Red Rose

Chapter 3

The Earl of Raymore entered his house late the following morning and made his way, as usual, to his secretary's office to examine the morning's post. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had his promised talk with Hetty earlier and she had been most eager to comply with his demands. She had been delighted at the prospect of preparing her charges for a visit to the theater. Henry had just agreed to join the party, provided there had been no further developments in his wife's delicate condition by the following evening. And, best of all, Raymore had just thought of Sir Rowland Axby. A middle-aged man of unprepossessing appearance and totally lacking in personality, he had nevertheless succeeded in finding a bride fifteen years before and fathering a brood of six youngsters before his wife died. His efforts to find himself a new mate were fast becoming a standing joke with the ton. Miss Dacey would be perfect for him. Axby would want a wife who would be prepared to rusticate with the children. His ward would doubtless be grateful to have her future settled and to be removed from the embarrassment of a public setting. He instructed Sheldon to send an invitation to Sir Rowland to attend his ball the following week.

"Miss Dacey has asked to- speak with you on your return, my lord," Sheldon said.

"Eh?" said Raymore, looking up from a letter that he held in his hand. "Has she not gone shopping with her cousin and Mrs. Laker?"

"I believe they have postponed the outing until after luncheon, my lord," the secretary replied.

Raymore put the letter down on the desk in irritation and frowned at Sheldon. "What does she want?"

"She did not say, my lord."

"Send word that she may attend me in the library at once," the earl directed and strode from the room. The infernal chit! He had known she would be trouble.

Rosalind assumed a confidence she did not quite feel as she waited for a footman to open the library doors for her. Her guardian was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk at the far side of the room, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, making a halo of his blond hair. She felt that he had deliberately placed himself there so that she would be forced to undergo the ordeal of limping across the room toward him while he watched her steadily. His elbows were on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Alistair with a stony expression!

"Have a seat, Miss Dacey," he said, motioning to a straight chair at the other side of his desk.

Rosalind sat down, her back straight. He did not initiate any conversation. He sat and stared at her.

My lord, will you please allow me to return home?" she blurted, and watched his eyebrows rise haughtily. She had not intended to broach the subject quite so bluntly.

"Home, Miss Dacey?" he queried, ice dripping from each word. "You are at home, ma'am. This is your home as long as I choose to make it so."

Rosalind blushed and bit her lip. "I mean to Raymore Manor, my lord," she said. "Indeed, I appreciate your fondness in inviting us here. For Sylvia it is a dream come true to be in London during the Season. But you did not know when you invited us here that I am disabled. I cannot mix with society, my lord. My presence would merely be an embarrassment to you and to myself. I am sure you must agree."

"Must I?" he asked quietly.

Rosalind paused, uncertain of his reaction. His eyes gave no clue. "Will you allow me to return?" she asked.

"No, I will not," he replied.

Rosalind swallowed. "Why not?"

His eyebrows rose. "Because I choose not to allow it, Miss Dacey," he said. "This is reason enough."

Her jaw clenched. "You have given no reason at all," she snapped unwisely. "Kindly make yourself clearer, my lord."

His palms lowered to the desk and he rose to his feet without hurry. He did not remove his gaze from Rosalind's face. "I shall make myself clear, ma'am," he said very softly, coming around the desk to stand towering over her, "crystal-clear, I trust. I am your guardian. Until you marry, you are my responsibility. I shall choose what is best for you and you will not question my decisions. Perhaps my uncle allowed you to question him and dictate your own terms. You will not find me so amenable. I tell you now that you will remain in London until the end of the Season or until I have found you a husband. At the end of the Season I shall tell you where you will be going. You do not need to concern yourself with the matter. You will not be consulted. Do I make myself understood, ma'am?"

Rosalind had sat crimson-faced through most of this icily delivered monologue. Now she looked at him with an expression of incredulity. She laughed scornfully. "You speak like a character from a gothic romance," she said. "I am two and twenty, my lord, a grown woman. Do you believe you can browbeat me as if I were a child? You have it within your power, I suppose, to keep me here against my will. I am reminded that the place I call home is in reality your home now. But this idea of totally ruling my life as if I were a mindless imbecile! I would remind you, sir, that we moved out of the Dark Ages a significant time ago."

