Red Rose

Chapter 12

Lady Standen had planned a grand dinner and ball for the following evening. She wished to introduce her future daughter-in-law to the foremost families of the neighborhood and to make a formal announcement of the betrothal. The whole house was in an uproar of excitement at the elaborate preparations that were being made. The chef was preparing all the food himself, the gardener was cutting flowers enough to decorate the dining room and the ballroom, and all the servants were engaged in cleaning and helping.

The guests were glad of the distraction. The weather was cold and blustery, the pleasures of the countryside beginning to pall on those who were eager to participate in the last whirl of activities that the Season had to offer in London. Sylvia and her two friends fluttered gaily about the house, helping with floral arrangements and exchanging details of the gowns they were to wear that night. The men played billiards and wisely stayed out of the way of the main activities. Lady Standen and Letitia Morrison spent most of the day in the morning room, sewing and chatting cosily. Only a few went about their lone pursuits.

Nigel spent the day visiting his brother's tenants and paying a lengthy call at the school, where he helped out an overworked teacher by listening to some of the youngest children read. He deliberately occupied himself away from the house. He could not resist his beloved's plea to stay, yet he could not be near her. It was a personal torture to see and hear her, and to know that soon she would be his brother's wife and beyond his reach forever. And it went against his sense of honor to be in her presence while harboring forbidden feelings for her. He would have to attend the ball tonight. It would be most unmannerly of him to stay away. But tomorrow he must go, a day before the rest of the party broke up. He must find an opportunity to tell her so tonight.

The Earl of Raymore played billiards for part of the day, but soon after luncheon he secluded himself in Standen's library, where he drew down volume after volume, trying to interest himself in a pastime that was usually among his favorites. Nothing would do. Each book found its way back onto the shelf when less than a page had been read. He should leave. It was torture to be in the same house as her. In London, he could at least leave the house and spend a whole day away. Here that was impossible. Luncheon and dinner yesterday had been an acute embarrassment. He had stolen a glance at her only a few times, and though she had not been looking at him on any of those occasions, he knew that she too felt desperately uncomfortable. He did not even have the consolation any longer of believing that he disliked and hated her. And he could no longer persuade himself that she was ugly. Her startling southern beauty made everyone else at the table look insipid, even Sylvia. He knew what that dark hair looked like falling in heavy locks around her face and over her shoulders, making her skin appear like alabaster. He knew how her eyes and lips looked when they were dreamy with passion. And he knew how very womanly her body was beneath the flowing gown.

He needed a few days to accustom himself to the knowledge that he loved her but could never have her. For a while she had responded to his lovemaking, but she had made it very clear before leaving him that she hated and despised him. And she had conversed almost exclusively with Crawleigh during dinner. Afterward, in the drawing room, she had sung for a while, but not for the entertainment of the room at large. Her songs had been quietly directed at her fiance, who leaned against the pianoforte the whole while gazing into her face. Raymore had been tense, though he appeared to be relaxed as he made up a table for piquet. He was terrified that she would sing the song about the rose. He would not be able to stand that. He was greatly relieved when she moved away from the instrument and joined Crawleigh on a love seat a little removed from any other members of the company.

Despite his need to distance himself from Rosalind, Raymore knew that he must stay. He had joined the party only two days before. It would be entirely rude to leave before the end, especially on the day of the ball. He must be present as the guardian of the girl whose betrothal was to be celebrated. And his talk with Sylvia the morning before had bothered him. He had thought her to be a thoroughly predictable young lady. He had expected her to be mindlessly satisfied with any marriage, provided the man were eligible, wealthy, and tolerably good-looking. He was not seriously alarmed, as he believed the words she had spoken to him had been prompted by prenuptial nerves. He could think of no rational explanation of why she would suddenly wish to withdraw from her engagement. However, he felt that his presence was necessary. He must certainly watch to see that she did not do anything foolish before she had time to recover from her strange mood.

Rosalind was not alone on the day of the ball. She was out riding with Sir Bernard Crawleigh, and she was in a deliberately gay mood. She had just agreed, in fact, that their wedding should take place during early August in Shropshire, where his parents lived. They did not enjoy city life and would be far happier to organize the wedding among their friends, he explained. Rosalind had her own reasons for agreeing. She did not want a big society wedding. The thought of limping down a long church aisle watched by all the prominent members of the ton horrified her. And she wanted to move permanently away from the Earl of Raymore's home as soon as she possibly could. She did not wish to have to move back there after the summer while her wedding was organized. She did not wish to have him give her away. It would be quite intolerable to have to walk down the aisle on his arm. She hoped that he would not come to Shropshire.

