Red Rose (11 page)

At first he stood outside the door listening, but his constant unease lest someone should come along and find him spying outside a room in his own house or— worse— that she would unexpectedly emerge and find him there, drove him into an adjoining salon. It was a good choice. Part of the wall between the two rooms was merely a thin paneling that could be folded back and always was during his concerts so that a supper could be laid for his guests to feast upon during the interval. He could listen in the salon almost as well as if he were right in the room with her. And it suited him very well not to see her. He tried to ignore the fact that the music that had become almost a drug to him was produced by Rosalind Dacey.

And so the Earl of Raymore discovered with Rosalind the wonder of Bach on the harpsichord, and he suffered with her through her mastery of the Moonlight Sonata. He would find himself sitting forward in the only chair that had been stripped of its holland covers, clutching his head in frustration, sometimes anger, as she repeatedly played over the same bars and repeatedly made the same mistakes. He would grip the arms of the chair, his eyes tightly closed, willing her through a passage that she had finally grasped. And he listened in a land of agonized wonder when the melody came flowing in all its glory through the intricate runs and crashing chords.

Raymore had to admit to himself finally that Rosalind Dacey was no dabbler. She was an artist. And he always waited for her to sing. There was nothing brilliant about her vocal performances; the music was too simple to demand brilliance. But she brought a clarity of style and depth of feeling to the old songs that gave them power and dignity. He always waited in hope for the song she had sung that first time he had listened, the one about the rose. He had spent more than an hour in his library one morning trying to find the words of the song. But he had had no success. It must be something recently composed, though surely something that would last. It must be by one of the new poets. He had even gone to a bookshop and bought a copy of Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge’s
Lyrical Ballads. 
But if one of them had written the poem, it was not in that particular volume. The song haunted him. He found himself thinking of the singer as a red rose. He could even picture her dressed in the rose-red gown that she had worn on the night of her come-out. But he steadfastly resisted putting Rosalind’s face and character into the hazy mental image that he carried with him almost against his will. His rose was becoming a fantasy creature, different from women as he knew them in reality.

Even Raymore, who had judged the progress of Sylvia’s connection with Lord Standen quite satisfactory, was somewhat surprised at the speed with which he came to the point. Less than a month after Sir Rowland Axby had paid his morning call to ask for the one ward’s hand, Standen was repeating the performance for the other ward.

Raymore had no misgivings. The connection was quite unexceptionable. Standen had rank, wealth, looks, and sense to recommend him. His serious nature would complement Sylvia’s exuberance. The two men quickly came to an amicable agreement.

As he had done on the previous occasion, with Rosalind, Raymore summoned Sylvia to the library before luncheon. He awaited her arrival with a feeling of relief. She at least could be counted upon to behave predictably. He was very thankful that it was not Rosalind again. He could not be sure that she would accept any suitor, even if Crawleigh were to offer for her.

Half an hour later Sylvia rushed with undignified haste into Cousin Hetty’s sitting room, where that lady and Rosalind were examining purchases made during a morning shopping expedition. “Ros, Cousin Hetty,” she began, breathless from her run up the stairs, “Lord Standen has called on Edward and has offered for me.”

Rosalind looked up sharply and searched her cousin’s face.

“Well, how splendid, my dear,” Hetty said, moving across the room to hug the girl and startling a poodle that had been stretched beneath the hem of her dress. “I knew when I saw you that you would make a brilliant match. And Lord Standen is very grand. I do believe you will be most happy. I wonder when the wedding is like to be. Oh, how exciting. We must get to work immediately on your trousseau.” She clasped her hands and gazed in rapture at the prospective bride.

“Are you planning to accept his lordship’s proposal, Sylvie?” Rosalind asked more soberly.

Her cousin looked at her incredulously. “But of course,” she said. “You know that I love him, Ros.”

“Are you sure?” Rosalind asked dampeningly. “You have not known him long, Sylvie, and you know that you fall in and out of love very frequently. Would it not be better to wait longer and be quite sure?”

“Ros,” Sylvia pleaded, “I thought you would be happy for me. Lord Standen is far different from all the others, you know. They were mere boys. He is a man. Nigel says that he spends much of his time in the country and insists on running his estate himself. He is very kind to his tenants. I think he is worthy of my love.”

“I am sure you are right,” Rosalind said, “but we do not always love people just because they are worthy. There has to be a real friendship and attraction too, Sylvie.”

“He is always very kind to me,” Sylvia replied, “and I know that he thinks me quite the most attractive girl he has ever met. Nigel told me so.”

“Well,” Rosalind said, smiling cheerfully and rising to her feet, “I am sure the man has a great deal of sense. And for your sake, Sylvie, I hope that this time you do remain in love. I am sure he will make a quite admirable husband.”

But she could not help wishing that Nigel Broome would let her cousin do her own thinking. Rosalind was not at all convinced that this attachment would prove any more lasting than any of the others.

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 fiancé.

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.