His jaw clenched. "By God, ma'am, you will learn who is master here," he said. "If you must speak with a shrewish tongue, you may do so, but not with me as an audience. And you will remain in this house at my pleasure and do as I bid you. You have a ball to prepare for next week, and I believe that at the moment you are delaying a shopping expedition."

Rosalind rose to her feet and glared up into his face, and that is another thing," she said. "I believe you have commanded us to have new clothes. I thank you for Sylvia, my lord. She is most excited at the prospect. I need nothing new. I am quite satisfied with the clothes that I have."

“You do not have to look at yourself wearing them," be sneered. "A sack would become you as well as the gown you are wearing now. Look at you!" He rashly reached out a hand and grasped a handful of fabric at her waist, startling himself when his knuckles came to rest against the shapely curve of a hip.

Rosalind jumped back, slapping at his hand and colliding clumsily with the chair as she landed on her weak leg."Don't touch me!" she hissed.

He stood staring at her for a moment, his hand still outstretched. Rosalind turned and limped her way to the door, uncaring that her hasty progress merely emphasized her ungainly motion. His voice stopped her as she grasped the door handle.

You will accompany Mrs. Laker and your cousin this afternoon," he said, "and you will purchase the garments that I have instructed Hetty to help you choose. If you fail to do so, Miss Dacey, I shall take you shopping myself tomorrow."

Rosalind, seething, had no doubt that he meant what he said.

Madame de Valery, to whom Cousin Hetty conducted her charges as one of the most fashionable modistes on Bond Street, was a busy woman. A demand to have two new evening gowns designed, made, and delivered by the following afternoon was one that she would not normally have complied with. But when Mrs. Laker dropped the name of the Earl of Raymore, she thought that perhaps she might oblige if her seamstresses could be prevailed upon to work through the night. Madame did not personally know the earl. He was unmarried and did not keep mistresses, as far as anyone knew. But he was enormously wealthy. If it suited his fancy to rig out these two young ladies-even the crippled one-in the height of fashion, she would go out of her way to please him.

The younger of the two was every dressmaker's dream. Petite and very pretty, she also had enough interest in the clothes that were to be made to stand through the tedious business of being measured and to point out designs, fabrics, and trimmings that she liked. She was also flatteringly willing to take advice. With her coloring, did she not agree that the spring-green satin would make a more dazzling underdress for the white lace that she had chosen for her come-out ball? Oh, yes, Lady Sylvia Marsh thought that was a splendid idea.

The older one was a different kettle of fish altogether. She had the most unfortunate limp, which would surely ruin her chances of cutting any sort of dash. But she need not be such a dowd. She had fine hair-a trifle dark for fashion, of course, but thick and shiny. She made it quite clear to her long-suffering chaperone, though, that she would not have it cut and styled just to please his lordship. It suited her very well the way it was. Her figure, too, was good. Madame de Valery learned this after winning a battle in which she insisted that she could not make miss's clothes by measuring the ones she wore. She must measure miss herself. Miss Dacey stood with set jaw and angry eyes while Madame discovered that beneath the loose, ill-fitting walking dress was a figure that many an actress or opera dancer would have killed for: full breasts, tiny waist, generous hips, and long slim legs-though, of course, there must be something wrong with them to cause her to walk the way she did.

The young lady took almost no interest in the styles that were chosen for her, but she did plead with Madame when her cousin and Mrs. Laker were out of earshot to please make the gown loose-fitting. She did not wish to display herself to the gaping ton. The poor dressmaker protested that her professional reputation was at stake. She would lose half her patrons if it were seen that she had outfitted the protegee of the Earl of Raymore in a sack. She did, however, agree to necklines that were more modest than she favored, and to high-waisted gowns with skirts a trifle less figure-hugging than most young ladies desired.

Rosalind had to be satisfied with the small victories she had won.

It was only the following afternoon that Sylvia and Rosalind discovered the reason why one gown each had had to be delivered that same day. They were to attend the theater, it seemed, with their guardian and his friend Sir Henry Martel. The great Edmund Kean himself was to play Shylock.

