Red Rose

Chapter 7

Lord Standen had decided to celebrate his betrothal to Lady Sylvia Marsh with a week-long house party on his estate in Sussex. Even so, his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, felt that such an event called for a larger gathering in London. One week after the announcement appeared in the Gazette, she held a dazzling ball in honor of her brother and his fiancee.

Rosalind was becoming almost resigned to such occasions. She had learned to live her own life as far as was possible during the daytime and to accept the boredom of the evenings when she must sit and look cheerful and converse with whoever chose to sit with her. The event at hand gave her some interest in this particular ball. She watched her cousin and Lord Standen with interest when they were together. They danced twice before supper and stood together between dances speaking to their guests and receiving their congratulations. It was very hard to judge if there was a real attachment between them. They did not appear to talk much to each other, but then the occasion did not give them a great deal of opportunity to do so. They looked happy enough. Sylvia's eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed; she smiled constantly. Standen was gracious and had a word for each of his well-wishers. Rosalind liked him. He seemed to be a man of good sense and stability of character. She hoped that Sylvia had made the right choice.

The Earl of Raymore was also present at the ball. He looked with satisfaction on the newly betrothed pair. Half of his responsibility at least seemed to have been safely disposed of. Unfortunately, it was the easier half. He frowned in the direction of Rosalind, who was seated at one side of the ballroom talking to Nigel Broome. Axby had not pressed his suit since her rejection of him and it was unlikely that she would look more kindly on him a second time even if he did. He had been neglecting his responsibilities, Raymore decided. The Season was half over already. If he wished to be rid of her before the summer set in, he would have to work very hard. She looked different from her usual self tonight, he concluded, his eyes assessing her from head to toe. The sky-blue lace gown made her look younger, but also made her appear more foreign. He had never been an admirer of Italian women, but to those who were, she was not unhandsome.

Broome might not be an impossible match for her. He was a younger son, but had a comfortable fortune of his own, inherited from his grandmother. He was an unassuming, rather dull young man, bookish, it was rumored. But they might suit. He might see if he could throw them together a bit during Standen's house party, to which both he and Rosalind had been invited. In the meantime, he strolled around the dance floor, talking to acquaintances, considering the possibility of introducing some of his friends to his ward.

Soon after the supper break Rosalind could stand the boredom no longer. She was fortunate enough to be seated close to a doorway that led onto the terrace. She slipped through into the relative darkness of the lantern-lit outdoors while a set was forming for a country dance and no one's attention was on her. There was only one couple on the terrace and they were quite a distance from her, deep in conversation. The air was too chilly to entice many guests out of doors. Rosalind limped in the opposite direction, one hand on the stone balustrade, until she could descend the few stone steps down onto the lawn. She walked on the grass, taking deep breaths of fresh air, glad to be free of prying eyes for just a few minutes. She shivered.

"It is a full-time task keeping trace of your whereabouts," a cheerful voice said from the bottom of the steps. "One blinks and you are gone, escaped into darkness."

Rosalind smiled. "If I had known you cared, Bernard," she said, "I should have had the orchestra play a fanfare to announce my departure."

"Ah, but then I could not have sneaked out here after you for a clandestine meeting," he said, coming across the lawn toward her, his grin noticeable in the moonlight.

"Mm, foolish of me," she replied, and shivered again.

"You are cold," he said. "I had better escort you back inside."

"No," she protested more seriously, "I plan to walk awhile. You cannot imagine how tedious it is to sit all evening and not be free to move."

He smiled with quiet sympathy, took her hand, and tucked it through his arm, They strolled in silence for a while, watching broken clouds scudding in the moonlight above treetops that waved in a strong breeze.

"You are cold, Rosalind," he said after a few minutes. "Come back now."

She shook her head.

"Look," he said, "Letty's summerhouse is quite close by. Let us see if it is unlocked. If it is not, I shall have to come the bully and carry you back to the house or drag you by the hair."

"You would ruin my coiffure," she said. "I shall come quietly, sir, if the summerhouse is locked."

It was not. They moved gratefully inside the glass structure, which was still warm from the sunlight trapped inside during the day. They sat on a brocade-covered bench that circled the outer wall of the structure. They talked amiably for many minutes, until Rosalind realized uneasily that she had lost track of time.

"Cousin Hetty will be worried," she said, standing up. "I had not meant to be gone so long."