They spent the whole morning riding, going even as far as the hills that rose to the north of the estate. Sir Bernard told her about all the places to which he planned to take her during their wedding trip to Europe.

"I must take you to Austria," he said. "You will love Vienna. And in Italy, of course, Venice is the city of romance. You shall ride in a gondola, Rosalind."

"And Rome?" she asked eagerly. "Will we go there too, Bernard?"

"How could we miss it?" he replied.

By the time they arrived back at Broome Hall Rosalind was feeling quite cheerful. She had certainly made the right decision. In four or five weeks' time she would be married and traveling as she had always dreamed of doing. She would be with Bernard, who was always cheerful and attractive and who understood her. Once she was married, she would be able to forget about the Earl of Raymore. She would be safe from him.

Rosalind was very grateful to Bernard for urging her to agree to bring forward their wedding. He had suggested it the evening before at the end of a nightmare day. She had been desperately in need of some distraction. She had spent most of the day alone. After leaving Raymore, she had ridden, not even aware of the direction she took or the landmarks she passed. She had tried to outride her thoughts, but the visions crowded in: Raymore dragging her from her horse, his hands iron hard on her arms, his face furiously angry; shaking her until she thought she would lose consciousness; kissing her and caressing her on the ground; calling her by name, calling her his rose. Her face grew hot as visions of her own response came unbidden to mind. As soon as she had felt his mouth on hers, she had been lost, given up entirely to mere physical responses. His weight on her when he took her to the ground had been such an erotic experience. She had wanted him with a raw passion.

She might have stopped him from unbuttoning her jacket and her blouse, but she had eagerly cooperated. She had had to feel his hands on her bare flesh, on her breasts. She had not even been ashamed of their fullness as she had been ever since she had realized years ago that she was developing far more than any other girl she knew. She had wanted him to see her, to touch her. And she burned with shame now at the memory of the way she had allowed him to raise her skirts. She had even lifted her hips so that he could pull away the fabric. She had wanted him so desperately, had chafed at the tantalizing slowness with which his hand had moved up her thighs. And she had been close, so close, to losing herself completely. Some instinctive part of her womanhood told her that they had been within moments of the ultimate touch, the one to which everything else had been building.

And she had desired it, desperately wanted it, with Raymore! The thought was terrifying, nauseating. Was she so depraved, so out of control of her own reactions, that she could have allowed him of. all people to make love to her? She could not even have accused him of ravishment if the act had been carried to completion; she had been an eager partner.

She found it very difficult to understand her own behavior. She knew that she was physically attracted to her guardian. He was Alistair in appearance, after all. But surely mere attraction should die when one found the person cold and unlikable. And what of him? He disliked her just as much as she did him. Why, then, had he made such violent love to her on two separate occasions? Did he experience a similar sort of uncontrollable passion? It was hard to believe because she knew that he was a man of impeccable taste in beautiful things, and she was far from lovely. Was he merely trying to punish and humiliate her? She would have believed so, but his behavior had not seemed cold and calculating. He had spoken to her, almost as if he did not know that he did so, calling her his rose. What had he meant by that? Was it a reference to her name?

Rosalind could not find any interpretation of Raymore's behavior that satisfied her. But she did know that their relationship was dangerous. They could not be in each other's presence without quarreling, and when they quarreled, this disturbing passion flared. She had to get away from him, and stay away.

She had contrived to spend the afternoon alone as well, keeping to her room, complaining of a recurrence of her headache. At dinner she had been relieved to find herself seated next to Sir Bernard. Only by talking and joking with him could she cope with the terrible ordeal of having to share a table with the Earl of Raymore. And after dinner, in the drawing room, her fiance had taken her apart and asked her if she could be ready for a wedding the following month when they visited his parents. He had made a joke of the proposal. Since he could not get her to bed this side of the wedding, he said, he would have to move the wedding ahead in order to save his sanity.

"Of course," he had added with a grin, "the offer that you so heartlessly rejected yesterday still holds for tonight. Will you, Rosalind?"

She had slapped him playfully on the hand. "Patience, sir," she had said. "All good things come to those who wait, you know."

"I shall hold you to those words," he had replied.

