Blossom Time (18 page)

“Better than Covent Garden. And it’s free.”

The first dance was a minuet. Little talk was necessary and no real conversation possible. Such words as the movements of the dance allowed were about the music. Rosalind said the London musicians were very good. Harwell replied that they were the group used at the best London balls. Sylvester must have put her on to them.

Her annoyance was slightly relieved when Sylvester came to her for the second set. He was as friendly as ever. He made a few jokes about the elaborate meal. He asked if she had had his letter and gave a few more details about the matters discussed in it. Nothing appeared to have changed between them. Yet she knew she could never care for him enough to marry him. Even if he professed undying devotion and a title besides, she could not do it.

Before they parted, he said in a conspiratorial way, “I have to talk to you in private, Roz. Fortescue is going to make the announcement. Meet me in the conservatory after. Come alone.”

It was a curious request. She agreed to it as much out of curiosity as anything. Fortescue’s announcement, she assumed, had to do with his joint venture with Sylvester in
Camena.
When their dance was over, Sylvester darted back to Mr. Fortescue’s side. Annabelle joined him. The little group proceeded to the front of the ballroom. Fortescue had a word with the musicians, they set aside their instruments, and he mounted the musicians’ raised platform. The room fell silent, every eye turned on him.

He began a rambling speech, first about
Camena
and his joining the board of directors. As the words flowed on, the name Lord Sylvester occurred with increasing frequency, veering from his native genius in having a marquess for a papa and writing and editing poetry to more personal praise.

“A young gentleman of wit, character, and integrity who has become like a son to me. I am proud to announce that he soon will be. My daughter, Annabelle, has accepted his offer of marriage.”

The announcement was followed by a few seconds of stunned silence while this incredible fact was digested. Into the hush came the words “Good God!” issued in no quiet voice by Lady Amanda, followed by a raucous laugh. Then the dam of silence broke and a babble of sound rose all around. Rosalind scarcely heard it for the ringing in her ears as she stood, pale and staring.

She was dimly aware of the crowd thrusting forward to offer their best wishes to the couple and Fortescue. Dick was suddenly at her side.

“Thank God that’s over!” he said, in heartfelt accents. “Let us go home and tell Miss Rafferty.”

“No! It will be noticed if we leave now. We must congratulate them.” As she peered around the room, she noticed several pairs of eyes regarding Dick in a questioning way. Hardly surprising as no rescinding of Annabelle’s engagement to him had been made.

“Very well, let us get it over with then.”

He took Rosalind’s elbow and jostled her forward. Over a few heads he called, “Congratulations, milord. Every happiness, Annabelle.”

Annabelle lifted her head and cast a gloating, triumphant smile at the Lovelaces. “Sorry, Dick,” she said. “Too kind of you. I’ll see that you get your little engagement ring back.” Rosalind noticed then that she was not wearing it, but she was not wearing Sylvester’s ring either. Her third finger was bare of any ring.

She was unaware that her new fiancé was looking at Rosalind with a conspiratorial grin lifting his lips. Rosalind despised him at that moment. There was no public shame to her in the announcement. The neighbors knew nothing of her romance with Sylvester. Only Harry and Dick knew she was expecting an offer. This was humiliating, but it was not what caused her anger.

It was that sly smile Sylvester cast in her direction. She was taken with the notion that he had no intention of marrying Annabelle. It was some stunt to get more money out of Fortescue. Could he really be that lacking in character? She remembered his request that she meet him in the conservatory after the announcement.

Her first instinct was to ignore the meeting and go home. A second thought changed her mind. She would go to the conservatory and discover exactly his true intentions regarding Annabelle. And if they were as she suspected, she would ring a peal over the wretch that would be heard in London. London! She could not possibly go there under his auspices now.

Deep in thought, she paid little heed to the surrounding melee. When she shook herself back to attention, she heard a few friends commiserating with Dick, whose high spirits sounded false, but were, in fact, genuine. It was embarrassment that made him laugh too loud and utter such ill-bred inanities as “Better him than me!”