He too got to his feet. "I might be persuaded to escort you back if you will kiss me first," he said.

"Gracious!" Rosalind said, eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling. "I have to pay for your escort, sir?"

"Certainly!" he agreed. He winked at her and grinned. "And payment in advance, too, ma'am. I never trust a pretty face."

She laughed outright and put her hands on his shoulders, her face turned up to invite his kiss. He explored her lips warmly with his, holding her loosely in his arms.

"Mmm," he said with a mock growl into her ear.

She drew back her head, grinning merrily, about to remind him that he must now keep his part of their bargain. But his eyes had moved beyond her and his face had sobered.

"I am sure you will both hate me for interrupting this scene before it has reached a more interesting stage," the icy voice of the Earl of Raymore said from behind her, "but I will have to insist that you unhand my ward, Crawleigh."

Rosalind whirled around to face him. "My lord, what are you doing here?" she cried, and cursed her own reactions even as they were happening.

His eyes raked her body so that she felt quite naked before him. "Rescuing you from a fate worse than death, by the look of it," he said with cold sarcasm.

"Look here, Raymore," Sir Bernard said from behind her, his voice sounding testy, "this is not quite the way it seems, you know."

Raymore raised one eloquent eyebrow. "Forgive my foolishly suspicious mind," he said. "How could I possibly have believed that there might be anything improper in your being alone with Miss Dacey in a secluded summerhouse in the middle of the night? And how could I possibly have been alarmed to find you mauling her like a milkmaid? After all, she is still standing and still fully clothed."

Rosalind was so furious that she was momentarily deprived of speech. She glared into his mocking face, lit dimly by the moonlight.

"You misunderstand the situation, Raymore," Sir Bernard said quietly. "You interrupted a proposal of marriage. I was about to ask Miss Dacey if she would do me the honor of becoming my wife."

His two listeners became absolutely motionless, their eyes locked, strangely enough, on each other. Rosalind watched Raymore's face slowly lose its sneer and become taut with… what? Fury? She was surprised to find that when he spoke, his voice was quiet and almost pleasant.

"I see," he said. "And was I to be consulted in the matter, Crawleigh?"

"Of course," Sir Bernard replied. "But Rosalind is a grown woman, Raymore. I wished to consult her wishes before discussing terms with you."

Rosalind turned and looked up into his face, troubled. "Bernard," she began.

He took her hand and squeezed it hard. "Not now, love," he said, smiling fleetingly down at her before returning his attention to her guardian. "We must see about returning Rosalind to her chaperone," he suggested. "I shall call on you tomorrow morning, Raymore?"

The earl bowed stiffly, his face still tight with that expression that Rosalind could not read. He stood aside from the doorway and the other two occupants of the room passed out before him. Rosalind had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Sir Bernard held her hand firmly on his arm and reduced his stride to match her halting progress, while Raymore walked at her other side. None of them said a word all the way back to the house. It was a relief to be led back to the sofa that she had occupied for several hours before this escapade. The earl had stopped in the doorway to the terrace. Sir Bernard left her almost immediately after smiling down at her and promising to speak with her the following day. She was joined soon afterward by Cousin Hetty, who scolded her in a cheerful manner about disappearing for such a long time and throwing her into such a flutter.

Rosalind was happy at least that the ball was almost at an end. She had to sit looking cheerful for only half an hour longer. Even the journey home was not quite the ordeal she had expected. She was very much aware of Raymore seated opposite her in the carriage, their knees almost touching, but any tension there might have been between them was eased by the cheerful prattle of Sylvia and the lengthy comments of Cousin Hetty.

The matter was not to be dropped for the night, though. Sylvia was already halfway up the stairs and Rosalind had her foot on the bottom stair, Cousin Hetty close behind her, when Raymore entered the house.

"Rosalind, I wish to have a word with you in the library," he said quietly.

"Goodness," Cousin Hetty said, "these girls must be sleeping on their feet, Edward dear. Can it not wait until morning?"

"I am afraid not," he replied.

Rosalind turned without a word and preceded him to the library door.

"I shall have warm milk brought to your room, dear," Cousin Hetty said. "Be sure to come up in time to drink it before it grows cold."

Raymore reached around Rosalind and opened the doors to the library. He closed them again when they were both inside. He did not waste any time. "Are you quite bent on ruining a good man's life?" he asked.

Rosalind turned toward him incredulously. "What?" she asked.

