Red Rose

Chapter 5

Most of the flowers and decorations that had adorned the hallways, staircase, and ballroom of the Earl of Raymore's home had been removed by midmorning of the following day. But they were soon replaced by the countless bouquets that began arriving before luncheon. Most of them were from gentlemen who had danced with Sylvia. Two were for Rosalind: one bouquet of pink and white carnations from Sir Rowland Axby and one of red roses from Sir Bernard Crawleigh.

Sylvia danced into her cousin's room at noon and pulled back the heavy curtains from the windows to let in the sunlight. "Oh, do wake up, sleepyhead," she begged. "I am simply longing to talk to you about last night, Ros."

Rosalind groaned. She had not fallen asleep until long after daylight came, and even before conscious memory returned, she knew that she did not want to wake up.

"Was it not a perfectly splendid evening?" Sylvia gushed. "All the ladies so friendly, Ros, and the gentlemen!"

Rosalind knew from experience that there was no fighting such high spirits. She pushed herself up to a sitting position on the bed. "And with which of them have you fallen in love?" she asked.

"Oh, I really do not know," Sylvia replied seriously. "Mr. Hammond is very handsome and charming, but do you think he smiles too much, Ros? Lord Standen is very grand. I believe Cousin Edward favors him. He is quite distinguished-looking, too, and very elegant. Perhaps if I met him a few more times, I should be as comfortable with him as I was with his brother, Mr. Broome. Of course, I had not met him before, either, but perhaps he is more easy in his manners because he is not a lord and does not have an air of such consequence."

"Ah," said Rosalind, "I did not notice that young man. Is he also handsome?"

"Oh no," Sylvia said candidly, "not at all. Pleasant-looking, perhaps. Ros, you should see all the flower decorations downstairs. Some from gentlemen I cannot even remember! You must come and see. There are some for you, too."

"Indeed!" her cousin replied dryly. "I cannot imagine who would want to remember me after last night."

"That perfectly gorgeous man we met at the theater is one of them," Sylvia said.

"Sir Bernard Crawleigh?"

"Yes, him. Oh, Ros, he is the one you walked across the ballroom with, is he not? How could you do such a thing? I thought it excessively brave of you."

Rosalind rested her forehead on her raised knees. "I really do not wish to discuss that," she said. "Give me five minutes, Sylvie, and I shall come and inspect this flower garden with you."

A feeling of oppression stayed with her for the rest of the day, but she had no chance to give in to her mood. After she had dutifully inspected all the flowers with Sylvia and read all the cards, it was time for luncheon and a long conversation about the previous evening's successes between Sylvia and Cousin Hetty. Visitors began to arrive in the afternoon, almost all of them male.

It was during these visits, when the drawing room was crowded, that the Earl of Raymore put in his only appearance of the day. Rosalind, talking at the time with Nigel Broome, stiffened. She was afraid to look directly at him, but was constantly aware of his moving about the room, greeting the various visitors. She could breathe freely again only when she became aware, after twenty minutes, that he had left.

Later in the afternoon both cousins were taken driving in Hyde Park, Sylvia by Lord Standen, Rosalind by Sir Rowland Axby. The latter made no reference to the embarrassing spectacle Rosalind had made of herself the evening before. In fact, no one had done so except Sylvia. Rosalind was content during the drive to listen to Sir Rowland talk on about his family and about his house and to try not to imagine what half the people riding and walking in the park must be thinking of her.

The Earl of Raymore had a great deal more time than his ward during the day to brood on what had happened the evening before. After very few hours of fitful sleep he rose early and saddled his fastest horse. Hyde Park was not the ideal place for an uninhibited gallop, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. At least he did not have to worry about endangering any other riders or pedestrians. The mists of early morning had still not lifted as he drove his spurs into the horse and galloped quite recklessly across the green lawns.

How could he have so forgotten himself and propriety as to have kissed his own ward? He disliked the girl intensely. She was everything he most detested in a woman-proud and independent of spirit, making no secret of her scorn for men. She was bold and had no sense of modesty. What other girl would have walked across an empty dance floor during her come-out ball even if she had the prettiest of walks? She had quite openly shown her contempt for the whole ton by making such a public demonstration of her deformity. Physically, she was not attractive at all to him. He had never admired tall women or dark coloring. Only fragile, fair beauty had ever tempted his appetites. Yet, despite all these things, he had given in to some madness the night before. For the span of a few minutes, he could not deny it, he had wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. It was only by some miracle that he had come to his senses when he had. A few minutes more, seconds even, and he would have passed the point of no return. The thought did not bear contemplation. Raymore turned his horse and urged it back in the direction from which he had just come. He tried desperately to keep his mind blank.

