close-fitting dark-blue coat with buff riding breeches and shiny black boots. A black top hat sat at a slightly rakish angle on his blond hair.

"Is it wise to ride when you are in pain?" he asked.

She was relieved to hear his voice. It had its old irritable tone. She could safely dislike him again.

"I am quite recovered this morning," she said. "A ride is just what I need."

"Not on that animal," he said decisively. "He is much too large and skittish for you. Saddle a quiet mare for Miss Dacey," he ordered, turning to the groom.

"I shall ride Prince, as I intended," Rosalind replied coolly. "He needs the exercise as much as I."

"Are you doing this to provoke me or to impress me?" he asked coldly. "You are not strong on common sense, ma'am, but surely even you must realize the folly of risking a fall when you already suffer the consequences of one."

She did not deign to reply, but seeing that Prince was ready, she crossed to his side and indicated to the groom that she wished to mount. Soon she was guiding the horse out of the stable yard. She did not even glance in the direction of her guardian.

"Hot headed fool," he muttered under his breath as he strode to the stall that housed his own horse and began swiftly to saddle it. A few minutes later he was urging his mount in the direction of a field, where Rosalind was holding her horse to a trot. He quickly caught up to her.

"At least, if you must be foolhardy. I shall accompany you and pick up the pieces," he called testily across to her.

She smiled frostily back. "I plan to give this horse a good workout once he has warmed up," she said. "Do you think you can keep up with us, my lord?"

"You do not have to show off for me, Rosalind," he growled. "Your present pace is quite fast enough."

She laughed and increased her horse's speed slightly.

He should have told her to go ahead, that it mattered not to him if she broke her neck, Raymore realized. She was so headstrong that she would do anything just to defy him. Why, in heaven's name, had he been blessed with her? It was bad enough to be landed with two female wards under any circumstances, but when one of them was Rosalind Dacey, the situation became a nightmare. His peace of mind was completely shattered. He had lain awake half the night before puzzling over his feelings for her. She was everything that should repel him. He had never admired dark-haired women and her hair was almost black. He liked sweet, fragile faces that promised submissiveness. She had strong features, flashing dark eyes, and a stubborn chin. He had always disliked tall women. She reached to his shoulders and was far from fragile. He had seen her and touched her often enough to know that a voluptuous figure lay beneath the loose, flowing clothes that she favored. He hated women who talked a lot. She was not a prattler, but when she did speak, it was with the assertiveness of a man. And then there was that limp.

Why, then, did he feel this impossible attraction to the girl? It was years since he had been tempted by a lady of quality. His tastes had drawn him to women of the theater, with whom he could very quickly satisfy his appetites. There was no way he could rid himself of the desire he felt for his ward. In fact, he felt quite humiliated even to admit to himself that he did want her. He must concentrate on his dislike of her, he reminded himself as he kept urging his horse to a slightly faster speed to keep pace with hers. His rose!

Suddenly he found himself left behind as Rosalind spurred her mount into a gallop. She did it partly to show him that she cared nothing for his admonitions; Yet she had intended when she left the house to blow away the cobwebs of her mind. She bent low over the horse's neck and urged him on ever faster and faster. When she saw a hedge approaching, she made no attempt to avoid it but soared over with a feeling of great exhilaration. She felt again the thrill of speed and uninhibited motion. On horseback she could forget her disability; she was the equal of anyone. She was aware of Raymore half a length behind her. The need to stay ahead of him added to her excitement. With Flossie she could have done so with ease.

There was another hedge at the far side of the field through which they now raced. There was also a five-barred gate, higher than the level of the hedge. Rosalind turned her horse's head so that she galloped directly toward it.

Raymore saw her intention at a glance. He gritted his teeth and knew a moment of blank terror. She would kill herself. Even if the horse did not catch a leg on the top bar and plunge them both to the ground, she would never be able to keep her seat over such a height, mounted as she was on a sidesaddle. He considered trying to head her off, but that would mean risking collision and almost as much danger.

He took the hedge at the same time as she soared over the gate with inches to spare. Rosalind immediately pulled back on the reins and eased the horse to a walk. She had turned its head so that it could keep to the cooler shade beside the hedge. She leaned forward and patted its neck.

