Amanda McCabe (17 page)

“Interesting, eh?” He gave her a very pleased smile. “I am flattered, Mrs. Chase. And rather surprised you would bother with my piddling verses. I am hardly Shakespeare, as I am sure you have discerned.”

“Just as your sister speaks often of me, my brother speaks of you. I was curious about his idol. And, speaking of my brother, I had a very interesting visit from him this afternoon.”

“Did you, Mrs. Chase? I trust he is well.”

“Very well. In fact, he has vowed to me that he is returning to Cambridge and will stay there. I wonder whatever could have inspired such a change of heart?” She peered closely at Morley. She knew very well what could have precipitated such a change—a man Allen admired giving him a stern talking-to. And she knew Allen had gone to Morley’s lodgings yesterday afternoon.

But Lord Morley merely shrugged and grinned. “Lucas is not a bad young man, he is merely—young. He just needs to be nudged in the right direction.”

“I am very grateful to anyone who can, as you say,
nudge him. I have had little luck in the past few years.”

“I will always be happy to assist you in any way I can, Mrs. Chase. Any way at all.”

She felt his hand touch hers, briefly but so very warmly, under the cover of a fold in her heavy skirt. And, much to her shock, Rosalind found herself pressing his hand in return.

“Friendship
and
theater tickets,” she whispered. “Those are fine assistance indeed.”

“Then, since we are friends, may I escort you to the Smith-Knightley ball tomorrow evening?” he whispered back.

“I would like that very much, Lord Morley,” she replied, forgetting every rule she herself had written about demurely turning away invitations.

This fairy tale would all end soon enough. Why should she not enjoy it while it was happening?

She would enjoy every minute of it.

Wayland House was dark and quiet when Rosalind returned from the theater. The butler, who took her wrap and then melted back into the shadows, seemed to be the only living being in the marble silence.

Rosalind was grateful for the solitude. She had so very much to think about, to process in her own mind, to hug close to her heart after her splendid evening. She knew Georgina would want to find out every detail, but Rosalind did not think she could talk about it. Not just yet.

But as she walked down the corridor that led to her chamber, she saw that she was not alone in Wayland House after all. The door to Georgina’s personal sitting room was half open, spilling golden firelight across the dark wood floor. Standing by the fireplace, silhouetted in the glow, were Georgina and her husband. They were locked in each other’s arms, in a passionate kiss, Georgina’s brilliant hair flowing over Alex’s hands.

“My darling Georgie,” he groaned, sliding his lips to her temple, her cheek.

“Alex,” murmured Georgina, as she swayed closer to him.

Rosalind eased the door shut before they could realize they were being observed and went on her way. Her heart warmed at the knowledge that there
could
be such love in the world—and sparked with just a hint of envy.

T
 he Smith-Knightley ball was every bit the crush that the Portman soiree had been. People clad in the first stare of fashion were crowded to the walls, their laughter and conversation a thick cloud hovering over the room, drowning out the lively dance music. Couples swirled elegantly through a pavane, while observers gossiped about the gowns and partners of others. It was all a perfectly ordinary evening out for the
ton.

Yet Rosalind was more nervous than she had ever been in her life. She had attended more routs and fetes in her short time here in Town than ever before in her life, and she had became rather accustomed to them. Not exactly comfortable, yet she did not find them unenjoyable by any means. They were—interesting.

But she had never attended a ball on the arm of Lord Morley. That made this evening an entirely different proposition altogether.

Her silk-gloved fingers tightened on Morley’s superfine sleeve as they waited outside the ballroom doors for the Smith-Knightleys’s butler to announce them. This had seemed such a fine idea last night, when she sat so close to him in the darkened magic of the theater.
She had even looked forward to it, when she looked into his dark eyes as he issued the invitation.

Now things felt so very different. Now that they were actually faced with a roomful of people—people who were avidly interested in everything the dashing Lord Morley did, people who had seen them together at Gunter’s and in the theater. She was abandoning years of quiet living and perfect discretion on this portal. She had imagined it would be difficult.

It was harder than any imagining could have been.

Rosalind would have turned and run away, if Georgina and the duke were not standing right behind her, chatting and laughing as if this was an absolutely ordinary evening. They, and a few other couples who waited beyond them, blocked her exit utterly.

Rosalind turned back to face the ballroom doors, fidgeting with the skirt of her coral-colored silk gown. She peered down at it, watching the way the shimmering fabric draped and glistened in the candlelight. This dress was far more elaborate than anything she ever wore in her
real
life, sewn with golden spangles on the short, puffed sleeves and along the hem. She gained some superficial courage from its sparkle and flash.