While Rosalind had crossed to the tea table in order to pour tea for them both, Sir Bernard had watched Raymore with narrowed eyes as the latter contemplated the cards in his hand, apparently engrossed in his game. From his bedroom window he had seen the earl ride after Rosalind that morning. It had been a full hour before he returned, alone. He had not stayed with her. But still, an hour!

There were more than thirty people invited to the grand dinner before the ball. All the leading gentry of the countryside had been invited. Sylvia was dressed to perfection. She wore white satin covered with delicate Brussels lace threaded with silver. The gown, with its high waist, low neckline, and short puffed sleeves, emphasized her delicate beauty. Rosalind was pleased to notice that her cousin was looking happier than she had looked for days. In fact, she positively glowed. She must, then, have convinced herself that her betrothal was right, that she really did love Lord Standen.

Rosalind herself wore a gown of bright turquoise. She had had it made hurriedly for this very occasion, after she had accepted Bernard's offer. And for the first time she had allowed Madame de Valery to shape the gown to her figure. She did not have to hide herself any longer. Nobody could dispute the fact that Sir Bernard Crawleigh was a fashionable member of society. He had chosen her to be his bride. It did not matter that she limped, that she was unfashionably dark, that she did not have the sylphlike figure of the ideal debutante. He had chosen her. She had therefore decided to be ashamed of her appearance no longer.

She was rewarded by a look of frank admiration from her betrothed as she entered an already crowded drawing room. "I say," he said, "you will make me the envy of every man present tonight." He raised her hand to his lips.

Rosalind smiled determinedly into his eyes. A sixth sense told her that Raymore was also in the room already, but she could not risk looking around and meeting his eyes.

Lord Standen was circulating in the room, Sylvia on his arm, introducing his bride-to-be to his neighbors. They made an extremely handsome couple, Rosalind thought. His ice-blue coat, white satin knee breeches, and silver waistcoat complemented Sylvia's outfit to perfection. They looked like a bridal pair.

Sylvia was seated at dinner at the right hand of Lord Standen, instead of at the foot of the table next to his mother as she had been all week. She made a great effort to talk to him during the meal and flushed becomingly when he rose at the end to introduce her formally as his betrothed to the company. She looked at Nigel for the first time at that point. He was smiling at her, but she knew him well enough to detect that the smile was strained. She smiled warmly back at him. All will be well, she wanted to tell him, if only my plan works. It must work, she thought as she turned to answer a comment made by the guest sitting to her right.

Rosalind had the great misfortune to be seated next to the Earl of Raymore. She was most dismayed and vastly annoyed with herself for not having taken an active interest in the preparations earlier in the day as the other ladies had done. Perhaps she could have discovered the seating plan and had it changed while it was still possible to do so. Raymore too seemed taken aback to find himself seated next to her. For the whole of the first course they studiously devoted their attention to their other neighbors. Rosalind listened to a monologue on the corn crop delivered by a Mr. Phelps, who was openly delighted to discover such a receptive audience. Raymore submitted himself to an exhaustive interrogation on the latest hairstyles and fashions in gowns and bonnets by an eager little matron whose husband would apparently never agree to take her to town. Both held themselves turned stiffly away from the other. Each felt an electric awareness of the other.

Raymore was finally forced to turn to his ward when the little matron leaned across him to ask Rosalind to pass the salt.

"You are looking extremely handsome tonight," he said stiffly after the salt had been passed.

Rosalind darted him a startled look. "Why, thank you, my lord," she said. It was the first time she had looked directly at him since he had held her in his arms. He looked breathtakingly handsome himself, she thought, looking away in confusion as her quick glance took in the black coat, which molded his shoulders as if he had been poured into it; the elaborate, diamond-studded folds of his white neckcoth. His hair looked gleamingly blond in contrast to his coat.

"I trust your foot has not been paining you lately?" he asked.

"No, thank you," she replied. "I am quite well now." She had a sudden, alarming urge to giggle. What a ridiculous conversation to be holding on such a festive occasion. "Did you make final arrangements for your concert while still in London?" she asked.

His face relaxed almost into a smile. "Yes," he replied. "I believe it will be a great success. Dr. Hans Dehnert has agreed to perform."

Rosalind turned to gaze at him, wide-eyed. "Hans Dehnert?" she repeated. "You mean the Austrian pianist? He has agreed to play for you?"

He smiled openly. "Are you surprised?" he asked. "I can be very persuasive, you see, when a matter is important to me."

