A Difficult Disguise (24 page)

They had come a long way since that day, and Rosalie did not now believe she regretted a moment they had spent together. Most especially, she knew she would always treasure the night they had shared a meal and a campfire, the night she had heard about William’s last hours and learned Fletcher to be, at heart, a wonderful, caring man.

He could also be exasperating, and maddening, and stubborn, and overbearing, and even nasty. But as she knew she had not been exactly honest with him, she could excuse his behavior. Yes, it still rankled that he had subjected her to that scene in his bedchamber, but she also knew, because she had to be nothing else if not honest, that he had been sorely tried, believing himself to be feeling an attraction toward a totally unsuitable
parti
.

And he loved her. Rosalie found a multitude of comfort in that thought, even though Fletcher had not yet confessed as much to her. There were just some things a woman knew, and this was one of them. He could no more deny the softness in his eyes when he looked at her than she could deny the ache in her heart when she caught sight of him.

She had often read of love, of course, as any lover of marble-backed novels had done. She knew there would be trials and troubles—had expected them—but she also knew that, in the end, good always triumphed over evil. Evil, in this case, personified itself not by way of a leering stepfather or a menacing ghost, or even a fire-breathing monster, but by Mrs. Beale and her wretched son, Sawyer.

But Rosalie wasn’t afraid—not anymore. Fletcher would slay all her dragons for her, and they would live happily ever after. Aunt Belleville, as that dear woman had already promised a half-dozen times, would help them raise a gaggle of beautiful, well-behaved children in the beauty and peace of Lakeview.

“You’re very quiet, halfling,” Fletcher remarked, pulling the curricle to a stop beneath a shady tree. “Perhaps you would have preferred we rode out on Pagan and She-Devil?”

“I have no riding habit,” she informed him, blushing at the memory of their race and its near-disastrous conclusion.

“It’s too late to bar the door, Rosalie, for all your lovely chickens have flown the coop. In other words, I have already seen you ride astride. We could have resurrected the breeches one last time if you had wished it.”

Rosalie shuddered, shaking her head. “I sincerely hope those breeches have already gone into the fire, as I never wish to see them again. Besides, riding astride has to be the most uncomfortable thing in the world. I don’t know how you men endure it.”

Fletcher laughed, hopping down from the seat to tie the reins to a nearby branch. Holding up his hand to her, he bid her to alight, saying that he thought they should walk awhile, so that he might hear more about Mrs. Beale, who could be counted upon to turn up at Lakeview no later than tomorrow afternoon.

Rosalie placed her hand in his, experiencing a thrill of excitement tingle its way to her elbow and beyond, and leapt down lightly from the seat.

“Must we talk about her, Fletcher?” she asked, lifting her eyes to him in innocent seduction. “I have already concluded that you shall rout both she and her nasty son without a single problem. You can be very intimidating when you wish to be, you know. William was always far too easy on them, as they are so distantly related that it cannot really signify, and they’re nothing but leeches into the bargain, feeding off anyone they feel unable to say no to them.”

“William—cowed by a woman?” Fletcher asked, tucking Rosalie’s hand into the crook of his arm as they walked across the open field toward a small, far-off building that served as a shelter for the sheep in the rain. “He was a gentle man, I know that, but I can hardly envision him in the role of dupe.”

Tears pricked at the back of Rosalie’s eyes as she heard Fletcher speak of her brother. Dear William. She still found it so difficult to remember that he had been lost to her, that she would never see him again.

“William’s heart was so pure,” she said quietly, placing her other hand on Fletcher’s forearm so that she could feel his solid strength with both hands. “He felt he couldn’t turn them away when they came to us several years ago and asked for his help. He gave them a small cottage at the edge of the farm, and still they cried poor and asked for more.

“I—” Rosalie’s voice broke for a moment before she could continue. “When he insisted that he had a responsibility to his country to join Wellington, I—I made him promise me that he wouldn’t die, leaving me with no one save Mrs. Beale as guardian. He laughed and then promised he’d never do that to me. I guess he must have remembered the promise when he had that terrible vision.”