"Oh, I do think it kind of his lordship to arrange entertainment for us so soon," Sylvia said to Cousin Hetty, her eyes shining. "I feared that he did not like us, that we were a nuisance to him, as he paid only that one brief call on us two days ago. But he has arranged this for us, and the ball next week."

"Cousin Edward is not accustomed to having ladies around him," Hetty explained, attempting to tie a bow in the red ribbon that she had placed around the neck of one little poodle. "He does not know quite how to behave in female company, I believe. He is shy."

"Oh, do you believe so?" Sylvia asked, her eyes large with sympathy. "I had not thought of that. We must make an effort tonight to set him at his ease, Ros. Shall we?"

Rosalind smiled fleetingly. "I must disagree with Cousin Hetty," she said. "The man is not shy. He is arrogant and he is a tyrant."

"Oh, I do not feel you should speak that way about his lordship," Cousin Hetty said, flustered. "Hold still, Pootsie, my love. After all, my dear, he has invited each of us into his home and has seen to it that we have every comfort."

Rosalind did not reply. She had no wish to begin an argument. She was relieved to find during the conversation that ensued, though, that the earl was to dine with his friend and that the two of them would return in time to escort the ladies to the theater. During the play she would be able to direct her attention to the action on the stage. Only during the carriage ride would she be forced to make conversation with that horrid man. She dreaded seeing him again. Her interview with him the previous morning had convinced her that he was the kind of man she most disliked. To him women were not persons at all. They were mere chattels who were made to be seen and not heard, who were to kiss with gratitude the ground before the man who deigned to notice them. Rosalind had never been a rebellious girl. She had been used to living her own very private life while sharing a home with relatives she loved and respected. But she neither liked nor respected the Earl of Raymore, and she had no intention of allowing him to rule her life. She had decided the previous day, after her meeting with him, that there could be nothing but open warfare between the two of them. She would cross him at every opportunity that presented itself.

The earl himself was having similar thoughts. He had avoided meeting his wards after that first formal introduction. He had no wish to exert himself in making the kind of polite and inane conversation that women seemed to enjoy. And he did not wish to give that Italian spitfire a chance to cross swords with him again. He knew now beyond a doubt that she was trouble, but he would handle her. He had been pleased to learn from Hetty that she had attended a modiste along with his young cousin and had been fitted for all the garments that would be necessary during the Season. Perhaps she had learned that it was pointless to argue with him. But Raymore doubted it.

When he entered the drawing room of his own home after dinner with Sir Henry, he was pleasantly impressed. His cousin Sylvia now looked perfect for her part. Her hair had been trimmed so that the blond curls molded her head and trailed down a very delicate neck. She wore a gown of the palest blue that appeared to be a perfect match for her eyes. She would do very well. This evening's appearance would whet the appetites of those men who were on the lookout for a beautiful heiress. And who was not? he thought cynically.

His other ward was looking almost promising, too, if one ignored the look of hostile defiance in her dark eyes. She wore a gown of royal-blue velvet with modest neckline and rather wide folds falling from the high waistline. Madame de Valery had done a rather clever job of hiding the girl's lack of shape, he decided, ignoring the incongruous memory of the feel of her hip beneath his hand the morning before. Her hair, too, was dressed becomingly in heavy coils high on her head, loose curls trailing her neck and temples. She looked striking, he decided, even if not handsome.

Sir Henry, having been introduced to the ladies, scooped an indignant poodle pup out of the nearest chair and sat down. Sylvia took the little bundle from him and soothed it in her lap as she talked to her new acquaintance as if she had known him all her life.

The Earl of Raymore turned to Rosalind. "I compliment you on your appearance, Miss Dacey," he said unsmilingly, "but I see that you did not have your hair styled."

"You can perhaps force me to buy clothes, my lord," she answered coolly, "but my hair is part of my person. And I will allow no one, not even you, any control over that."

He turned away from her, showing no visible reaction. "Shall we go?" he said to the room at large. "The carriage is waiting."

"A trifle early, are we not, Edward?" asked Sir Henry. But he rose to his feet when his friend did not reply.

