Red Rose (17 page)

“You look very fetching in that particular shade of orange,” he said. “Quite southern. I must take you to Italy for our wedding trip, Rosalind. Do you have relatives there?”

"Yes, several,” she replied, smiling. “I have corresponded with them since my parents died there.”

By unspoken consent they did not converse again until the boat had been secured to a tree branch that overhung the water at the island, and Sir Bernard had helped Rosalind onto dry land.

She looked down at her feet gingerly. “I do hope this is not just a stretch of swampy land, ” she said.

“Not at all,” he replied. “George tells me there is even a pavilion hidden among these trees that was built for him and his brother when they were children.”

He took her hand and led her among the trees. Almost immediately they could see the water at the other side of the island. But the pavilion was there, cleverly hidden among the trees. It was hexagonal, its roof supported by a wooden pillar at each corner. Wooden walls closed it in chest-high, but the upper half was open. There was a doorway but no door. They went inside, Sir Bernard stooping slightly so that his head would not graze the ceiling. Dried leaves crunched under their feet.

“No one has been here for a long time,” Rosalind said. “Look, almost all the paint has peeled off the walls.”

“What a shame!” he sighed. "I was hoping for a nice cozy structure in which to seduce you.”

“Then I am very glad that it is as it is,” she said severely, with a twinkle in her eye. “That was not at all a proper plan, sir.”

He ducked back through the doorway. “I never said it was,” he said. “I am finding Standen’s house confoundedly crowded, are you not, Rosalind? I am a frustrated lover.”

“I and my honor are eternally grateful for the crowd,” Rosalind assured him.

"Well, for the moment at least you are my prisoner,” he said with a grin, and circled her waist with his arm.

Rosalind laughed and punched him lightly on both shoulders with her fists. The next moment she was being very thoroughly kissed and clasped against the full length of him. She felt the kiss change tone after the first teasing moments. His mouth became urgent, his breathing faster. His hands roamed her back, molding her to him, and finally pressed down on her hips. Rosalind deliberately allowed the experience. She did not flinch even when his mouth trailed a hot path to her throat and his hands came up to cup her breasts through the thin muslin of her dress. But it was a clinical experience. She could not force herself to feel part of the embrace.

“A frustrated lover indeed,” he said ruefully, and nibbled at her earlobe. “I cannot do any of the things I wish to do, love, in this standing position. And there is no grass on which we may lie down. Was ever such a pair of star-crossed lovers?”

“We almost rival Romeo and Juliet,” she replied, pushing herself away from him in some relief. “And there are going to be several suspicious people on the bank opposite if we do not reappear soon. ”

“Ah, the voice of reality and common sense,” he mocked as he took her arm and led her carefully back down to the boat.

***

The picnic proceeded with a great deal of gaiety when all members of the party had returned to the starting point. Sylvia’s unusual quietness and Rosalind’s forced high spirits did not attract any particular notice.

Sir Bernard Crawleigh, it seemed, was far from satisfied with the events of the afternoon. When the whole party arrived at the house, Rosalind would have ascended the staircase with the rest of the ladies to rest and freshen up for dinner. Her leg was feeling uncomfortably sore after the rather long walk. But her betrothed caught her by the hand and pulled her unnoticed to a reception salon opening off the main hall. He led her inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He drew her to him and kissed her.

“I begin to think it was a mistake to accept the invitation to come here,” he said, holding her head against his shoulder. “I find being this close to you more disquieting than seeing you only formally in London.”

“Well, in a few more days we will be back there, Bernard,” she said, raising her head and lightly kissing his chin.

“Love, let me come to you tonight,” he said, clasping her to him again urgently. “I shall make sure that I am not seen, and I can promise you a night of great pleasure.”

Rosalind bit her lip painfully. “We are not married yet,” she said.

“But we will be soon,” he argued. “What difference can a couple of months make, love?”

“Bernard...” she began.

“Hush,” he said, stopping her lips with his again. “Don’t say no. I know it is only that maidenly modesty of yours that makes you hesitate. You want me, I know it. I shall come tonight and we will make love in peace and comfort.”

