Red Rose (10 page)

“And which unfortunate description do you think fits Mr. Hammond?” Rosalind asked.

“I do not know,” Sylvia replied seriously. “I think perhaps a little of both, Ros.”

“Do I understand that you are out of love with him?” her cousin asked, hiding her smile.

“Oh, I do not believe I was ever in
love
with him,” Sylvia protested. “But you must admit that he is very handsome, Ros.”

The following day Sylvia was in love with Lord Standen, who also made a point of singling her out at most of the social functions they attended, but who did not persist in quite so vulgar a manner as Charles Hammond. He was a good-looking, dignified man.

“And much more serious-minded than Mr. Hammond,” Sylvia confided to Rosalind. “I am quite in love with him, Ros. ”

“Yet you told me when you first met him, Sylvie, that you did not feel quite comfortable with him,” Rosalind pointed out.

“Yes, but I feel he is
worth
getting to know,” Sylvia replied. “Nigel says that his brother is always a little stiff in manner with people he does not know very well.”

“I see,” her cousin said. “And after one gets to know him, Sylvie?”

“Nigel says he is a very affectionate brother and kind and generous to his tenants. ”

“He sounds very admirable,” Rosalind said, “So you are quite resolved to have him, Sylvie?”

“Oh, I would not say that,” Sylvia replied hastily. “I am in no hurry. But Nigel says that his lordship has rarely shown such interest in any lady before.”

Rosalind herself was resigned to spending the remainder of the Season in London. It was obviously pointless to hope that Raymore would consent to her returning to the country. She would wait out the months, she decided. When midsummer came and it became obvious to him that she would never marry, he would have to let her go home. She would just have to be patient.

She had, of course, refused Sir Rowland Axby’s offer. He had come a few hours after her interview with Raymore and she had been summoned to the library. She had again felt sorry for the poor man, who had spruced himself up for the occasion and was obviously very nervous. Rosalind had let him down as gently as she could. Too gently, perhaps. He had insisted on believing that her only reason for refusing was that he had rushed her.

“You are new to the pleasures of town, dear Miss Dacey,” he had said in his slightly nasal voice. “It is understandable that you do not wish to rush into a betrothal so soon. I shall be patient and trust that after a few months you will welcome the prospect of becoming my wife and living in domestic bliss with my family in Leicestershire.”

“I would not wish to mislead you into thinking my answer may be different then, sir,” Rosalind said gently.

He held up a hand. “Say no more, my dear Miss Dacey,” he said. “I perfectly understand. I shall return at a later date to repeat my offer. I trust that by then you will have satisfied your quite natural desire for amusement.”

And Rosalind had to be content with that. To give the man his due, she had to admit that he gave her room to enjoy herself, had that been her intention. Although he frequently hovered in the background at functions she attended, he did not pester her with his presence. To her surprise, she found that Sir Bernard Crawleigh was frequently attentive. He treated her with an amused courtesy. She always felt when with him that they were partners in some sort of conspiracy. He understood perfectly her feelings about being thrown reluctantly into the activities of the
ton
and her resentment against her guardian. She found it very easy to talk to and confide in him. It was he who found her in a small anteroom adjoining the ballroom at one ball they attended.

“Hiding or sulking, Miss Dacey?” he asked amiably, closing the door quickly behind him as he came in.

“Neither,” she said. “I was just thinking. I do not like to watch dancing.”

“You are envious?” he asked quietly.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, her chin lifting defiantly. “It is not a good feeling to see everyone move so gracefully and know that I can never do so.”

“Stand up,” he said, “and waltz with me here.”

"Don’t be absurd,” she replied crossly. “You know that I cannot dance.”

“Not in public, maybe, but here with me, Rosalind? There is no one to see. Come.”

And for the first time in her life she danced, clumsily, it is true, and clinging, to her partner’s shoulder as to a lifeline, but she was flushed with pleasure by the time the music finished.

“You realize that you will be in trouble now, I trust,” he said with a straight face. “I will wager that the patronesses have not yet granted you permission to waltz.”

