Red Rose

Chapter 15

The Earl of Raymore was true to this word. Rosalind saw nothing of him between the time of their meeting in the music room and the concert on Friday evening. The day following her encounter with him she was still as undecided as she was the day before about what her reply would be. She wandered into the music room in the morning and played some music that she found undemanding. She sang a little. But she could not bring herself to even try the Beethoven. She wandered out again little more than a half-hour after she had begun.

In the afternoon she decided to pay a call on Lady Elise Martel. She had not seen her since before going into the country. They spent a pleasant half-hour exchanging news and cooing over the baby, whom Lady Elise had brought down from the nursery for her guest's inspection.

"I have a terrible problem," Rosalind said finally, "that I am hoping you can help me solve."

"Yes," Lady Elise said, "I have noticed that you are preoccupied. Trouble with Sir Bernard, my dear?"

Rosalind hesitated. "No," she said, "it does not concern him. It is that my guardian has asked me to play at his concert on Friday evening."

Lady Elise gasped. "You mean on the pianoforte?" she asked.

"Yes."

"He has heard you play?" Lady Elise continued. "You are that good?"

"I have never thought of myself as a very good player," Rosalind said. "I have always played to please myself, you see. I have always found that playing both relieves my emotions and helps me build self-discipline. It is challenging to play a difficult piece perfectly."

"But you must be good if Edward says you are," her friend assured her. "What is the problem, Rosalind?"

Rosalind pondered. "It is as if he intruded into the most private part of my life," she said. "He has been listening to me all these weeks, you see, without my knowing it. I am honored to know I could play on the same program as Hans Dehnert, but… Oh, Elise, I cannot allow him to just take over my life. I have to keep part of me for myself. I am not explaining myself very well, am I?"

Lady Elise absently stroked the curled hand of the child who slept on the sofa beside her. Her eyes were wide and fixed on Rosalind. "Oh, you explain yourself very well," she said. "Tell me, my dear, do you feel the same about Sir Bernard?"

"About Bernard?" Rosalind repeated, frowning slightly. "No, of course not. He has never tried to bore into my very soul."

Her friend nodded several times but said nothing. "Elise?" Rosalind queried.

"Have you realized that you love Edward?" Lady Elise asked quietly.

Rosalind could feel the blood draining from her head. "Love Edward?" she said, appalled. "Of course I do not love him, Elise. I hate him with a passion."

Lady Elise did not comment. She leaned back on the sofa and regarded her friend with gentle amusement. "And it just might be that your feelings are returned," she said. "Henry told me tbat Edward has been behaving strangely in the last few days. He dined here two nights ago, you know, and seemed quite happy to be here, though he was the only guest. He appeared almost reluctant to leave, in fact. Well, how famous!"

Rosalind leapt to her feet. "Please do not say such things," she said. "Oh, do not make sport of me. I detest the earl. Nothing will make me happier than to leave his house in two weeks' time knowing that I never have to return again."

"Please sit down," her friend said. "I am sorry, Rosalind. I did not mean to distress you. Come, I shall ring for tea. But before we drop the subject entirely, please do consider accepting Edward's invitation. It would be a shame to have the talent you must possess and not share it at least once with a discerning audience."

It was a piece of advice that Sir Bernard Crawleigh echoed a couple of hours later when he took Rosalind driving in the park. She did not mention to him any of the emotional overtones of her interview with Raymore the afternoon before, but merely told him that she had been asked to play and had to give her answer that day.

"I say," Sir Bernard said, "much as I dislike the man, Rosalind, I must respect his judgment on music. You must be good."

She shrugged. "He seems to think so."

"You must accept, you know," he said. "I must confess that I have been looking forward to the evening as a crashing bore, but knowing you are to play, I shall definitely be interested."

"What if I make a mess of it?" she asked doubtfully.

"I told you," he answered with a grin, "I respect Raymore's judgment. How does he know you are good, by the way?"

"He has been listening to me," she said, a thread of anger in her voice. "Without my knowledge, of course."

He grinned again. "I'll wager you were furious when you found out," he said. "I wish I might have seen that interview. Did you strike him, Rosalind?"

"Yes, I did," she replied, her face hardening.

He laughed outright. "Famous!" he said. "He did not hit you back, though, did he? I should have to call the fellow out if he did, you know, and I am not altogether sure I would like that. He is a better shot than I."