Uncharacteristically, the earl stayed at home after breakfast, first consulting with his secretary and checking his morning mail and then retreating to the library, where he sat at his desk and stared ahead of him. Why had she allowed such an unchaste embrace as they had shared last evening? God, in this very room! He would never have guessed that she was a practiced flirt. He would have expected that someone with her obvious lack of beauty and with her deformity would have been completely untouched. But apparently not. She had shown no signs of shock at finding that a kiss was not always just a meeting of the lips. She had shown no shame or embarrassment about fitting her body against his. She had invited his hands on her breasts. He had no doubt at all that she would have allowed him to undress her and lay her down on the library carpet. The slut! He drove one fist into the other palm and swore out loud. Why was he still capable of feeling surprise at anything that women could do? He had considered Annette to be just an innocent little doll too, had he not?

He had made another discovery the night before. Those loose clothes that Rosalind Dacey chose to wear hid the most curvaceous feminine body that he had ever touched. Perhaps it was that discovery that had made him come so close to losing his head entirely. But why would she hide the one asset that might make some man ignore the unfashionable dark foreign looks and even, possibly, that quite ugly limp? He guessed that he would never understand women.

The belief that he had been taken as a dupe upset the Earl of Raymore a great deal. He had thought himself immune to women. For the past eleven years he had taken women at his own pleasure, always to satisfy a purely physical need, never out of passion or any finer feeling. It was terrible to him to admit that he had lost control, even if only for a few minutes. What made matters infinitely worse was the knowledge that he had erred with his ward. However reluctantly he had accepted his guardianship, nevertheless he had a responsibility, a duty to protect her and care for her needs, a duty to see her suitably married. However willing a partner she had been, and however much she had instigated the whole episode, still he had wronged her by assaulting her as he had in his own home.

Raymore sat a long time silently considering what he must do. The most obvious solution seemed to be to give in to her demands and send her back to the country. Yet he could not display weakness by giving in to her so. He had very little hope left of finding her a husband in the near future. She had effectively prevented that by her behavior in the ballroom.

He had still not found a solution when the butler knocked on the door to ask if his lordship intended to eat luncheon at home. Raymore ordered a tray brought into the library. It cannot be said that he enjoyed his meal. He hardly tasted it, in fact. His mind was dealing with a thorny problem. Did he owe Miss Dacey an apology? The idea was quite unpalatable. She had clearly provoked him into anger. He was very ready to believe that she had lured him into that embrace. Even so, he admitted, he should not have touched her.

Raymore decided that he would join the ladies later in the drawing room. There would probably be visitors. His cousin Sylvia had appeared to take very well the evening before. He would draw Miss Dacey to one side, apologize briefly, and be done with the matter. It was far more desirable to do the job that way than to speak to her in private. She would be sure to make a major quarrel out of it if he did it that way.

In the event, though, Raymore found himself unaccountably uneasy when he entered the drawing room. As he accepted a cup of tea from Hetty and entered into a conversation with Standen and his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, he was uncomfortably aware of Rosalind sitting across the room talking to Standen's younger brother. He talked to each of the visitors in turn, but failed to take the opportunity of moving to his ward's side when Broome moved away to talk to Sylvia. Soon he lost the chance, when Axby took the empty seat that young Nigel had vacated.

Raymore left the room soon afterward without having spoken to his ward. In fact, he had not even looked directly at her the whole time he had been in the room. The earl frowned. What was the matter with him? Was he afraid of the chit? He hurried up to his room and rang impatiently for his valet. An hour later he left the house and remained away until the early hours of the following morning.

The ladies did not have any engagement for that evening, but they spent a productive evening going through the pile of invitations that had arrived with the day's post. Now that they were officially out, Sylvia and Rosalind were entitled to attend as many routs, balls, Venetian breakfasts, soirees, and other events as could be reasonably fitted into each day. Sylvia and Cousin Hetty were trying to decide which of the invitations should be accepted.