“Over my dead body,” a quiet but cold voice said.

Rosalind jumped away from her companion as if she had been scalded. Where was he? Sir Bernard Crawleigh cursed under his breath and stood with fists clenched at his sides, staring at the high back of a chair above which the top of a blond head was just visible.

“What in thunder are you doing here, Raymore?” he said tightly.

“I am here by invitation,” the earl answered, rising to his feet and turning to face the couple who stood just inside the door. “I was shown in here to await Standen’s return home. It seems the butler did not quite know what to do with me when I arrived two days earlier than expected.”

“You might have made your presence known a great deal sooner,” Sir Bernard said testily.

Raymore’s face hardened. “It seems to me it was a good thing I did not decide to interrupt a lovers’ tryst sooner than I did,” he said coldly. “Miss Dacey is my ward, Crawleigh. I am responsible for her conduct until she marries. I find your behavior quite reprehensible. Were you not betrothed to her and within a few months of your marriage, I should feel obliged to call you out for the words you just spoke.”

“I think it is well that you remember that Rosalind will soon by my wife,” Sir Bernard said, obviously making an effort to hold on to his temper. “And remember, too, Raymore, that she is not a girl from the schoolroom. She is old enough to decide for herself the degree of intimacy she will allow between herself and her future husband.”

“Please!” Rosalind interrupted. “Let us end this argument. Bernard, I gave you my answer. And, Edward, I would thank you to at least try not to treat me like a child. I resent your constant interference in my affairs. Soon I shall owe complete loyalty to Bernard.”

Raymore’s eyes flashed and he turned his attention completely to his ward. Rosalind steeled herself for the type of blazing row that always seemed to erupt when he and she were together. Fortunately, perhaps, for both of them, the door of the salon opened at that moment and Lord Standen walked briskly into the room.

“Raymore,” he said, “I cannot think what my servants are about keeping you here like an unbidden visitor instead of showing you to a room and seeing to your needs.”

Rosalind, glancing at her guardian, was amazed to see that in the few seconds since she had last looked at him, his manner had been completely transformed. He was bowing and smiling amiably.

“Think no more of it,” he said, all affability. “I insisted on staying here when I realized that I was not expected today. And your butler brought me refreshment.”

“I see that Miss Dacey and Crawleigh have found you and have been entertaining you,” Standen commented.

“Yes, indeed,” Raymore agreed, smiling genially at the couple.

“I shall excuse myself,” Rosalind said, dropping a slight curtsy. “I feel rather tired after the picnic and need to freshen up before dinner.”

All three men bowed. Lord Standen held the door open for her as she left the room with lowered eyes. Raymore noticed that her limp was more pronounced than usual.

***

The Earl of Raymore had come to Broome Hall determined to have a peaceful holiday. Both his wards were safely betrothed to eligible men. His responsibility was almost at an end. He was determined to keep his distance from Rosalind whenever possible. He wanted to observe her with Crawleigh to satisfy himself that both wished the alliance. But he knew that he could never be close to her without quarreling with her in most undignified fashion.

Now, as he soaked in a bathtub of hot soapy water in the room that had been prepared for him, his valet assembling the clothes he would wear to dinner, he was feeling irritated. He had been in the house less than an hour before he had been arguing with her yet again. Why could she not be more like Sylvia? The latter had apparently gone straight to her room on returning from the afternoon’s outing, just as she should. And he could not in his wildest imaginings picture Standen making to her the sort of proposition that Crawleigh had been making to Rosalind.

He did not know quite what to make of that episode or whom to blame. He had been almost blind with anger at the time. That Crawleigh could quite coolly suggest that he spend the night in her bed suggested a want of proper restraint in him. But what did it suggest about her? Surely no man would dream of proposing such a thing to a girl who had not given him much encouragement. And the thought of Rosalind flirting with Crawleigh and inviting his intimacies renewed the earl’s anger to such an extent that he scrubbed his arms quite mercilessly and soon had scattered soapsuds in a wide circle around the bathtub. His fury was not in any way mollified by the sudden memory of himself making similar advances to Annette when he was betrothed to her. She had been no innocent, either.