Rosalind said nothing.

He looked at her more closely. "Did he hit you, Rosalind?" he asked.

"No," she said, looking down at her hands. "No, he did not strike me."

He continued to look at her for a while before turning his attention back to the horses. Several minutes passed before they again engaged in light chatter.

When she returned to the house, Rosalind went to the drawing room and seated herself at the escritoire there. She wrote a short note to the Earl of Raymore, telling him that she would be honored to play at his concert on Friday evening. She gave the letter to the butler, with instructions that it should be handed to the earl as soon as he returned to the house. She then went to the music room, where she began to practice the Moonlight Sonata with a furious kind of dedication. Only the gathering gloom later warned her that it was time to go down to dinner.

Raymore had passed a wretched day. He had spent more than an hour at Jackson's boxing saloon working off some of his physical and emotional energy, but apart from that he had avoided company. He had ridden early in the park, dined at home, alone, in the library, and sat in the same room all afternoon while Hans Dehnert practiced upstairs. He left the room and the house only when he heard Rosalind come in after her drive with Crawleigh.

He had certainly made a mess of things the day before. He wanted Rosalind to play in his concert on Friday evening because she had a great deal of talent. She had more than technical excellence; she had the rare gift of being able to put the whole of herself into the interpretation of what she played. Yet it seemed very doubtful that she would play.

For several years past Raymore had developed skill at persuading the most temperamental artists to play at his musical evenings. Hans Dehnert had been one of his most difficult conquests. Yet with Rosalind he had botched things so badly that he felt like a schoolboy again. He had walked in on her at a moment when she was obviously caught up in a very private experience. He had revealed to her that he had been spying on her for weeks. And then he had somehow given the impression that he was ordering rather than asking her to play for his guests. He could not have miscalculated more badly. He could fully understand her anger. He would be bitterly disappointed if she refused his request. And, in fact, it looked as if she was going to do worse than refuse. It seemed that she was going to ignore him altogether.

But that was not the worst of the matter for Raymore. He had wanted the day before to begin to make amends for the high-handed way he had treated her in the past. He knew that he had no chance of winning her love, but he had hoped to show her that at least he esteemed her and saw her now as a worthy and talented person. He had hoped that she might come to like him so that they could part on friendly terms. He had not wanted to lose her altogether. He had hoped that perhaps, as friends, they might meet in the future.

But he had succeeded only in hurting her deeply, in making it seem as if he wanted to destroy her sense of self. She had seen his actions as an unforgivable example of tyranny, spying on her in her most private moments.- She hated him now worse than ever, and he could hardly blame her. He was consumed by an agony of remorse. He had had no right to listen to her all those times, uninvited.

Holding her in his arms the day before had been a terrible agony, because he knew as he did so that it would be the last time he would ever touch her. He had known that as soon as she recovered from her fit of sobbing he would tell her that he would stay away from her, never force his presence on her again. And even then he had not been able to resist one final act of self-indulgence. He had kissed her.

The words of that song would haunt him forever, he felt. The next line would never apply to him, though: "And I will come again, my Luve." He would never be able to come to her again now. Once she was gone, he would probably never see her again, except for a chance glimpse at some ton event when she was in town, perhaps. And she might as well be gone already. He had pledged not to see her while she remained in his house, except on Friday evening, if she still planned to attend his concert.

Raymore thought about Sir Bernard Crawleigh. He hated to think of Rosalind belonging to him. The man was pleasant enough, he supposed, and he would certainly never ill-treat her. But there was no depth to the man's character. He still kept a mistress at an establishment that he owned. Raymore had checked quite carefully into the matter within the last week. And Crawleigh had made a lengthy call there since his return to London. The fact did not call for any great alarm. Crawleigh might be a perfectly decent husband despite the existence of a mistress. He would merely be doing what a large number of other husbands did. But it was not good enough for Rosalind, Raymore decided. She was very special: intelligent, talented, very cultured. She needed a man who could match her passion for the beauties of life. And Crawleigh was definitely not that man.

Had she chosen him freely? Had he himself pushed her into the betrothal by making such an infernal to-do over the episode in Letty's summerhouse? Had his treatment of her in general forced her to consider marriage to Crawleigh a welcome escape from his guardianship? Or did she love the man? It was impossible to know the answer.