The next moment a very firm gloved hand grasped the reins and her horse was pulled to an abrupt halt. The Earl of Raymore was off his own mount almost as quickly. He reached up, caught Rosalind by the waist, and almost dragged her to the ground. The horses wandered off, side by side, in search of some longer grass on which to graze.

Before Rosalind could make any sort of protest, she was being shaken by hands that held her shoulders in a bruising grip. Her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll. Her riding hat fell to the ground and her hair cascaded down over her shoulders and face.

"Damn you to hell!" Raymore was shouting. "You could have killed yourself, do you realize that? You hotheaded, stubborn fool!"

When he finally stopped shaking her, Rosalind had a hard time catching her breath and her sense of balance. She clung to his arms in self-defense. "Stop treating me like a child," she cried, her voice shaking. "I am mortally sick of your constant spying and scolding. Leave me alone!" She struggled to free herself from his grip but only found herself hauled firmly against his chest, her hands imprisoned between them.

"By God, Rosalind," he said between his teeth, "I shall teach you that you cannot bait me and get away with it."

His mouth was savage on hers, as it had been the last time, she remembered. But that last time he had not tumbled her immediately to the ground, his weight pinning her to the grass and depriving her momentarily of breath. He had not then proceeded to dispense with her upper garments so that almost before she understood his intentions his hands were on her naked breasts, his mouth and tongue plundering her own before trailing a hot path down her throat and to her breasts. But then that other time her hands had not unbuttoned his coat and roamed over the thin silk of his shirt to feel the firm muscles of his chest, the rippling muscles of his arms.

"Rosalind," he was murmuring over and over again. "My rose! My red rose!" His hands twined in her thick dark hair until his fingers rested against her scalp. He turned her head up to him again and traced her parted lips with his tongue before covering them with his own and exploring the warm excitement of her mouth.

"Edward," she moaned when he lifted his head again, "oh, please. Please!"

He had to have her. He would go mad with longing if he had to wait just one moment longer. He had to be one with her, had to be inside her. He eased his weight half off her and reached down to pull up the skirt of her heavy riding habit. His hand caressed her slim legs as his mouth sought out the pulse at the base of her throat. She twisted her hands in his hair and gasped out his name.

His hand stroked and caressed its way up one leg to the knee, along her warm inner thigh, over the tight muscles of her stomach to the fastenings of her undergarments at her waist.

She wanted him so desperately. He was moving so slowly, pulling loose now the ribbons that kept him away from her. Finally his warm and gentle hand was against the bare flesh of her stomach, moving to one side to trace her hip before continuing its descent. Rosalind was raw sensation. She would explode if he did not release this tension soon. She arched her hips against his hand, parting her legs, willing him lower.

He raised his head and she gazed into his passion-heavy blue eyes. Beautiful eyes that she could drown in. "My rose!" he murmured. The eyes and voice heavy with feeling, the hand worshiping her body. So different from usual. From usual! Rosalind was suddenly jerked back to reality. She was lying under a hedge in an open field in broad daylight, almost naked to the waist, her skirt bunched up around her hips, within a few moments of being bedded by the Earl of Raymore. And inviting and responding to his advances every step of the way. With a cry of panic, she pushed at his chest and rolled to one side, pulling her skirt down with shaking hands as she did so.

"Rosalind!" he protested in bewilderment.

"Go away! Leave me alone!" she cried, leaping to her feet and, her back to him, pulling her blouse around her and buttoning it up. "Do you think I am a servant or a milkmaid to be rolled on the ground like this? I am the niece of the former Earl of Raymore and your ward. I am betrothed and soon to be wed. Do you hate me so much that you must ruin me and spoil my one chance of a respectable future?"

She babbled on, not knowing half of what she said. Finally her jacket had been buttoned up again and her hat and riding crop gathered from the ground. In her frenzy she had tried to find enough hairpins in the grass to pin up her hair again, but it was a hopeless task. She limped across to where Prince was grazing and mounted unassisted into the sidesaddle. Without a backward glance at her companion, who had not uttered a word since her outburst, she spurred the horse into a gallop across the field.