She looked up at Fletcher, her eyes swimming in tears. “He wrote to me about the vision in his last letter, the one telling me that he had asked you to become my guardian if anything should happen to him. A few weeks later I learned that he was gone. Did he tell you about the vision?”

Their bodies leaned into each other’s as they walked, Fletcher’s free hand now lying atop Rosalie’s as he told her everything: of William’s letter, his own delay in locating it, his anguish, and even his initial reluctance to take on another ward after his tragedy with Arabella.

She had heard parts of this story before, that night in the stable, but Fletcher hadn’t been drinking this time, and now his words hit her with twice the impact. He was so sincere, so unwilling to make excuses for himself, that Rosalie felt herself hard-pressed not to stop, fold him into her arms, and comfort him.

Just as she was about to convert thought into action, Fletcher halted, turned to face her, looked deeply into her eyes, and asked, “Would you like a Season in London, Rosalie? Aunt Belleville seems to think you will take the city by storm, and I am inclined to agree with her.”

“Wh-what?” He had taken her totally off-guard, and she could only stare up at him in openmouthed amazement.

“No one knows about the happenings of the past days—and no one ever has to know. Your reputation will be safe. All this business of compromise can be buried, with no one to question it. Rosalie, don’t just look at me with those wounded green eyes, answer me.”

“You—you don’t want me?” she asked hollowly, her heart dropping to her toes, to lie there with all her shattered, broken dreams.

“Want you?” Fletcher responded, his voice racked with pain, although Rosalie, caught up in her own misery, did not hear it. “I read your letter to Mrs. Rimston, halfling.”

Her chin lifted a full two inches. “You read—you read my letter. How dare you! That was private. Oh, Fletcher, I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why? It was adorably naïve. And now I know you love me—you think you love me. I also know you to be totally innocent, unschooled in the world, and woefully imaginative, not that I don’t appreciate the absurd, dramatic workings of your mind. On the contrary, I adore them. But be that as it may, as your guardian I cannot be selfish. I must do what I believe is best for you.”

“Best for me? And you think a Season in London would be best for me? After what you’ve told me of the place? I’d be bored to flinders.”

“Forget what I said. At the time I said all that I thought I was keeping a young boy from running off to his ruin. London, for a beautiful young lady, constitutes the most wonderful place on earth. Good God, Rosalie, Beck has already closeted himself in his room in order to compose poems to your charms. You will have a hundred suitors. A thousand. How can I possibly tie you to marriage when you have not yet lived?”

“Marriage to you wouldn’t be living?” Rosalie retorted, stung into speech. “Never mind, don’t answer that. The nail is in, Fletcher, there’s no need to hammer it home. You have found yourself amused by me, attracted to me, but you don’t really love me. You don’t want marriage; you’ve already made it clear that an escape from clinging women was one of the reasons you returned to Lakeview. Well, I shan’t bother you anymore. I will return to Hilltop Farm with Mrs. Beale and Sawyer tomorrow, and let them do what they will with me—Black Mass and all.”

“Black Mass?” Fletcher took a step backward, dumbfounded. “Who in blazes told you they were going to use you in a Black Mass? Halfling, that’s absurd!”

Chapter 10

“T
o think I actually considered marriage to that man. Marriage? To Fletcher Belden? Ha! What a terrible joke! What a completely insane, ridiculous idea! A person would have to be out of her mind, at her last prayers, so firmly on the shelf she was stuck to it, to even consider such folly.”

Rosalie all but bounced about her bedchamber in her anger, longing to locate some object that, through the smashing of it, would give her an outlet for her rage, her indignation, her humiliation.

“Black Mass!” Fletcher had chortled, calling her assumption absurd. That was bad enough in itself, but did he have to compound his outburst by leaning himself against a tree trunk to laugh until tears ran down his cheeks? Did he, while wiping at his face with a ridiculously large white handkerchief, have to say in the most unromantic voice she had ever heard, “Black Mass? Oh, Lord, how I adore you, Rosalie,” and then go off into another paroxysm of giggles?