But Raymore made a decision. Before he left the house, he wrote a letter, which he left with the housekeeper to deliver to Rosalind the following morning. He would have liked to speak with her himself, but he could not for two reasons. He had promised that she would not have to see him before Friday night. Also, he knew from experience that any meeting between the two of them was bound to flare into an angry quarrel. He did not wish to quarrel with her ever again. He wanted to love her.

Both letters were received the following morning. Rosalind was sitting at the breakfast table alone when she broke the seal of hers. She could not understand why her guardian would be writing to her unless it was in reply to her own note. Perhaps he had changed his mind and did not wish her, after all, to play at his concert. She read:

My dear Rosalind,

In reflecting on our conversation of yesterday afternoon, it has occurred to me that you might have engaged yourself to marry Sir Bernard Crawleigh only as a means of escaping my control over your affairs. I would not wish to drive you into an unwelcome marriage.

If your heart is engaged, I sincerely wish you joy of your union. But if not, I urge you to put an end to the betrothal. I shall send you home to Raymore Manor next week and allow you to live there for the rest of your life as if it belonged to you. I shall release to you control of your fortune and engage never to enter the property without an express invitation from you. You can be free, Rosalind. All this I am willing to put in legal form if you so choose.

Believe me when I say that I wish only what is best for you, and that I remain now and always,

Your servant,

Edward Marsh, Earl of Raymore.

Damn him, she thought, crumpling the paper and holding it rightly in her hand. He was determined, it seemed, to keep her mind and her life in turmoil. She had disliked him from the start, but at least then he could always be relied upon to behave consistently. She had labeled him as a cold man, totally devoid of all the finer feelings in life. It would have been more comfortable for her peace of mind if he had not recently begun behaving as if he had a heart. Even two days ago it had been hard to continue hating him, but at least then she could convince herself that his gentleness had an ulterior motive. But what could be his motive this time? He must already have had her letter telling him that she would play at his concert. She could not explain his letter in any other way than by seeing it as a sincere attempt to give her some freedom of choice about her future. Oh, damn him!

And what about the choice he had given her? Why did everyone seem intent upon putting doubts in her mind just at a time when she was feeling less than certain about her own feelings? She wanted to marry Bernard, of course she did. He was handsome, kindly, good-humored. He was the only man who had ever shown a real interest in her, if one discounted Sir Rowland Axby and the strange advances of her guardian. She could be happy with him. Only a few months before, she had resigned herself to a life of spinster-hood, believing that no man could tolerate her disability and her dark, unfashionable looks.

But first Lady Elise and now Raymore were attempting to make her take a closer look at her feelings. She did not wish to do so. She was terrified of doing so, in fact. She wanted to be safe. Lady Elise had even made the quite absurd suggestion that she loved the Earl of Raymore. And she had always considered her new friend to be a woman of good judgment. She was not going to stop to think about him. She was already too disturbed by the uncharacteristic nature of his behavior in the past two days. She would not think anymore.

Rosalind spread the letter on the table before her and folded it carefully into its original creases. She would not think about him or about her betrothal until Saturday. She had only two days to prepare herself for the concert. It was imperative that she be calm so that all her concentration could be given to her music. She rose from the table, her breakfast untouched, and went to the morning room to write a letter to Sir Bernard, canceling a dinner engagement with him that evening and explaining that she needed to be alone until Friday evening to prepare her mind as well as to practice her music. Then she went to the music room to make the best use of her time until the Austrian arrived.

For his part, Raymore was handed Rosalind's note when he returned very early to his own house. He had spent the night playing cards, or most of the night, anyway. Late in the evening he had kept an appointment to escort the new actress from Hamlet to dinner and then to her home. He completely mystified and enraged her when, after a half-hearted conversation of ten minutes' duration, he picked up his cloak and took his leave of her without having so much as touched her Her anger was somewhat mollified when she saw the number of bank notes he had deposited on the table where his hat had been, but she still made straight for a mirror after he had left and gazed at her own image, wondering what defect had turned away such a desirable protector.

He was done with such unsatisfactory liaisons, Raymore decided during the course of the night. Occupying a woman's body could bring him no further delight unless the woman herself was the object of his love. When Rosalind was gone, he would make an honest effort to find himself another woman whom he could love. He doubted that it was possible, but he would take the risk. He had been absent from life too long.