"Lady Sefton promised me last evening that she would send vouchers for Almack's," Cousin Hetty said, scratching the ears of a sleeping poodle as she passed an invitation card across to Sylvia.

"Almack's!" that young lady squealed. "How heavenly! Did you hear that, Ros?"

Fortunately for Rosalind, the question appeared rhetorical. Her cousin was already exclaiming over the card she held in her hand, which promised further delights at yet another party.

Rosalind did, in fact, escape early to bed, claiming that she was tired after the ball of the evening before. She was not exactly lying, she mused as she closed the door of her bedroom behind her and set down the candle on the table beside the bed. She was extremely weary and mortally depressed. Until the night before, she had buoyed up her spirits with the conviction that the Earl of Raymore would send her back home without delay once she had publicly embarrassed him.

But her scheme had failed. Not only was she being forced to remain in London, but she had succeeded in embarrassing herself quite dreadfully. The only factor that had given her the courage to walk across that ballroom the evening before was her conviction that she need never face any of those people again. Now it seemed that she was doomed to face them all many times.

How she hated her guardian. Even that afternoon he had appeared in the drawing room, probably to check on her, like a jailer, to make sure that she was not hiding in her room. She shuddered at the memory of what had happened between them the night before. That he was physically very attractive she could not deny. She had loved Alistair, his dream counterpart, for several years. But how had she allowed herself to ignore the very contemptible character that was housed in the very godlike body? She never would have done so had she not been furiously angry, she persuaded herself.

But her own abandonment to the embrace quite disturbed her. Rosalind had never been kissed before. Indeed, she had rarely had any contact at all with men, having always avoided the few social events that she and Sylvia had been invited to in previous years. She should, then, have been shocked even by the mere touch of a man's lips. And she had been shocked at first. She had pulled away from him with the same instinct as she would have withdrawn her hand from a hot surface. But when she had looked at him, his face had for once been unguarded, the coldness absent. His eyes had had depth, and she had fallen into those depths as he drew her to him again. And she would never be able to explain why she had reacted as she had that second time. Her behavior was frightening to look back upon. Rosalind could explain it to herself only by admitting that she had wanted him. She had wanted to be close to him, closer than she could be even by pressing her body against his. She had opened her mouth when his tongue had asked entrance, though she had not known there could be such a kiss. She had moved against his hands, wanting them to know her. She had always been embarrassed by her full figure, but she had welcomed his hands on her breasts, had ached to have them beneath the fabric of her gown. She had wanted him.

Rosalind was clinging to one of the posts of her bed. She hung her head and closed her eyes. How could she have behaved so, had those feelings with him? With him of all people! Had she no shame? Could she be attracted so powerfully to beauty when there was no substance behind it? He was a cold, unfeeling man who just happened to be extraordinarily handsome. Was she to be seduced by external appearances alone?

And why had he participated in that embrace? Rosalind knew that her deformity repelled him. She knew that he disliked her. She knew that she was ugly. Why, then? He could not have been led astray by appearances. She turned her face to the bedpost as she faced the truth as it must be. He had deliberately set out to humiliate her. She had bested him in the ballroom, and being the sort of man who could never allow another to outmaneuver him, he had coldly and calculatedly taken his revenge almost immediately. With practiced powers of seduction, he had drawn her into making a complete cake of herself. Forever afterward now, when he looked at her, he would be able to sneer at the poor, ugly girl who had responded eagerly to an embrace in the library, believing it to be a sign of real attraction.

Rosalind's knuckles were white as she clung to the post. She would get even with him. She did not have the faintest notion of how she would do it, but she would.

The Earl of Raymore rose the next morning with the determination to see Miss Rosalind Dacey as soon as possible, make his apologies, and forget the whole matter. He was heartily sick of the whole situation with his wards. Having them in his house and setting about getting them married was proving a deucedly troublesome business, and that one girl was occupying his mind far more than he could wish.

When he finally sent for Rosalind to attend him in the library just before luncheon, however, something had happened to completely reverse his mood. For the first time in days he was feeling positively cheerful.

"Good morning, Rosalind," he said when she came through the door. He had decided to drop the "Miss Dacey." She was, after all, his ward. He stood with his back to the windows, his hands clasped behind him.