Raymore had good reason for leaving early. He wished to have Rosalind seated in her box before a large number of curious eyes could watch her arrival.

His plan succeeded. The boxes were almost empty when he seated his wards. Only a few young men had taken up their positions of vantage in the pit, where they could ogle all the ladies as they arrived.

"Oh, look, Ros," Sylvia exclaimed, grabbing her cousin by the wrist. "That man is entirely pink. Even his hair!"

She stared quite openly at a tall young man who stood languidly in the pit, surveying some new arrivals in the box opposite through a quizzing glass.

"That is one of our most prized exquisites, Lady Marsh," Sir Henry said, smiling and leaning forward. "Lord Fanhope. He turns a different color for each day of the week. He even wears a patch on his cheek. It is somewhat unfortunate that the color is pink tonight. The patch cannot be easily distinguished from this distance."

"If you keep staring at him, cousin," Raymore added, "he will be your friend for life."

"Well, I think he looks remarkably silly," Sylvia decided, and she turned her attention away from its unworthy object.

"Does your wife not enjoy the theater, Sir Henry?" Rosalind asked, having heard him refer earlier to a wife.

He smiled at her. "Elise would love to be here," he said, "but she is not going into company these days. She expects to be confined any day now."

Rosalind gave him her full attention. "Oh, how splendid!" she said, her face glowing. "Is it to be your first, sir?"

Sir Henry was unused to anyone talking about the expected event. Pregnancy was generally considered to be an ungenteel topic of conversation. Most people would politely choose not to notice when a lady was missing from society for a few months.

"I should be so delighted to meet Lady Martel if I may, at a time convenient to her, of course," Rosalind continued. The greatest regret she had about her physical condition had always been that, because she would not marry, she would also not bear children.

The Earl of Raymore, standing at the back of the box, was pleased. His cousin, of course, would take with no trouble at all. But even the other girl was glowing at the moment. She looked almost handsome with her bright dress, and her dark hair and eyes. For once she even had some color in her cheeks. He let his eyes stray casually around the other boxes and the pit, all of which were now full. The attention of several people was directed at his box. His plan was working well, it seemed.

The evening continued well. During the intermission, Sir Henry left to greet some friends in another box. And several of Raymore's acquaintances paid a call in his box with the obvious purpose of being introduced to the two young ladies. The earl, his manner cool and detached, performed the introductions and mentally assessed each visitor. Mr. Victor Parkins, balding, paunchy, was obviously taken with his cousin. Rich enough, well-enough connected, but not a dazzling-enough catch. She could aim higher. Charles Hammond, charming, handsome, also set out to dazzle Sylvia. Not a bad connection, but something of a rake. The chit looked interested, too. He must be careful that Hammond did not get too close to her at next week's ball. Sir Bernard Crawleigh was eminently suitable. He had the connections, the presence, and the wealth to win Raymore's approval. The earl watched in some fascination, though, as the young man directed his interest, not at Sylvia, but at Rosalind. He had no chance to observe her reactions as his attention was claimed by the arrival of Sidney Darnley, come to view the newly arrived heiresses.

By the end of the evening, Raymore was still feeling satisfied with himself and his wards. He should be able to get them off his hands by the end of the Season. Even Miss Dacey need not be a hopeless case if she could find a way of hiding her deformity and if she would keep her caustic tongue still.

He lingered with his party until most of the audience had left the theater. He let Sir Henry lead Sylvia out and then offered his arm to Rosalind. He drew her arm through his and held it firmly against his side as he led her down the stairs and out to the pavement, where his carriage had now found an empty spot in which to wait.

Rosalind fumed and shrank away from the hard masculine body against which she was being pulled. "My walk may not be elegant, my lord," she said quietly, for his ears only, "but I am capable of moving unassisted from place to place."

He looked sidelong at her, his eyes glacial as usual. "I hoped to save you from embarrassment," he said.

"You could do that very effectively," she retorted, "by allowing me to return home."

"Touche," he answered. "You do enjoy having the last word, Miss Dacey, do you not?"

He handed her into the carriage and jumped in after her. Sir Henry excused himself as soon as they arrived back in Grosvenor Square. He did assure Rosalind, though, that his wife would invite her to visit whenever she felt well enough. The earl, too, left the house again to visit one of his clubs, having seen his wards safely into the care of Cousin Hetty and the dogs.