Rosalind's note delighted him. She had given him a last chance to show her that he esteemed her for herself. He must be very careful of the way he introduced her and of what he said to her afterward, if he had a chance to speak to her at all. Most of all, he wanted her to see that his assessment of her talent was correct. If she received the acclaim that he expected, she would have restored to her the confidence that her lameness and the loss of her parents had deprived her of at a very early age.

Tired as he was, Raymore took the stairs to his room two at a time and rang for a hot bath.

The next two days were intense ones for Rosalind, who practiced morning and night and shut herself into her room during the afternoons. Nothing was to be allowed to disturb her concentration. At first she found that her playing was full of mistakes and that the music itself was lifeless. She had to make a determined effort to control her nervousness. There was really no need to be afraid. The people who were coming on Friday night were coming, not in the hope that she would fumble, nor in order to criticize. They were coming to be entertained. And she was not even the star attraction. She was capable of performing well. He had said so and she must trust his judgment. Strangely, Rosalind found in the end that the best calming influence on her was to see his face before her, the rather austere aquiline features, the intense blue eyes, the blond hair. It was a face that could be trusted, as far as her music went, anyway. She played for him. She would play for him on Friday.

Finally even the Earl of Raymore faded into the background of her consciousness and the music lived for itself. It seemed no longer as if she played the music but as if the music released her into life and freedom.

Cousin Hetty, fretting over the fact that her charge had neither received company nor ventured out of doors for three whole days, decided on the Friday morning that she must take a firm hand. When Rosalind could not be persuaded to recognize her need of any new purchases for the evening, she herself had to make up a list of imaginary items that she needed. She could not possibly shop alone, she assured her charge. That would be most dreary. And positively none of her acquaintances rose before noon. Would Rosalind please spare an hour of her time?

Rosalind went with great reluctance. When they returned to Grosvenor Square at noon, it was to find that they had visitors awaiting them in the drawing room. Sylvia and Nigel had returned to London a day earlier than planned when Nigel's sister, Letty, had written to tell them that Rosalind was to play at Raymore's concert. They had traveled all night, having received the news only the day before.

"But we could not miss it, Ros," Sylvia said, throwing her arms around her cousin. "It is perfectly splendid news. I said to Nigel when I heard, 'How I wish I could be there,' and he said, 'Pack a bag; we are going.' And here we are."

Rosalind looked from one to the other of the newly married pair. They both positively glowed, despite the lines of tiredness that smudged the eyes of both. If they had made a mistake, they certainly had not discovered it yet. And somehow Rosalind did not believe that they had made a mistake.

"I always knew you were out of the ordinary, Ros," her cousin continued. "I never persevered with my own playing because I felt so inferior to you. But even so, this is a signal honor for you. Nigel says that Edward's opinion on music and art is very highly respected."

"My love," Nigel said now, "you are so tired that you must be sleeping on your feet. And if my guess is correct, Rosalind has her mind on other matters today than prattling with us. Let us go and get some sleep before this evening."

"As you wish, Nigel," his bride agreed, smiling radiantly at him. She placed her hand in his.

"Are you not staying here?" Cousin Hetty asked.

"No, ma'am," Nigel replied. "We stay at my brother's home for a few days before moving back to the country. When summer is over, we will find a house of our own. And I plan to make a start with a boys' school for the poor."

"Sylvie," Rosalind said, hugging her cousin, "I am so glad you returned today. I shall feel far less lonely and overawed tonight knowing that you are there."

"Nigel said you would feel that way," Sylvia agreed, and allowed herself to be led away by her husband.

"That little puss has got what she wants, at any rate," Cousin Hetty remarked as she and Rosalind made their way to the dining room for luncheon. "She has no business looking so happy. But then, I always did have a soft spot for young love. One sees it so rarely nowadays."

The Earl of Raymore did not dine at home. He had decided to keep his promise to Rosalind to the letter. He had not set eyes on her since that afternoon in the music room. He stood at the entrance to the music room now, greeting his guests as they arrived. The room was lit brilliantly by chandeliers that held hundreds of candles. Gilt chairs to accommodate the guests were set out around the room. He was nervous. Never had he succeeded in presenting someone of quite the caliber of Hans Dehnert at one of his concerts. He hoped that the setting would be to the man's liking. But it was Rosalind who caused his feeling of trepidation. He did not doubt her skill, but he knew her to have a somewhat volatile temper. How would she stand up to the strain of such an occasion? Had he pushed her too far?