Overcome with it all, Rosalind turned to leave the room and found herself confronted with Harwell. He wore a small scowl. She knew it was anger on her behalf, and knew, too, that the gentle hand placed on her arm was a gesture of support and genuine affection. He looked like the only sane, rational person in the room. Her anger with Sylvester and Annabelle dissipated like dew in the morning sun. How could Dick think for a moment that Harry would ever offer for Annabelle?

“Shall I take you home?” was all he said.

It was like him to completely ignore the shame and ill-bred folly of this night and try to spare her feelings.

“Dick and I will be leaving in a moment,” she said, and added simply, “Thank you, Harry.”

“You are better off without him.”

“I know. It’s all right. I am not going to do anything foolish. I just want a word with Sylvester. He asked me to meet him in the conservatory. To apologize, I expect.”

They walked to the edge of the room. “He’s left it a bit late. Annabelle’s doing, no doubt. She wanted to stun the world with her announcement. How is Dick taking it?”

“He’s delighted.”

“Good.”

Rosalind wanted a few moments to collect her thoughts before meeting Sylvester. “Why don’t you have a word with Dick?” she suggested.

Harry squeezed her fingers, gave her an encouraging smile, and left.

She went to the conservatory to wait. Wrapped up in her thoughts, she was oblivious of the swaying palms and pungent scent from the lemon trees around her, but she did appreciate the silence. She just wanted to be away from the crowd for some private brooding. Now that the shock was over, she wondered what Sylvester was going to say. Perhaps she had misjudged him and he truly cared for Annabelle and intended to marry her. He just wanted to apologize, or settle some details of her remove to London.

As if she would go there now! Sylvester could no longer be her escort when he was engaged to Annabelle, and she had no wish to crash society on her own. If Sylvester made some token gesture of showing her around, Annabelle would be at his side, making a vulgar show of herself. No, it would not do. She would remain at Apple Hill. For tonight, she would hear what he had to say, and tell him she was not going to London. No doubt he would be relieved.

When all this was settled in her mind, she began to stroll around the conservatory, suddenly aware of the cloying perfume of the flowers and the moist warmth of the air. Knowing that Sylvester could not dash off the minute after the announcement, she settled in for a wait.

Chapter Twenty

After half an hour, Rosalind heard light footsteps entering the conservatory. She rose from the wrought-iron bench on which she had been resting to greet Sylvester. When he espied her, he rushed forward, both arms reaching for her.

“Rosalind! Sorry I am so late coming to you, but we must keep the old boy in curl. You won’t believe how much he’s putting into
Camena.
Five thousand! And that on top of Annabelle’s dowry!”

Her lips pinched in distaste. She realized at once that he had drunk more wine than he should, which would account for his blunt words. Sylvester was usually more discreet. At this close range, she could see his eyes looked glazed, and his smile was slack. As his words sank in, she realized that Sylvester did intend to marry Annabelle at least.

“You sound as if that’s the only reason you’re marrying Annabelle,” she charged, annoyed with him.

He uttered a happy laugh. “What other conceivable reason could there be? The wench is impossible. Really, the vulgarity of this party! If any of my friends had seen it,
I’d be ashamed.”

“Do you not plan to introduce your fiancée to your friends?”

He frowned. “I must eventually, after I have smartened her up.”

“But you are only marrying her for her papa’s money?”

His two hands seized hers. “My dear, of course. You know I would sacrifice anything for
Camena.
It won’t make any difference to us. Is that why you’ve been glaring at me so fiercely all evening? I am still mad for you, Rosalind. With all Fortescue’s blunt, I’ll be able to set you up in a finer style than that flat on Glasshouse Street. We’ll want someplace discreet. Annabelle knows about the Glasshouse flats.” He gave a lecherous little laugh. “We won’t want your brother and neighbors to know what is going on either, eh? I think Harwell is becoming a little jealous.”

Rosalind just stared, beyond speech, almost beyond belief. There was no ignoring his meaning. She had first thought the “I’m still mad for you” was a preamble to some poetic denunciation of love for art, but that “set you up” left her in no doubt at all. He wanted her for his mistress. That was all he had ever wanted.

“Are you insane?” she demanded.

“Just a little tipsy with joy—and love for you, my darling!”

On this speech, he pulled her into his arms and tried to plant his wine-soaked lips on hers. Caught off his guard, he was easy to push away. One hard shove sent him flying into a lemon tree, sharp with thorns.