"I have dreamed and dreamed of being able to hear him play Mozart," she said, cheeks flushed with excitement. "He will play Mozart, will he not?"

"Exclusively," he assured her. "It was the one condition he made, and I would have requested it, anyway. I, too, shall be hearing him for the first time, though he will come to the house for a few days before the concert to acquaint himself with my pianoforte and the room in which he will play."

"And may one listen to him?" she asked eagerly.

"He has specified not," he replied. He grinned suddenly. "But there is an anteroom, you know, from which one can hear sounds made in the music room as well as if one were right there."

Her eyes sparkled into his. "Dare we?" she asked, and they grinned at each other like a pair of conspirators.

A footman stretched out an arm between them in order to refill Rosalind's glass with wine. His presence broke the spell with great thoroughness. Raymore's face sobered as he continued to gaze into his ward's eyes. She stiffened, blushed, lowered her eyes, and turned jerkily away. Mr. Phelps was waiting to recapture her attention with news of enclosures that he had been making on the eastern portion of his land.

Lady Standen stood with her son and Sylvia in the receiving line when the other guests arrived later for the ball. Sir Bernard Crawleigh led Rosalind to a sofa and seated himself beside her. She felt self-conscious again. These people were strangers and had not seen her before. She had intercepted several curious glances. However, she raised her chin and refused to be daunted. Let them stare. Lady Theresa, she noticed, was smiling dazzlingly and chatting with the Earl of Raymore. He was looking bored, as he usually did in such situations.

It was much later in the evening when Sylvia, dancing with Lord Standen for the second time, complained of the heat. "I feel I shall surely faint if I do not have some air," she told him.

"I ordered the doors to be left closed, my dear, because the evening is quite raw and I would not wish any of the ladies to take cold," he replied.

"But I must go outside," she said. "Please take me into the garden for a while. Your guests will not miss you." She held her breath. Would he reply as he had the many times she had rehearsed this scene with herself?

"I could not desert my guests in the middle of a ball," he told her kindly. "Perhaps if you were to sit down and I were to bring you a glass of lemonade, you would feel better my dear?"

"Perhaps," she answered faintly.

He led her solicitously to a chair close to the windows and seated her before moving away to the refreshment room. Sylvia smiled at Nigel, who was standing a short distance away, not dancing. He came across to her uncertainly and bowed.

"Are you not feeling quite the thing?" he asked.

"Just a trifle faint," she assured him. "Standen has gone to fetch me some lemonade."

When it arrived, she sipped on it awhile while both men watched her. She looked up at Lord Standen with pleading eyes. "If you cannot take me outside, may Nigel accompany me?" she asked. "Just for a brief walk?"

"I was about to suggest the very same thing," he said. "Nigel, do you mind?"

Nigel hesitated. He looked quite taken aback. "It would be my pleasure," he said, bowing in Sylvia's direction. "You will need a shawl, Sylvia, or even a cloak."

"I shall have one brought from your room," Lord Standen agreed.

Having given his orders to a footman to have a maid fetch a cloak from Lady Marsh's room, Lord Standen also ordered that one set of French doors be thrown back for the comfort of his guests. The crowded ballroom, laden with flowers, had become unpleasantly stuffy.

Five minutes later, Nigel led his charge, well-protected from the chilly evening air in a pink cloak, out onto the terrace. Rosalind noticed Sylvia leave and felt a twinge of uneasiness. It had seemed for a few days as if her cousin was happy with her betrothal, but Rosalind had never been quite certain of the role played by Nigel Broome in the relationship. The Earl of Raymore also saw his ward leave but was not alarmed. The girl had appeared happy tonight with Standen, and, as he thought, the man was taking pains to look after his own. Raymore had noticed how he had delegated to his brother the task of escorting Sylvia out of doors.

It was only much later that anyone still present indoors realized that neither Nigel nor Sylvia had returned to the ballroom.

Nigel's arm was tense beneath Sylvia's hand. He walked her in silence along the terrace and turned to walk back again.

"Let us not go in yet," she pleaded with him. "Let us go down onto the lawn, Nigel."

"It is cold," he said. "You will catch a chill."

"No, I will not," she said. "Please, Nigel."

They descended the stone steps to the grass below and she turned and strolled-aimlessly, it seemed-in the direction of the trees to the east of the house. It was a dark night, but occasionally moonlight flooded down on them as broken clouds scudded across the sky. They said nothing but an awareness grew as they moved farther and farther away from the light and music of the ballroom. Again Nigel moved to turn back when they reached the line of trees.