He longed to see her again. Yet he dreaded it, too. It would be the last time, except possibly for the farewell he would take of her next week or the week after. He doubted that she would want him to attend her wedding, and indeed he did not wish it himself.

She finally appeared on the arm of Crawleigh. He recalled then that her fiance had been engaged to dine at the house. She was looking pale, but there was a determined set to her jaw. She wore the same rose-pink gown that she had worn to her come-out ball. Her dark hair was piled in intricate swirls around her head, a few tendrils carefully curling over her temples and along her neck. She looked the picture of beauty to the man on whom her eyes were riveted.

Rosalind hardly knew how she had reached the music room. She knew that she was leaning rather heavily on Bernard's arm and that she was limping more than usual. She was in the grip of a blind terror. She could not go through with it, she thought. She would be sick. Every moment she thought she would have to tell Bernard to turn back. Then she caught sight of the Earl of Raymore standing inside the doorway of the music room looking reassuringly cool and confident. He had told her she could do it. And he did not appear worried now that he had made an error. She fixed her eyes on him and felt some of the warmth returning to her body.

He looked back at her, smiled, and bowed. "Rosalind," he said, taking her hand in a steady, warm one, "how are you feeling? Crawleigh?"

She made a grimace that passed for a smile. "Terrified," she admitted.

He placed her hand on his arm and led her to an empty chair in the front row. Sir Bernard followed them. "I should be worried if you were not," Raymore said softly. "You will play magnificently, I promise you."

"Will I?" she asked, looking up at his reassuring smile.

Hans Dehnert arrived soon afterward. There was a stir among the assembled guests as he crossed the room and seated himself at the pianoforte. Rosalind stared in surprise. She had expected someone seven feet tall. Could this slim little man with the receding hairline and nervous hands be the great pianist about whom she had heard so much?

After Raymore had introduced him and he began to play, Rosalind could understand his fame. He brought Mozart alive with his playing. One almost immediately forgot the player and saw, heard, and felt only the music. For a half-hour she sat enthralled as he played first the pianoforte and then the harpsichord. But the coldness began to creep back. Soon it would be her turn. How would she be able to get up and cross the expanse of floor to the instrument? How would she be able to play? How could she follow such a performance as this? She could not. She must somehow signal to Raymore her change of heart. Without knowing it, she began to clench and twist her hands in her lap.

Sir Bernard covered them with one of his. "Steady, love," he murmured. "You will be good."

His reassurance did not help much. By the time she joined in the applause for Hans Dehnert, she hardly knew what she was doing. When Raymore got to his feet, she stared at him as at a lifeline. He looked back.

"We shall hear more from Dr. Dehnert later, after refreshments," he told his guests. "I am sure you feel the same delight as I do that there is more to come. In the meanwhile, I wish to introduce to you a new talent that I discovered under my own roof. Miss Rosalind Dacey is a true musician, in the sense that she plays for the music alone, not for an audience. However, she has consented to play for us this evening. In a few moments you will all share with me the honor of hearing her perform. Rosalind?"

He was standing before her, his hand outstretched. Rosalind placed her own in it and rose to her feet. She had not taken her eyes from his. Raymore resisted the temptation to draw her arm through his and pull her close to his side so that her limp would be somewhat disguised. Rosalind Dacey did not need to disguise one defect when there was so much beauty in her. He led her to the pianoforte and seated her.

She could not begin. Her fingers would depress the wrong keys. She would not be able to move her fingers; they were cold and stiff. She could not remember the music. She stared at the keyboard for a moment in blind panic. Where was he? Where had he gone?

She looked up and locked eyes with the Earl of Raymore. He was not smiling. He was sitting very still. But there was a look in his eyes that she had not seen there before. It warmed her and calmed her completely. He believed in her. She would play for him. She would show him that he had not made a mistake.

She lowered her fingers to the keys. For the first few bars she played correctly but somewhat tensely. She was playing to the Earl of Raymore. But soon her eyes closed and she forgot everything except the music that was creating itself beneath her hands. She was surprised at the end of it when the sound of applause interrupted her thoughts, prolonged applause that was more than merely polite.