“It would take more than all of Fortescue’s blunt to make me have anything to do with you, milord. I would not marry you for all the tea in China, and I would certainly never even consider such a repulsive creature for a lover!”

“Harwell won’t have you back, if that’s what you have been up to, trying to make your old lover jealous by using me.”

“Lover?” she exclaimed. “He was never my lover. We are friends. I come to think Annabelle Fortescue is too good for you. At least her vulgarity is not ill intentioned, like your conniving. She is only trying to impress you. You are trying to deceive her.”

As she ranted, shaking her finger at him in a fine fit of temper, Sylvester scrambled out of the tree’s embrace. “What a delightful surprise!” he said, arching his eyebrows in approval. “I never guessed you had a temper. Jealousy has heated up that English sangfroid. I like a hot-blooded lady.”

His arms went around her, pulling her against him, as he tried for a kiss. Although half-drunk, he was still stronger than she was. Rosalind pushed against his shoulders and began looking about for a rock or a broom to use as a weapon.

She was still Sylvester’s captive when Lord Harwell came pelting forward with blood in his eyes. He looked ready to kill poor Sylvester. Harwell hauled him off by the padding of his shoulders, dropped him to the floor, and raised a fist to land him a facer.

Sylvester rallied enough to raise his two fists and began prancing about like a bruiser. As he feinted a few blows into the air, he said, “This has nothing to do with you, Harwell!”

“On the contrary! I take it very much amiss when someone propositions the lady I am going to marry.”

Sylvester’s shocked “Marry?” was overborne by Rosalind’s “Don’t be foolish, Harry.”

Harwell landed Sylvester a poke in the eye that sent him flying into the lemon tree. A ripe lemon, loosened by the shaking, fell and landed on his head. Harwell reached down to pull him up and hit him again.

“Don’t bother, Harry. He’s drunk as a Dane,” Rosalind said.

Harwell gave a “Bah!” of disgust and threw him back into the arms of the thorny lemon tree.

Annabelle, alert to any deviations from devotion by her new fiancé, had soon followed him to the conservatory. She came screeching forward to rescue her beloved. She cradled him in her arms, crooning endearments. Then she lifted her head and said to Harwell in the grande dame style, “Perhaps it would be best if you leave now, milord.”

Rosalind suddenly felt sorry for the chit. “Annabelle, you can’t marry this wretch!” she said.

Annabelle tossed her curls. “You think I didn’t know what he was up to? I saw him speak to you. Why do you think I followed him here? I would have made short shrift of you, miss! And anyone else who thinks to lead my Sylvester astray.” She turned to Sylvester. “Naughty boy!” she added archly, and gave his chin a pinch. “Come on, get up, Sylvester, before Papa comes.”

She hauled her fiancé up from the gardening pot and began to brush leaves and dust from his jacket. “We’ll have to put something on that eye,” she scolded.

“Forgive me, my sweet,” Sylvester said. “A little too much champagne.”

Rosalind just looked at Harwell in bewilderment. He shook his head and rolled his eyes ceilingward.

Annabelle was not likely to overlook a new match, even in the midst of such chaos. She looked up at Rosalind and said, “So you have finally nabbed Harwell. Congratulations, Roz.”

Rosalind’s “No indeed!” was overridden by Harwell’s, “Thank you, ma’am.” He took a firm grip on Rosalind’s arm and led her out before Annabelle could demand clarification.

Annabelle came pelting after them. “About that flat on Glasshouse Street, Roz. I doubt you would like it. Some of the tenants are no better than they should be. It is exactly what my aunt Venetia is looking for, however.”

Rosalind swallowed her laughter at the unintentional slur on the unknown Aunt Venetia. “Then by all means, let her have it. She will help you keep an eye on your husband.”

“Exactly! And, Roz—you’ll tell Dick how sorry I am. But really, you know, the son of a marquess! I don’t have to tell
you,”
she said, casting an arch smile from Rosalind to Harwell, as if the two ladies had conspired together to each nab a title for herself.

“I understand,” Rosalind said. She felt sorry for Annabelle, and unutterably happy for Dick’s deliverance. She even felt a little sorry for Sylvester. If he thought he was marrying easy money, he was much mistaken.