He was looking at her with those ice-blue eyes that always infuriated her. "You enticed Crawleigh into the garden tonight," he said, "and into the summerhouse, so that you might satisfy your lust with him, and now you have forced him into playing the gentleman and offering for you."

"Entice? Lust?" Rosalind repeated. She was so furious that her breath was coming in uneven gasps. "How do you dare speak of me so?"

"I have eyes," he said icily, "and I saw how you were kissing him, Rosalind, your hands pulling him down to you. Your upbringing must have taught you how improper your behavior tonight was even without that embrace. And I believe that a few minutes longer would have seen you past the point of a simple kiss."

"Are you mad?" she cried, her voice rising. "You paint me as some sort of seductress. The notion is absurd. Look at me, Edward. Do I look like the sort of woman who would know how to tempt a man even if she wished to do so? I am ugly and deformed."

"You are not ugly!" he snapped, taking a step toward her, his ice turned to fire. "And you forget that I, too, was fool enough on one occasion to taste your charms. I know what you hide under those cleverly designed garments, Rosalind." His eyes raked her again as they had done earlier in the summerhouse, and she felt that she was being stripped of all her clothing. "I shall not be well-pleased if it should become general knowledge that one of my wards is a woman of loose morals."

Rosalind could feel the blood drumming through her head. She fought to keep some control. "If I were a man, my lord," she said, "I should make you take back those words at the point of a sword. You have insulted me beyond bearing tonight. If you have nothing else to say, I shall go to my room."

"Do you intend accepting Crawleigh's offer?" he asked, turning away from her and crossing to a sideboard, where he poured himself a drink.

"He has not yet asked me," she replied curtly. "I will have to discuss the matter with him before I make a decision."

"I would advise you to refuse him," he said, "if you do not wish to have him grow to hate you."

"You would not be able to conceive of the idea that perhaps he loves me and wishes to marry me, would you?" she asked.

"No, I would not."

"Good night, my lord," she said, turning to the door.

"Rosalind!" he said sharply, and when she half-turned toward him she saw that he had crossed the room to her. "You do not have to marry Crawleigh, you know."

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

"I believe you were not missed tonight by anyone except me and perhaps Hetty," he said. "Your honor is not seriously at stake."

His face was quite serious, Rosalind observed, not icy, not sneering.

"I never for a moment thought it was," she replied before turning back to the door and leaving the room.

Raymore sat in the library for several hours, one forgotten drink in his hand, his eyes staring unseeing into the empty fireplace. He should be feeling elated. By tomorrow afternoon he should have both wards safely betrothed and there was still a month of the Season left. With continued good fortune, both men would press for an early wedding. He could be free of his obligations by autumn, free to return to his bachelor existence and forget about women as much as he wanted to.

Why, then, did he feel so dissatisfied? He had to analyze the cause. Both men were entirely good matches. Standen had long been an acquaintance of his and was a man of sense and good principles. He would make a good husband. And so would Crawleigh. Raymore could remember a time when the latter had been a wild young man, associated with a dandy set, given to any number of excesses: gaming, women, accepting senseless dares. But he appeared to have outgrown such wildness and had never, in fact, been vicious. He was reputed to keep a mistress in somewhat extravagant luxury, but since he conducted the affair discreetly, there could be no serious objection.

He should certainly be thankful that such an eligible suitor had shown interest in Rosalind. After her refusal of Axby, he had seen little hope of bringing anyone else to the point, certainly not someone of Crawleigh's standing. He could have just about any lady of quality he desired for a bride. Why had he felt such opposition to the match, then, when Crawleigh had first mentioned it in the summerhouse and when Rosalind was in the room here with him earlier?

He had felt unease as soon as he had missed her from the ballroom. He had looked across many times to see her sitting on the sofa, usually with someone seated next to her. But he had not seen her go. He did see Crawleigh leave through the terrace door close to the empty sofa, though. And he had given them ten minutes before giving in to his impatience and following them outside. It had taken him another fifteen minutes to find them. He remembered now his own fury when he had quietly opened the door of the summerhouse and found them together, Rosalind's hands at Crawleigh's neck, his splayed across her back, his mouth at her ear. For a moment he had wanted to kill, though he was not quite sure now which of them he had wished to make his victim.