Rosalind and Sylvia spent a fairly quiet time for the five days that remained before the ball. They went shopping with Cousin Hetty a few times and helped her walk the dogs in the park during the mornings. But they could neither receive nor accept any invitations until they had made their official come-out.

Sylvia was impatient, but happy. The shopping expeditions and the arrival of the bulk of their new wardrobes filled her with excited anticipation. And the visit to the theater had whetted her appetite for more meetings with society.

"Did you not think Mr. Hammond exceedingly charming, Ros?" she asked one afternoon when Rosalind sat on her bed while Sylvia held her new clothes against herself one at a time and surveyed the effect in a long mirror.

"I certainly noticed that he was handsome," Rosalind replied with a smile. "Do you like him?"

"Do you suppose he has been invited to Cousin Edward's ball?" Sylvia wondered, answering the question indirectly.

"He must be acquainted with our guardian or he would not have come to his box at the theater," Rosalind said. "It is likely that he will have received an invitation."

"Oh, I do hope so," Sylvia said.

Rosalind tried as far as possible to forget about the coming ball. She was pleased two days after the theater visit to receive a note from Lady Elise Martel, inviting both Sylvia and herself to call on her during the afternoon. Sylvia declined, as she had already agreed to go with Cousin Hetty to a milliner's for the purchase of several new bonnets. Rosalind was glad of the excuse to avoid having to go with her, and she genuinely looked forward to meeting Lady Elise. She had liked her husband very much.

The Earl of Raymore's carriage delivered her to Sir Henry's home. A butler took her bonnet and gloves and showed her into a light and airy sitting room. Lady Elise rose to greet her. She was a smiling, auburn-haired lady, very pretty, Rosalind decided, despite her large bulk.

"Miss Dacey?" she said, coming forward, right hand extended. "This is a most unorthodox way to meet, but I am so obliged to you for coming. Henry was very taken with you the other evening and mentioned that you hoped to meet me. I hope you have not come merely out of the kindness to a poor pregnant lady who is confined to the house."

"Indeed I have not, ma'am," Rosalind assured her. "I do not like to be seen in public, either. I would rather be here with you than on Bond Street with my cousin Sylvia and Mrs. Laker."

Lady Elise smiled and motioned Rosalind to a chair. "Is it because of your limp?" she asked candidly.

Rosalind was surprised at her own lack of embarrassment. "Yes," she admitted. "I hate to be noticed by everyone, especially for such an ugly defect."

"I can see that it would limit your activities," Lady Elise agreed. "You would not want to walk too much in the park, I imagine, and I suppose you cannot dance. But I would advise you not to be overly conscious of the fact that you limp. When people have once noticed, they will disregard it, you may be sure. And you have other assets."

Rosalind shrugged in a resigned manner. "I know that I am ugly," she said, "but I have learned to accept the fact. All I ask is to be allowed to live my own sort of life."

Lady Elise chuckled. "And Edward will not allow you to do so. Henry said that he thought you and your guardian do not see eye to eye. I can imagine how trying it must be for you. He hates women, you know. But, my dear Miss Dacey-may I call you Rosalind? -why do you call yourself ugly? You are no such thing. It is true that you do not have the peaches-and-cream look of the typical English debutante. You must have foreign blood, do you? French?"

"Italian."

Lady Elise nodded. "You are not pretty," she said frankly. "Your hair is too dark and your features too strong. But you could be quite extraordinarily handsome if you chose. You should wear your hair high on your head and hold your shoulders back more and your chin high. And your clothes should be more carefully made to your figure." She frowned and unexpectedly wagged a finger at her guest. "I would wager that you are deliberately hiding a good figure. Am I right?"

Rosalind did not know how to reply. She was saved from her embarrassment when Lady Elise laughed suddenly. "My manners have certainly gone begging," she said. "Goodness, we have just met. It is most impertinent of me to pick you apart the way I just did. Please forgive me. Put it down to my condition. I am living in a rather unreal world at the moment, where the usual rules do not apply."