Raymore was not applauding. My God, he thought, she bas improved almost beyond recognition in four days. He rose to his feet only when he saw her slightly bewildered face. He crossed the room and bent over her. "You were magnificent," he said. "These people will want an encore, Rosalind."

"An encore?" she echoed. "Oh, no, please. I have not practiced anything else."

"Will you sing?" he asked, still bent over her, speaking for her ears only.

"Sing?"

"Will you sing the song about the rose?" he asked. "For me, Rosalind?"

She looked up at him, startled. "You mean the one by Mr. Burns?" she asked.

"Is that who wrote it?" he said. "That Scottish fellow, Robert Burns? Will you, Rosalind?"

She had no time to think. The audience had quietened down. "If you wish," she said.

"Miss Dacey has agreed to sing an encore," Raymore told his guests. "It is a song by Robert Burns that I have grown to love."

Rosalind followed him with her eyes until he sat down. The song about the rose. He had called her his rose on that morning at Broome Hall. She had thought it a shortened form of her name. Had he been referring to this song? Had he listened to her sing it and did he think of her as Mr. Burns had thought of his Jean, or whoever the girl was who had inspired the poem?

She sang the song, her contralto voice soft and rich in the hushed room. But she was aware only of the man who sat looking at her, his face expressionless, his eyes full of that new look that she now wondered more about. And before she had finished singing, she knew the truth. She did love him. He had become as essential to her being as the air she breathed or the music she played. She watched her hands during most of the song. When she did raise her head, it was at him that she looked, growing wonder in her eyes.

It is unlikely that many of the invited guest noticed. They were enjoying the novelty of hearing a simple love song after the intense music that they had been hearing for more than an hour. But Lady Elise Martel noticed and exchanged a triumphant smile with her husband. And Sylvia Broome noticed and darted a look of wonder at Nigel. He appeared engrossed in the song. And Sir Bernard Crawleigh noticed.

During the first half of the time set aside for refreshments Rosalind's attention was taken by a large crowd of people wishing to congratulate her on her performance. Finally, though, Sir Bernard was able to steer her back into the music room and to a couple of chairs on the side of the room farthest from the refreshments.

"I must speak to you in private," he said. "This may not be quite the time. I should be allowing you to bask in people's praise. You deserve it all, you know, Rosalind."

"What do you wish to say, Bernard?" she asked.

"I see I must get to the point," he said. "I wish you to break our engagement, my dear."

"Bernard?" she asked, her eyes wide.

He smiled rather crookedly. "I am sure you must have suspected that I had no intention of getting married this early in life," he said. "That does not mean that I do not desire you as a bride. And I would have made the best of it. In my way, I love you, Rosalind. But the marriage would not be good for you, my dear. Your heart is engaged elsewhere. I am not even sure that you realize it. But you would in time, and I should hate it to happen after you had married me."

Rosalind was staring at him, her face pale. "With whom am I in love?" she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

"With Raymore, of course." he said, "damn his eyes."

Rosalind stared dumbly back at him.

"I cannot break the engagement," he continued. "It would be very bad ton. You must do it, dear. But do not feel guilty. I regret never having possessed you, Rosalind, but in a few days' time I shall no doubt feel relieved at my own renewed freedom." He attempted a grin, which appeared rather lopsided.

Rosalind was searching for an answer, but it was too late. The guests were reassembling and Hans Dehnert was taking his place at the pianoforte again. She sat next to Bernard for the full hour of the second half of the recital without hearing one note of the music. She sat in an agony of guilt and confusion. Could it be true? How could she love a man she detested, a man she had felt suffocated by for as long as she had known him? How could she have failed to recognize the truth a long time ago? And what of Bernard? Was he hurt? He pretended not to be, but she suspected that it had not been easy for him to release her from their betrothal.

She stole several surreptitious glances at Raymore, who sat with his eyes directed at the floor. It was hard to tell from his expression whether he was engrossed in the music or a million miles away in thought. She remembered Lady Elise telling her a few days before that it was possible that he loved her. Could it be true? The idea seemed too fantastic. They had disliked and despised each other so strongly at the start. And how could a man who was himself so physically perfect and who cultivated beauty around him love her? It could not be.