Raymore, who had been sitting with his head resting on his updrawn knees, looked up as she moved away. What a fool he was! She was easily the most accomplished horsewoman he had ever seen, as he would have realized earlier had he not been blinded by irrational fears for her safety. She was true grace and beauty as she disappeared from sight, dark hair streaming out behind her.

And, God, more than a fool. A prize idiot! He loved her. He loved Rosalind Dacey, the woman to whom of all others he felt most antagonistic. Of course! He must have felt it from the start, and some inner instinct of self-preservation had reacted with such terror that he had convinced himself that the opposite was true, that he hated her. God help him, he had lost, cruelly lost, every woman to whom he had entrusted his love and now it was happening again. But this time he had lost her before ever having her. He had done everything in his power to make her hate him, and hate him she did. He had used every effort to find her a husband, to be rid of her before he was forced to recognize his love of her. And she was now betrothed to a man with whom she seemed quite contented and who obviously desired her. And he had just insulted her beyond endurance. The terrifying experience of expecting her each moment to break her neck had snapped his control. If she had not broken away when she had, he would be lying with her now, his seed inside her, contemplating the worst dilemma of his life. He would have been forced to marry a woman who hated him, keeping her away forever from the man with whom she could be happy.

He had lost again, and through his own stupidity this time. Raymore looked up at the blue sky and laughed harshly. But the smile on his face faded quickly and he rested his forehead on his knees again. He could not get that song out of his head. Words that had eluded him for days were suddenly there with cruel clarity:

Rosalind!

Sylvia had passed a restless night. She felt extremely foolish having discovered that yet again she had only imagined herself in love. But tbis time it was impossible to get out of the entanglement that she found herself in. Lord Standen was a man of principle and impeccable reputation. Their betrothal had been publicly celebrated in London at his sister's ball and was being celebrated this week. She had been accepted by his mother. Plans for a wedding in the autumn were already being made. She could not possibly tell him now that she did not wish to be his wife.

Perhaps the situation would still be tolerable if it were not for her terrible discovery of the day before. She could do worse than make this marriage. Lord Standen would be a good husband, she believed, even if rather strict. She would have a good home, all the luxuries she could want for the rest of her life. She would occupy an enviable position in society. The fact that she did not love him need not doom her to misery.

But the fact that she loved his brother surely would. She was not really surprised that she had not realized the truth until the day before. Nigel Broome was so different from any of the young men with whom she had fancied herself in love during the past few years. They had all been handsome, charming, fashionable. Nigel was so ordinary: only passably good-looking, only of medium height, and earnest rather than charming in manner. She had liked him from the first, had developed a close and warm friendship with him. Only the afternoon before, when they were together in the boat, had she known that he was far more than a friend to her. He was the man with whom she wished to spend her life. She did not care that with him she would not live in mansions or have several carriages or dressing rooms full of gowns. It would be enough just to be with him, to share his dreams, to look after his comforts.

But there was little use in dreaming. Even if she could summon the courage or audacity to break off her engagement to Lord Standen, she could not then marry his brother. Such behavior was unthinkable. And even if she had not accepted Standen's proposal in the first place, she doubted very much if Cousin Edward would have countenanced her marriage to Nigel Broome. His birth, of course, was as good as Lord Standen's, and he had an income of his own, she knew, though he was not a wealthy man. But the fact was that he was a younger son with no particular prospects, and she was sure that her guardian would consider him unworthy of the daughter of an earl.

There was nothing for it, it seemed, but to accept her fate. But Sylvia felt desperately lonely. At one time during the night she had considered going into the next room and waking Rosalind. But she remembered Cousin Edward telling Lady Standen in the drawing room that her cousin had retired to bed with a headache.

When she awoke the next morning, Sylvia felt an immediate sinking of the heart as memory flooded back. She dreaded telling anyone of her problems, but the need to confide in someone was overwhelming. She dressed in haste, without summoning help, and brushed impatiently at her blond curls. She would go talk to Rosalind before going down to breakfast. Rosalind always seemed to know what to do, although Sylvia did not think that anyone could offer her any real help. Rosalind's room, alas, was empty. She must be up and riding early as she often used to do at home.