"Take me to the lake," she said. "I want to see it in the moonlight."

"No," he said, strain in his voice. "It would not be wise to go farther. This is not easy for me, Sylvia."

"Nor for me," she said, turning to him and clasping her hands. "Nigel, please. This may be our only remaining chance to be together-for just a short while."

He gazed at her out of tortured eyes. Then he caught her to him, holding her head against his chest, resting his cheek on her curls. "My love," he said shakily, "I cannot bear this."

He allowed her to take his arm again and they walked through the trees until they came to the edge of the lake. It took a little more persuasion to convince Nigel to take out one of the boats, but eventually they were out on the lake. Sylvia gazed happily at the moonlit water, rough and choppy in the wind. She ran her hand experimentally through the water. It felt disconcertingly cold. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably loud as she silently measured the distance to the island. Soon now!

"Nigel," she said, looking up to find his eyes fixed on her in an agony of longing, "'do you truly love me?"

"Don't ask me to say it," he said. "Please, Sylvia, I am trying not to think of it."

"I need to know," she pleaded.

"Yes, I love you," he said.

"And you would wish to marry me if I were free?"

"It is the dearest dream of my life," he said.

"Nigel," she cried, "hold me, hold me just once."

She leapt to her feet and almost launched herself at his chest. He had time only for a startled exclamation and a "Look out!" and they were both in the water, sputtering and coughing as their heads came above the surface. Nigel tried to grab for the overturned boat, but Sylvia clutched at his coat and he was forced to abandon the boat in order to save her from panic. The island was close by. Nigel swam for it, dragging Sylvia along with him. They lay on the bank for a few moments, coughing and gasping.

"Are you all right, love?" he asked finally, pulling her sodden form close to him and pushing the soaked strands of hair away from her face.

"Y-yes," she stammered, becoming more and more miserably aware of the icy coldness of the gown and cloak that clung to her and of the cold wet velvet of Nigel's coat, against which her cheek was pressed. "Are you?" She had thought of the wetness and cold, had tried to think of some way of landing them on the island in dry clothes, but there had seemed to be no other way.

"It has not floated too far away," he was saying. "I can swim to it, love, and bring it back here. I shall have you back at the house in a half-hour."

"No!" she shrieked, clutching at his sodden sleeve. "Don't leave me, Nigel. You will be drowned for sure and I should have to watch you. Please, please stay with me."

"It might be morning before they find us," he said. "You will have pneumonia by then, love. There is no other way."

"No," she said. "Stay here. We will keep each other warm as best we can."

If Sylvia had ever imagined that the situation would be romantic, she was to be rudely disillusioned. They moved to the pavilion, where at least they would be shielded from the worst force of the wind. Nigel wrung out as much water as he could from Sylvia's cloak and his own coat, and Sylvia squeezed the folds of her dress. They lay on the hard floor for the rest of the night, covered with dried leaves and the decidedly damp cloak, huddled together, but too miserable with cold to feel any spark of desire.

Sylvia had not planned to confess quite so soon, but she found that, loving Nigel as she did, she could not deceive him any longer. She told him that she had carefully plotted all the happenings of the last hour.

"Even the tipping of the boat?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," she admitted, "even that. I could not think of any other way to get us stranded here, you see, Nigel."

"But why?" he asked. "Do you not realize that you will be hopelessly compromised, love?"

"Yes," she said against the curve of his neck.

"George will never marry you now," he said seriously. "I shall be forced to."

"Yes," she said.

There was a short silence.

"Sylvia," he said, "I shall be forced to marry you. I shall be forced to marry you! You little schemer!"

"I did ask you if you truly wished to before I tipped the boat," she said anxiously. "You do, Nigel, don't you?"

"Little schemer!" was all he would say in reply. "I can well see who will rule our household if I do not put my foot down very firmly right at the start."

"No, really, Nigel," she said, moving her cheek away from the thread of warmth she had found against his neck. "I shall be very good and very obedient. I was desperate on this occasion, you see."

He kissed her on the lips for the first time. Unfortunately, it was not the most auspicious occasion for a first kiss. They were soon desperately trying again to find some measure of warmth against each other and beneath the damp cover. Sylvia fell into a light doze just before dawn. Nigel, whose arm soon became badly cramped beneath her neck and whose velvet coat brought more discomfort than warmth, did not sleep at all.