It was at that moment that their eyes met across the music room. Each looked away hastily. Rosalind felt as if a shock had passed through her. What was she to do now? She would have to end her betrothal to Bernard. Then, what? Should she accept Raymore's offer to send her back to the country? It was what she had longed for from the start. But she would never see him again. Could she bear the thought of that? There was just no alternative. She would soon be free, but free only to leave forever the man she loved.

Rosalind heard loud applause all around her and realized, with a start of guilt, that the recital was over. She had missed the chance of a lifetime! She applauded with everyone else and stood talking with friends reluctant to leave long after Raymore had escorted the Austrian pianist outside to his waiting carriage.

Bernard succeeded in having a private word with her before he left. "I shall expect to hear from you tomorrow," he said. "Please think carefully, Rosalind. I should be delighted to be held to our engagement, but I think, my dear, when you have had time to consider, you will find that I am right."

She put her hand in his. "Yes," she said, "I shall write to you tomorrow. Good night, Bernard."

He bent and kissed her hand.

"Well, I ben't altogether sorry ter see the back of Lunnun," Ben was saying. "What say you, lad?"

"The streets be too hot 'n dusty fer me," the footman agreed. "Reckon young Jenny'll like the country, then?"

"She'll like it iffen you be there," Ben replied, leering sidelong at his companion on the box of Raymore's traveling carriage. "Yer'd better set yer poppers back, lad, iffen yer wants a last glimpse o' Lunnun. We lose er over yonder rise."

The footman obediently cast his eyes back on the London skyline that had set his jaw hanging with wonder only a few short months back.

"Someun be in a big hurry," he commented, jerking his thumb at a distant horseman who was galloping hard up the hill a mile or so behind them. "He ben't a highwayman, eh, Ben?"

"Nay," said the other. "Road's too open 'ere fer gen'lemen o' the road."

Inside the carriage Rosalind sat gazing sightlessly out the window. A smart little maid sat in the opposite corner, watching eagerly the passing scenery. She had never been out of the city before.

She had finally got her wish, Rosalind was thinking. She was on her way home. She was free. Within a few days she would have picked up her life where she had left it before coming to London. She could ride Flossie, paint, revel in her music, read to her heart's content. And although Raymore Manor would never legally be hers, she was assured sole possession of it for her lifetime.

She had had a short and uncomfortable interview with Raymore two days before, the day after the concert, at her own request. She had told him that she had ended her betrothal and that she wished to return to the country. He had made no comment, put up no argument, merely agreed to make all the arrangements for her journey. And he had promised to send his man of business into the country the following week to give her a signed copy of his agreement to allow her undisputed possession of Raymore Manor during her lifetime. This man would also go over with her the details of her fortune, so that she might decide for herself how she wished to manage it. It had been a purely businesslike meeting. The concert and the tense bond that she had felt with him on that evening might never have been.

The two days before her departure had been busy ones. In addition to helping the maid, Jenny, who was to accompany her on her journey, to pack her trunks, she had to write to Sir Bernard Crawleigh and pay calls on Lady Elise and Sylvia and Nigel. There had not been a great deal of time for reflection, but there had been enough time for some very disturbing thoughts. The great irony of her life, she discovered, was that when she had finally gained the freedom she had longed for for more than a year, since the death of her uncle, she no longer wanted it. She wanted only Edward! Somehow the thought of riding without him to scold her, playing the pianoforte without him to praise her, living without him to constantly stimulate her emotions, seemed very dull. He had become the focus of her life, but she had fought so hard against losing the privacy that had surrounded her all her life that she had not recognized the fact that she loved him. Edward Marsh: strong-willed, well-educated, cultured, so very attractive. She could never be happy with a lesser man.

But then, she thought with a sigh, still staring out the window, there would never be any other man. She was going home to the life of a hermit, the life she had chosen for herself. Back to her dreams of Alistair, except that now he had changed name and had acquired a far more forceful character than Alistair had ever had. She would remember him as he had been a couple of hours ago as he said good-bye to her. He had said very little. His face was serious and controlled, but not cold as it had been when she first knew him. He had shaken her hand, wished her a safe journey, and finally, as an afterthought, had bent and kissed her on the cheek.

The carriage bounced on its springs as the coachman drew it to a sudden halt. As the horses slowed down, both Rosalind and Jenny became aware of the louder sound of galloping hooves.

"Oh, lawks, madam," Jenny yelped, "highwaymen!"