Rosalind had been looking tired. He had noticed the fact even before she had said so herself. Did that mean that her nights were already occupied with Crawleigh? He ground his teeth at the thought. But, no, he did not think so. The man’s words to her in the salon had suggested that he still had not conquered her reserve. Or her artfulness!

Raymore, pouring a jugful of clear water over his head to take the suds out of his hair, tried to consider the situation rationally. She
was
a grown woman, as both she and her fiancé had pointed out to him. She was betrothed. She was no blood relation of his. Perhaps he should allow her to make her own decisions about her behavior.

But he could not! He got abruptly to his feet, reaching for the towel that his valet rushed over to hand him. Word was bound to get out if Crawleigh began spending nights with her. Tidbits of gossip like that were harder to keep secret than the man seemed to think. And even if she were a loose woman, Raymore decided, he was damned before he was going to have the fact bandied about among the whole
ton.
And what if for some reason the marriage never took place? She would be ruined. She might even bear an illegitimate child. She would certainly be a permanent millstone around his neck then. He determined to keep a very close eye on the girl in the coming days. Thank goodness at least that his other ward always behaved with propriety and blessed predictability.

Raymore dressed with care in formal evening dress: pale-blue silk knee breeches, silver waistcoat, and dark-blue velvet coat with white linen. He allowed his valet to arrange his neckcloth into complicated folds and insert a diamond pin into it. In his present mood he realized that he would probably ruin several carefully starched neckcloths before he would arrange one to his own satisfaction. Finally he descended to the drawing room, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. It seemed as if these few days in the country would not be such peaceful ones after all.

Rosalind had also dressed with care, choosing a gown of kingfisher-blue satin overlaid with sea-green lace, a color combination that looked startlingly attractive with her pale skin and dark hair. She was not sure why she had chosen to wear it tonight. She had been saving it for a special occasion and consequently had not worn it at all, though it had been delivered a month before. Perhaps she wanted to appear attractive to Bernard, whose proposition she had been forced to refuse quite publicly. Or perhaps she needed extra confidence to face the Earl of Raymore. She had been badly shaken to find him at Broome Hall two days before he was expected and under such very embarrassing circumstances. She preferred not to think about the meeting. She would have been glad of almost any other form of interruption. She had been shocked at Bernard’s suggestion and did not know how she was to answer it. But Raymore of all people! She was glad that the two men had argued long enough for her to regain her poise. She had had the absurd urge when she first heard his voice to rush across the room to him to justify herself, to explain that
she
had not said or done anything improper. What a stroke of good fortune it was that she had not so humiliated herself.

Rosalind waited until the dresser had added the final touches to an elaborately piled hairdo, then made her way downstairs. She was deliberately almost late. She did not wish to have to make polite conversation in the drawing room with either Raymore or Bernard. She found that she had to cling more tightly than usual to the banister of the stairs. Her leg throbbed so badly that her whole body felt like a mighty heartbeat. She set a smile in place on her lips before entering the drawing room and accepting a glass of ratafia from a footman.

Rosalind’s attention during dinner was taken by Sylvia. She was deliberately trying to ignore the presence of both Sir Bernard seated three places from her, and of Raymore seated almost opposite. There was certainly something wrong with her cousin. She was conversing with both Lady Standen and Sir Rowland Axby, but she did not have her usual sparkle. Rosalind doubted that anyone else would notice, but she had grown up more as a sister to Sylvia than as a cousin. And she recognized instantly that the girl was unhappy. Was Standen still displeased with her for the way she had behaved the night before at the dinner table? It seemed possible. The man set great store by his own consequence. Or had Sylvia discovered that she was not in love with him after all? Rosalind had never known the girl to be in love for more than a few weeks at the longest. And the match with Standen did not seem right. This time, though, Sylvie was in much deeper than she had ever been before. A betrothal, especially such a public one to a leading figure of the
ton,
would not be easy to withdraw from. Rosalind made a mental note to have a talk with her cousin before they went to bed. She held up her hand to refuse the helping of strawberries and Devon cream that a footman was about to set at her place. The pain in her leg was like a gnawing toothache. She could not concentrate upon eating.