"My lord," she said, nodding coolly in his direction. She stopped inside the door and stood facing him.

"Will you not have a seat?" he asked. "I have good news for you."

She did not move, but her face lit up as she looked fully at him for the first time. "You are sending me home?" she asked.

He clucked his tongue impatiently. "Far better than that," he said, and paused to let his words take effect.

Rosalind's face became shuttered again. She stared at him.

"I have an offer for you," the Earl of Raymore said.

Rosalind still said nothing.

"Come," he said, leaving his place by the window and crossing the room to her. "Are you not eager to know the identity of your suitor?" He had intended to take her by the hand and lead her to a chair. But he stopped ten feet away from her, halted by her utter stillness.

She did not answer him.

"Sir Rowland Axby has visited me this morning and asked if he may pay his addresses to you," Raymore said, frowning briefly. The girl should be ecstatic. What was the matter with her?

"I see," she said finally, her face devoid of all expression. "And did you sell me, my lord?"

"Sell?"

"That is what I said," she agreed. "Sir Rowland has come buying and you have sold, I gather. Me and my modest dowry in exchange for what? Freedom from my troublesome presence? I daresay for you it is a thoroughly satisfactory bargain."

"Why do you persist in seeing yourself as merchandise?" he said irritably. "It is perfectly normal for girls of your class to make marriage alliances. It is normal for fathers and guardians to help make those alliances. It is the way our society works. I fail to see why you apparently object."

"Why has Sir Rowland chosen me?" she asked quietly.

"Why? Because he is pleased with you, I suppose. Because he needs a wife and because you are single girl belonging to his own class."

"You are a liar," she said dispassionately.

Raymore's eyes narrowed. "And you are deliberately trying to provoke me, ma'am," he replied testily.

"You know as well as I do why I am to receive this most flattering offer," Rosalind said. "Sir Rowland is an aging widower who has nothing to recommend him to a prospective bride. He has neither looks, nor intelligence, nor charm. But he does have a large family. He has looked around him for the girl who is least likely to refuse his offer and he has settled on me. Quite admirable, of course. The man has sense, if not intelligence. What does he see?" She held out her arms and looked down at herself. "He sees a girl who is too tall and too

dark for fashion, one who does not have a pretty face. And best of all he sees a cripple. Such a girl, of course, is bound to be so beholden to him for the kindness of his offer that she will devote the rest of her life to being a slave to him and his six children and to any other children that he may condescend to give her."

"Are you finished?" Raymore asked, still ten feet away.

Rosalind let her arms fall to her sides again and stared silently back at him.

"The truth of the matter is," he said coldly, his eyes opaque again, "that this is a flattering offer. You are not ugly, Rosalind. In fact…" He hesitated and did not complete the thought. "But you cannot expect to be numbered among the beauties of the Season. Coming, as you do, from a life in the country, I can see that you have not been taught to face reality. The life of an old maid is a frightful one. Such a woman is passed on from one relation to another, always at everyone's beck and call, not wanted by anyone. I do not wish that life for you. Sir Rowland Axby may not be the man of your choice, but believe me, Rosalind, marriage to him will be better than no marriage at all. At least you will hold a respectable position in society."

"I would rather die," she said.

He gestured impatiently. "Pure melodrama," he said. "I took you for a woman of some sense."

"I, on the other hand, have understood you from the beginning," Rosalind said. "You are a cold, hard man who has so little regard for the feelings of others that you do not even know that those feelings exist."

"Always we come back to your hatred of me, do we not?" he said, moving away from her and walking to the fireplace, where he stood staring down at the unlit logs. "If you hate me so much, Rosalind, I would think you would be delighted to have an opportunity to be independent of me."

"I will not marry Sir Rowland," she said.

He looked up sharply at her. "You will listen to his proposal this afternoon," he said, "and you will accept, my girl."

"Oh, no, Edward," she said quietly. "Pray do not work yourself into a lather over this. You have no way of winning. You cannot force me to marry anyone and it is pointless to engage in a battle of wills with me. I would guess that most people crumble before your will, but you will find that I shall not."

The Earl of Raymore had gone very still as he watched her. "We shall see, ma'am," he said calmly. "We shall see. You may leave me now."

He stood staring at the door for several minutes after she had taken a quiet departure.