Rosalind immediately relaxed. The conversation switched to a discussion of the coming event and Elise's fervent hope that she would bear a boy. She assured Rosalind, though, that Henry would not be at all disappointed with a girl. The visit lasted for more than an hour. Rosalind felt as if she had known her new friend for years. She promised to return the following week, after the ball, if the new arrival had still not put in an appearance.

The visit to Lady Martel occupied only a single afternoon. Rosalind helped keep her mind off the ball for much of the rest of the time by busying herself with music and reading. She paid a few visits to the library at times when she knew that the earl was not at home. She discovered a volume of Mr. Pope's poems and carried it off to her room, where she spent many hours reading his poems carefully. She thoroughly enjoyed "The Rape of the Lock" and read it many times. But on the whole she found his tone unnecessarily caustic. Much of what he wrote was the product of a bitter mind. And he had had some deformity, she had read somewhere. She shuddered. She hoped she would never allow her physical condition to warp her mind or her attitude to life.

And she spent many hours in the music room. She was fascinated by the harpsichord and played it often. It was especially suited to the music of Bach, she found. But it was the pianoforte that became her particular love. She played Haydn, Mozart, all the music she had ever learned, in fact. And she sang to her own accompaniment. She sang old ballads and newer love songs.

In the music room she could completely forget herself. It was a large room at the far end of a wing of the house that contained none of the apartments that were in daily use. The instruments stood in the middle of the room, far from windows and doors. Here she could play and sing undisturbed and undetected. Here she could be happy and forget such things as balls and society and stubborn, arrogant guardians.

She would not have felt so contented had she known that on an afternoon three days before the ball the Earl of Raymore, on his way to his room to change from his riding clothes into an outfit more suited for dining out, heard the distant sound of music. He stopped in his tracks and listened. His jaw set in annoyance when he realized that the sounds were coming from the music room. Only carefully selected guests, including the professional performers that he invited to play at his annual concerts, were allowed to touch the instruments there. One of his wards must be tinkling away in her best schoolroom manner. What sacrilege!

He changed direction grimly and strode toward the door of the music room. It was probably Rosalind Dacey. She was the one who fancied herself as an accomplished musician, he seemed to remember. He would make it perfectly clear to her that she was welcome to practise in the drawing room when he was not there, but that the music room was very definitely out of bounds.

He stopped just outside the door, his hand stretched toward the handle but not quite touching it. She was singing. He did not recognize either the words or the melody, but the song was so simple and so haunting that it halted his progress completely:

Raymore felt a momentary sharp pang whose source and meaning he could not identify. She should always sing. She had a contralto voice that was soft and throbbing with feeling. It was sheer beauty.

The song was finished. The earl's hand had fallen to his side, but he still stood and listened as she continued to play the melody. After a while she began to hum again.

When she started to play Beethoven, the Earl of Raymore moved away from the room without opening the door. She was good, he was forced to admit. He would leave her alone with her music. She could probably do no harm to his prize possessions, after all.

He did not intend to, he did not particularly want to, but he found his feet taking him toward the door of the music room for the following two afternoons. The first time she was playing the harpischord. He did not hear it very often. Most of his guests avoided it as an outdated instrument inferior in versatility to the pianoforte. But she made Bach sound brilliant, as if the harpsichord were the only instrument that would bring his music to full life. The seconcP time she was singing again, an old ballad of valor and love and death. She made him feel all the grandeur and all the pathos of the old story. That must be how the ballads had been sung all those years ago, when song had been the chief method of communicating news as well of entertaining.

Raymore retreated abruptly when the music stopped and did not immediately resume. He had no wish to be caught spying or, indeed, to come face to face with his ward. Rosalind Dacey, musician, he had been forced to recognize and respect in the last few days. Rosalind Dacey, the woman, was a different matter altogether. He could live quite happily if he never encountered her again.

Rosalind had much the same thoughts in reverse during those few days. She saw very little of the earl.

But she still seethed with resentment over his refusal to allow her to return home and over his insistence that she attend the ball. She did not intend to submit meekly to her fate, though. She smiled several times to herself, thinking of the plan she had made to make the Earl of Raymore see things her way.