She had come to epitomize for him all women. She appeared to be innocent and modest. When he had first met her, he would have been ready to swear that she had never been near any high society or any men. Her handicap and her looks should have ensured that. But he had been forced to revise that early impression. Like all women, she had learned to be alluring. She was not, in fact, ugly. The plain hairstyle and gowns had quickly been thrown aside once she had had a chance to make an impression on the ton, and he had to admit now that she could look quite remarkably stunning in the richly colored gowns she favored and with those thick, shiny locks dressed fashionably. She was out of the ordinary way. He found increasingly that she drew his eyes like a magnet when they were in the same room.

And the demure innocence was just a deceptive facade, too. He could see now why she had been so contemptuous of Axby's offer. She was quite capable of luring a more attractive husband on her own. Had she been trying to trap him into marriage on the night of her come-out ball? He remembered with some anger the way he had reacted to her. He had been so startled by her almost instant abandonment to his kiss, the passion with which she had offered herself to him, and the glorious shapeliness of her body, that he had almost succumbed to his own desire. By God, she had almost succeeded. If he had taken her on that occasion, he would have been honor-bound to marry her, not only as a gentleman, but especially as her guardian. His jaw clenched. He had not fully realized until this moment just what a fortunate escape he had had. Perhaps she did not realize her own good fortune. He would have seen to it that her life was hell if he had been forced to make her his wife.

And now she had succeeded with poor Crawleigh. Raymore doubted very much if the man had really been about to offer for her. She had obviously been intent on seducing him there in the summerhouse. She doubtless would have succeeded had he not interrupted them. But the end result was the same. Crawleigh had been forced into a situation in which he had no choice. And why should pity be wasted on him? the earl thought bitterly. He had been willing to enjoy her there in the garden. Let him have joy of her for the rest of his life. Raymore thought again of Crawleigh's hands on her back and gritted his teeth.

His rose! In the past weeks he had been lulled again into thinking that the girl who could produce such glorious music must be pure. The truth was that only a person of experience and knowledge would be capable of reproducing the passion of Beethoven and that of her unknown poet.

Raymore pulled himself to his feet. He would be glad to see the last of her. It could not be soon enough for him.

Rosalind, in her room, sitting up in bed, was having similar thoughts. She had to get away from the Earl of Raymore. The man was pure tyrant, treating her earlier tonight like a child who has no ability to look after herself instead of like the adult she was. And his behavior in the library had been the outside of enough. He had actually accused her of being a seductress, of deliberately setting out to trap Bernard into marriage. If he had called her a whore she could not feel more insulted.

The trouble was that she had a sinking feeling that he was right on at least one detail. Bernard had been forced into that ridiculous declaration. Of course he had not been about to ask her to marry him any more than she had been expecting such a proposal. She liked Bernard excessively and had grown to depend greatly on his friendship. She felt a pleasant attraction to him and had enjoyed both kisses shared with him. She thought she might be falling in love with him. But if they were ever to love deeply enough for marriage, it was likely to be at some future date. Theirs was not a passionate relationship that would develop quickly, but rather an affectionate friendship that might or might not grow into love. At least, that was how she viewed the matter.

And now because of a ridiculous sense of honor, Bernard's hand had been forced. He would call on Raymore tomorrow and then she would be summoned to hear his formal proposal. The whole situation was farcical. She would be downright embarrassed. How could she take Bernard seriously as an ardent suitor? She would tell him, of course, that she could not consider marrying him at present, and that would be the end of the matter. But it was most provoking. Their pleasant friendship would be strained, perhaps ruined, and certainly any chance of love developing would be permanently quenched.

Damn him! Damn Edward Marsh! Why had he had to appear just when he had? That kiss had been so harmless, a joke really. A few seconds later and they would have both been laughing and turning to walk back to the house. And he had been so furious. Rosalind had thought at first that he was about to attack one or other of them. His fists had been clenched at his sides. And she remembered that, inexplicably, she had wanted to go to him, touch him, assure him that what he had seen was really quite deceptive. She had had a vivid memory, looking at him, of what it had felt like to have his arms around her, his mouth on hers. How thankful she was that she had not given in to the impulse. He had been so insulting immediately afterward, putting the worst possible interpretation on what he had seen.

He was quite insufferable. How could she possibly go on living in his home after the things he had said to her? She was almost tempted to accept Bernard's offer. H she did not, it was likely that she would become an old maid and she would always be bound to this man, would always be at his beck and call. She did not think she could bear it.

Both the Earl of Raymore and Rosalind were still awake when dawn broke.