“I shall also be in trouble if Cousin Hetty finds me alone in here with you,” Rosalind said, and smiled.

“Since our meeting will be judged quite improper anyway,” he said, smiling roguishly, “I might as well do what I wish to do.” He held her lightly by the waist and kissed her on the lips. “Delicious!” he said afterward, smiling. “Now I must try to slink out of here without creating a grand scandal.”

Rosalind stayed in the anteroom, the door ajar, for a while afterward, smiling to herself and tapping her foot to the music. What a pleasant evening this was turning out to be! It had been a delightful experience to dance. Sir Bernard had held her very firmly so that she had not felt unduly clumsy. And the kiss she had thoroughly approved of. That was what a kiss should be like, something shared, something enjoyed. Not like that horrid experience with Raymore, when she had completely lost control. That had not been at all a comfortable experience. She believed that she was falling a little in love with Sir Bernard Crawleigh.

In those few weeks following her come-out, Rosalind also furthered her acquaintance with Lady Elise Martel. She visited one afternoon soon after the ball, when the baby still had not been born. It was a warm day for early May and Lady Martel was feeling rather uncomfortable.

“How thankful I am to see you,” she told Rosalind. “Henry is feeling guilty about seeing me in this condition and wishes to stay with me to share my misery. But I sent him out today. The heat has made me cross as a bear and I was afraid that I would start snapping at him, poor man.”

“Oh, dear,” Rosalind said, “and are you planning to snap at me instead?”

“Gracious, no!” her hostess protested, laughing. “You are a visitor, you see, and it is easy to be polite to visitors. It is only those nearest and dearest to us who bear the brunt of our ill humor. Have you not noticed that?”

Rosalind enjoyed the visit. She could relax, as with a friend, and talk on topics other than parties and invitations and fashion. She left at the end of an hour, promising to visit again when Lady Martel’s health permitted.

The Earl of Raymore stayed away from his wards as much as he possibly could. In the daytime it was very easy. He had never been a conscientious member of the House of Lords, but he found himself attending more often than usual during that spring. His clubs saw a great deal more of him than they ever had. He spent time riding and practicing his fencing and boxing skills. He began a liaison with the Covent Garden dancer that he had mentioned to Sir Henry Martel at Watier’s, and convinced himself that she was a very satisfactory bedfellow. He seriously considered setting her up under his permanent protection, but did not do so immediately. He was restless with a nameless dissatisfaction, though he did not know why. She was the sort of woman most likely to please him: red-haired, petite, fragile, and beautiful. Although she was new to London, she had been well taught in the arts of her chief trade. He would wait awhile before doing anything so permanent and so uncharacteristic of himself as to establish her in a residence that he supported.

During the evenings Raymore occasionally sacrificed his own pleasures for the sake of accompanying his wards to some social function. He wished to lend them all the support of his own consequence. And he wished to watch the progress of his plans for them. He was well-satisfied that there would be no problem with Sylvia. His uneasiness over the attentions of Charles Hammond was soon over. After a couple of weeks the girl began to discourage him. Obviously she had some sense as well as a great deal of beauty. It seemed to him very likely that Standen would offer for her before the Season was over. A summer or an autumn wedding seemed a reasonable expectation.

He did not like to think about Rosalind. She had, of course, refused Axby, more to spite him than to serve her own interests, he believed. He had expected that her chances of attaching to herself any other man were remarkably slim. Yet it was not so. Her disability had been displayed very publicly on her first appearance, had shocked those who had witnessed her display, and had been accepted. She had no great following, but she was not ostracized, either. Axby still seemed to retain some hope; a few older men who were not obviously hanging out for wives seemed to enjoy sitting beside her and conversing, and Henry seemed quite fond of her. He gathered that she had visited Elise on more than one occasion. Strangest of all, Raymore noticed that Crawleigh was on easy terms with her and apparently enjoyed her company. If he could be brought to the point, it would be a great coup. Many hopeful mamas had had an eye on him for several Seasons.