Rosalie stopped pacing, her grin impish as she wondered how much he adored her now, after watching her drive off in his curricle, leaving him behind to choke on his mirth.

“It serves him right,” she told her disheveled reflection in the mirror hanging over the dressing table. “The man has done nothing but insult me, trick me, lead me on only to shun me, and laugh at me since the moment we met. How on earth William could have thought him to be a wonderful fellow is entirely beyond my comprehension.”

She began to pace once more, but the heat had begun to go out of her anger, for she was at heart a most forgiving person. Biting her bottom lip, she walked to the window, wondering if Fletcher was still waiting for her on the road or if he had begun walking back to Lakeview. “Not that I care so much as a fig,” she told herself, lifting her chin to stare up at the ceiling for at least the count of ten while her toe tapped nervously against the carpet.

“Oh, hang him,” she exploded at last, scooping up her bonnet once more, and headed for the staircase. “I can’t leave the dratted man out there all alone. He’ll probably tumble off a cliff or some such stupid thing.”

Just as she got to the head of the stairs, there came a loud knocking at the front door and she stepped back a pace, immediately contrite, as she instantly envisioned a farm laborer on the other side of the door, his cap in hand, explaining that he had found Mr. Belden lying broken on the ground, and would anyone want him to fetch home the body.

When Lethbridge opened the door, however, it was not to find a farm laborer standing outside. Oh, no—no indeed.

“You, man! My name is Mrs. Beale. Don’t just stand there as if you’ve been paralyzed. I am to be taken to Mr. Belden at once.”

“And me too, Mama, don’t forget,” a whiny male voice chirped, immediately setting Rosalie’s teeth on edge.

“It’s them,” Rosalie whispered, one hand to her throat. She prudently backed away from the staircase, whirled about, and ran for her bedchamber, locking the door behind her, to look about the room once more—not for an object to break, but for a possible means of escape.

How dare the Beales arrive a day early? How dare Fletcher be out walking the countryside when they arrived, leaving her to deal with them alone?

No, she wouldn’t be alone. Aunt Belleville was here, as was Beck.

Her shoulders slumped. Aunt Belleville and Beck? What could she be thinking of, to believe that either of them could hold out against the bombastic Beales? “Face it, Rosalie,” she said on a groan. “You’re alone.”

Cudgeling her brain for some delaying tactic, some plan to keep herself safe from the Beales until Fletcher returned, Rosalie saw the nightgown Elsie must have brought into the room for her and then laid on the bed.

Stripping to her shift, her gown hastily kicked into a corner, Rosalie dived into the nightgown and had just settled herself beneath the covers when there came a knock at the door.

“Yoo-hoo, Rosalie, are you in there?” Aunt Belleville’s voice came through the door even as the doorknob turned a fraction before stopping. “Rosalie, dear, the door seems to be stuck. May I come in? Mrs. Beale is here to see you.”

“I—I have the headache,” Rosalie called out weakly, unfortunately too weakly for Aunt Belleville to hear her fib through the door.

“What, dear?”

Rosalie pulled a face. “I have the headache,” she called a bit louder.

“You have what?” Clearly Aunt Belleville still had not heard her. “Lethbridge,” Rosalie heard the woman call. “Lethbridge, I think something is wrong. Miss Darley has somehow gotten herself locked in her chamber and can’t come to the door. Perhaps we should break it down?”

“Oh, good grief,” Rosalie groaned, about to rise and unlock the door before remembering Hedge’s warning to never, under any circumstances, allow Aunt Belleville to suspect she might be ill. “Dose yer good, she will, with terrible, nasty stuff,” Hedge had said, and the expression on his face had been enough to convince Rosalie of the wisdom of the man’s words. She might complain of not feeling well, but she was not about to let the woman in to see for herself.