She went downstairs, but shook her head at the footman who would have opened the doors of the breakfast room for her. She could hear voices inside and did not think she could cope with the need to be sociable just yet. She wandered through the front door, which stood open to the morning sunshine, and started to cross the main driveway to the formal gardens that were laid out south of the house. She stopped when she saw Raymore striding toward her from the direction of the stables. He was staring at the ground, looking pensive. He did not look his usual arrogant self at all, in fact. On impulse, Sylvia stopped and waited until he was close enough to notice her.

"Good morning. Edward," she said brightly when he looked up. "Have you been riding so early?"

"Yes," he said, "it is a beautiful morning."

"May I speak to you for a few moments?" she asked hesitantly. "Or are you very anxious to go in to breakfast?"

"I am not hungry at all," he said abruptly and, offering her his arm, led her into one of the grass walks of the garden.

"Cousin Edward," Sylvia said with a deep breath, "I am very unhappy."

Unhappy, he thought, turning to glance down at the pretty girl on his arm. What did she know of unhappiness? She had doubtless been pampered and petted all her life and had no conception of what pain and misery were. "Oh?" he prompted chillingly.

"I fear I have made a dreadful mistake," she said, staring at the ground ahead of her.

"A mistake?"

"I do not wish to marry Lord Standen," she said.

Raymore stopped walking and turned to look down at her incredulously. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked. "Why, pray, do you not wish to marry?"

Sylvia's syes were filled with tears. "Don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I cannot love him, Edward. I thought I did, truly, but it is not so. Oh, what am I to do?"

"What are you to do?" he thundered. "Why, you are to marry the man, of course. Love! What does that have to say to the matter? Do you believe you would be one whit the happier with a man whom you loved? You would only be inviting misery and betrayal. I want to hear no more of this nonsense. Do you understand?"

"Edward," she began, a tear spilling out of each eye.

"The connection is eminently suitable," he went on. "You are doubtless the envy of every unmarried girl in London. You will live in the style to which you are accustomed, and even more elaborately. I will not tolerate any withdrawal from this betrothal, Sylvia. Such a move would publicly embarrass Standen and sully your own reputation. What other man would be willing to look at you for the remainder of the Season?"

"I am sorry," she said. "I did not mean to anger you. Please forgive me. I shall try to feel as I ought."

Raymore relaxed slightly. He had certainly not expected trouble from this girl. But at least she was more biddable than her cousin. She just needed firm handling. She would have it from him until she was safely married, and he believed beyond a doubt that Standen would put up with no nonsense once the ceremony was over.

"Come," he said, his tone somewhat softened, "let me escort you to the house. Have you had breakfast yet? I imagine that you are suffering from prenuptial nerves. Believe me, you will live to thank me for promoting this match."

"Yes, Edward," she said, taking his arm and allowing herself to be led back to the house.

Susan Heron and Letitia Morrison, in the breakfast room, were planning yet another morning visit to the village. Sylvia declined to join them, saying that she would wait for Lady Theresa to get up and Rosalind to return from her ride. They would find something to do together.

But Sylvia did not wait for either her friend or her cousin. As soon as she was alone, she left the house again and wandered in the direction of the trees, where she could think without interruption. It was hopeless, of course. She could see that she was doomed to marry Lord Standen. And there was no possible way she could ever marry Nigel. But there was no harm in dreaming, was there? If only there were some way of making everyone see with great clarity that she and Lord Standen were not suited. If only everyone could agree that she must break her engagement to him. And if only miracles would happen and everyone would urge her to marry Nigel.

Sylvia stopped and stood with her arms stretched around the trunk of a tree. She laid a cheek against the bark. It was impossible, of course. Unless… An arrested look came over her face. She stood thus for several minutes, hugging the tree. Anyone who had observed her both enter the woods and leave them a half-hour later would have noticed that there was more spring in her step as she strode back to the house, more color to her cheeks and sparkle to her eyes.

"I was beginning to think that you were never going to rise, sleepyhead," she called gaily to Lady Theresa, who was standing in the doorway, blinking in the bright sunlight.