Raymore could not understand why Crawleigh was interested, if indeed he was. He watched them together at one drawing-room gathering following a dinner party. Rosalind was dressed vividly, as she usually was these days, in emerald-green satin. Her hair, dressed high in intricate coils, shone and made her neck appear long and slender. She was laughing. Her dark eyes sparkled, her teeth showed very white in contrast to the darkness of her hair. Had her face been so animated when she had first arrived in his house? He seemed to remember gaining an impression of a stubborn will and perhaps a sullen nature.

His eyes slid down her body. The gown became her well. Its bright color and high sheen gave the impression of elegance, although its style was not calculated to reveal her figure. Raymore remembered those full breasts beneath his hands, the tiny waist, the flaring hips. She laughed again as he watched, a pealing, girlish laugh, and laid a hand lightly on Crawleigh’s sleeve for a moment. The earl felt anger flaring. She need not set her cap so blatantly at the man. It might be a brilliant match for her if she could accomplish her goal, but he could not like the connection. He did not have a chance to analyze his feeling; his hostess claimed his attention at that point.

Rosalind’s sessions in the music room had not discontinued after her come-out ball. In fact, it became almost a necessity to her to spend at least an hour a day playing and singing. Music soothed her and provided some kind of anchor to an existence that she found a great strain. Rarely was she at ease when she was in society. With Sir Bernard and Sir Henry Martel she found she could relax, but she was always aware of other people in the room and she always wondered what they thought of her, especially when she found it impossible to stay seated. But in the music room she could be herself, forget that she was not as other women. Cousin Hetty had warned her that Raymore had one of his concerts planned for later in the spring and that the artists he chose would probably use the music room for a few weeks prior to the performance. But for the time the room was hers. No one else ever used it and no one ever came there to interrupt her. She believed that no one else except Cousin Hetty and Sylvia even knew that she practiced there regularly.

Rosalind began to challenge herself. She had always played to entertain herself. But in the country she had had other activities, notably painting and riding. And riding had always been the big challenge. Because she was disabled, she had prided herself on being an accomplished and daring horsewoman. But here she had nothing but her music. She had never asked if she could ride here. She supposed that her guardian might consent; riding was an acceptable pastime for ladies. But riding in London meant walking, or at best trotting, a horse in Hyde Park. It was yet another social activity. It would offer her no freedom. She forced herself, then, to aim for greater musical achievement. She practiced for hours on the harpsichord, almost exclusively Bach music, trying to achieve the crisp brilliance that she was now convinced his music was meant to sound like.

But Beethoven had always been her greatest love. There was a passion underlying the surface intricacy of his music, she had always believed. And she had been contented to play those pieces that came easily to her. She had often played the first movement of his Piano Sonata Number 14 because it was relatively easy to play and the melody was so breathtakingly beautiful. Some poet had called it the Moonlight Sonata because the music reminded him of moonlight on Lake Lucerne. Rosalind had always tried to picture such a scene as she played, sparkling cold water, snow-capped Alpine mountains all around. But now she tackled the second and third movements too, forcing her fingers through the tricky runs, trying to achieve power and precision and passion in the chords. But for days she despaired of ever mastering the technicalities.

There was a Sevres vase in the music room, a priceless work of art, Rosalind judged, as well as a beautiful one. She frequently spent time just gazing at it and running her fingers lightly over its texture. When her frustration with Beethoven became so powerful that she felt a strong urge to stalk over and smash the vase, she would turn to song and restore her tranquility with love songs and ballads. She chose songs for their simplicity and emotion. She was never tempted to try opera or vocal music that required more power or expertise.

Part of the charm of her times in the music room was the fact that there she was completely alone, quite free of the necessity to smile, to make polite conversation, to pretend to be enjoying herself. She would have been horrified indeed had she known that the music room exerted just as strong a pull on someone else. The Earl of Raymore despised himself for his weakness. She was, after all, only a girl dabbling in an art that was beyond her talents. But though he was from home far more than had ever been his practice in the daytime, he was drawn back there, against his every instinct, almost each afternoon when he knew that in all probability Rosalind would be singing and playing.