"Nonsense," Rosalind replied, "this is daytime on an open and well-traveled highway."

She did start forward in alarm, though, when the sound of hoofbeats suddenly stopped and the carriage door was flung back.

"Don't have hysterics, my girl," the Earl of Raymore said to Jenny, "it is just me. Out you come and up on the box with Ben and Harry."

Having lifted the girl out, Raymore vaulted into the carriage and shut the door behind him. Rosalind sat on the edge of her seat, saucer-eyed, staring at him.

"It's no good," he said, obviously greatly agitated. "I cannot let you go."

She sat back in her seat and turned her head to look out the window. "I see," she said stiffly. "Has Sir Rowland made a more tempting offer, or do you have someone else picked out for me?"

"The latter," he said.

Her head jerked back in his direction. "No," she said, "I am not for sale. You promised, my lord."

"I am the one offering," he blurted. "I love you, Rosalind. I don't think I can live without you."

"You cannot love me," she denied. "I am ugly and I limp."

His jaw clenched. "I will not have you describe yourself that way," he said. "You are your own worst enemy, Rosalind. You are beautiful, quite exceptionally lovely, like a red, red rose.' He must have known you, Robert Burns. And do you still limp? I confess I have not noticed lately."

"No," she said, her face pale, "it is not true. You know it is not true, Edward. People would laugh at you."

His jaw was still clenched. "You know," he said, "when I realized finally that I loved you, I thought I would never wish to quarrel with you again. Right now I am holding onto my temper with all my willpower. Why do you do this to me?"

"I belong at Raymore Manor," she said stubbornly, "where no one can see me and where I can do the things I love doing."

"Come back to London with me," he said, "and I shall see to it that you spend the rest of your life doing what you like doing. But not in loneliness, Rosalind. You have too much to share: your musical talent with the world, your passion with me."

She darted him a startled look.

"You have proved your worth, love," he said. "You are well-admired in London. I want to marry you in St. George s. and I want you to walk the whole length of the aisle toward me, with your chin up and your eyes on me. Will you?"

"Oh, Edward," she said, laughing but with tears springing to her eyes, "what an absurd picture you paint."

"Will you?"

"Are you sure you really wish to, Edward?" she asked wistfully. "It is not just that you have fallen in love with my music?"

He smiled. "It is not my pianoforte, much as I value it, that I long to take to bed or to Florence and Milan and Rome with me. I believe you will make a much warmer and more passionate companion, Rosalind. You have become part of my life, love, whether you wish it or not. You are like the other half of my soul. I cannot face living without you."

"I do love you so," she said almost in a whisper.

They sat and stared at each other from opposite corners of the carriage for long moments.

"Come here," he said finally, and when she came, he pulled her down roughly across his lap and met her open mouth with his in a kiss that immediately had passion flaring between them.

Ben had to expend some energy steadying the horses when the carriage suddenly lurched. He addressed the head of the horse most distant from him. "If I ever understands the quality," he said, "I'll know I've up an' died an' gone to 'eaven. Is lordship just took 'is leave of 'er two hours past."

Jenny sighed. "Lawks, it's so romantic," she said.

The Earl of Raymore leaned his head out of the carriage window at that moment. "Is the girl comfortable up there, Ben?" he called. "Will you tie my horse behind and return to Grosvenor Square?"

Ben and the footman exchanged knowing glances and Jenny peeped shyly up into the latter's face.

"Now," said Raymore, shutting the window and settling Rosalind more comfortably on his lap, "what was I saying?"

"I don't believe you were saying anything, my lord," she replied, twining her arms around his neck.

"Really?" he said, his eyebrows arching above very blue eyes. "What was I doing, then?"

"This, Edward," she said, threading her fingers through his thick blond hair and feathering a kiss across his lips.

"Ah, yes," he said, "I remember." His fingers began to remove one by one the pins that held her hair on top of her head. "I have noticed that you have not answered my question. I am determined that you shall marry me, Rosalind. As your guardian, I strongly disapprove of your present behavior with a man who is not even your betrothed. If you do not say yes immediately, I shall have to use coercion, you know." He brushed his lips tantalizingly across hers. "Well, what do you say?"

She looked down at him, her heart shining from her eyes. "You had better try coercion, my lord," she said, shaking her hair loose as he removed the last hairpin.