“Are you sorry you came?” Morley whispered, leaning close to her. His cool breath stirred the loose curls at her temple.

Rosalind shivered at the sensations this evoked. Warm, unfamiliar,
tingling
sensations. “Of course not,” she answered stoutly.

He grinned at her. “Liar.”

Rosalind laughed. “I would
never
tell a falsehood. That would be most improper.”

“Against the rules, eh?”

Her lips tightened at the mention, the reminder, of the rules. How could she have forgotten them so quickly, when they were such a large part of her life? Whenever she was with him, everything else just fell away. “Quite right.”

They did not have time to say anything else. The
doors opened, and the butler took their names. “The Duke and Duchess of Wayland,” he announced. “Mrs. Rosalind Chase. Viscount Morley.”

On legs that seemed turned to water, Rosalind stepped into the ballroom. Her hand tightened on his arm. She no longer held onto him just for appearance’s sake—she needed his strength to hold her up.

As she had expected, and feared, heads swiveled in their direction. She had a blurred impression of disappointed pouts on the faces of young ladies, the glint of raised quizzing glasses, waves of avid curiosity.

There was nothing for her to do but lift her chin, feign deepest disinterest, and keep moving into the crowd. At Lord Morley’s side.

She was very glad for Georgina and her steady stream of inconsequential talk. “Oh, look over there, Rosalind. Isn’t that Mrs. Strandling? We went to school with her, did we not? She should never wear that shade of green. Ah, champagne. Delightful. Do you care for a glass, Rosalind? Alex, darling?”

Rosalind stared intently at the pale, beckoning liquid, sparkling in crystal flutes on the footman’s tray. The delicious drink called to her, but she knew she should not indulge. Champagne tended to make her giddy. The last thing she wanted to be tonight was
giddy.

“Oh, no, not right now,” she said.

“Mrs. Chase has promised me a dance,” Morley told them. “I hear a waltz beginning, and she knows that is my favorite dance.”

Rosalind knew no such thing—she did not think she had ever spoken two words about dancing with him. But the promise of occupation, of movement, of having something to concentrate on besides people’s stares, was enticing indeed. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Morley. A waltz sounds very pleasant.”

He led her onto the polished dance floor, and they took their place amid the assembled couples. When he put his hand on her waist, pulling her close, but
not so very close as to incite more talk, the gawking crowd seemed to melt away. Rosalind heard no whispers. The two of them were all alone in the teeming crush, just as it had seemed they were last night in the theater box. Nothing else mattered, not even the fact that she had only practiced the waltz a few times, in classes with the girls at her school.

She had no fears of making a fool of herself, of being the object of gossip. Not when he stood so close to her, smiling down at her.

“Are you quite all right?” he murmured. “You went very white all of a sudden.”

“All right?” she whispered back, thrown off balance by his question.

“I should have realized how very interested people would be when we appeared here together. I am so accustomed to being speculated over that I scarcely take note of it anymore. But you are not used to such scrutiny. I’m sorry.”

“It does not matter,” Rosalind answered, and realized, with some degree of shock, that it truly did not. She had lived all her life being careful, being always so painfully proper. She was suddenly so deeply tired of it all. She just wanted to dance, to forget, to have fun—like everyone else. Like people who had no school or wayward brother to worry over.

Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to worry again. Tonight, she would just dance.

“Good,” he said. “I am very glad to hear it.”

She tightened her clasp on his hand, and closed her eyes as the music reached its lively opening beats. They swayed together, and swung into the dance.

This was like no dance she had ever known before. Dancing classes with the girls, local assemblies with her husband—they were nothing like this. Rosalind’s feet, which she had always hated as being too big, seemed dainty and graceful as they glided across the floor. She hummed along with the lilting tune, and turned and twirled effortlessly in his arms. She felt—why, she felt
beautiful
! She felt desirable and flirtatious
and merry, as if deciding she would leave her real life behind until tomorrow had freed her to be someone else.

“You are a wonderful dancer, Mrs. Chase,” he said, turning her in a spin that sent her skirts flaring in a graceful arc.

“I help the girls with their dancing lessons at the Seminary,” she answered. “So I have had a great deal of practice. Not in waltzing, though.”

His hand at her waist drew her closer, so close she could smell the faint, spicy scent of his soap, the starch from the folds of his dark blue cravat. He was so close she could lean her cheek against the curve of his jaw, feel the satin of his hair on her skin.

She leaned back a bit, trying to escape that intoxicating fragrance. But his heat reached after her, beckoning her back to him.

He did not loosen his clasp. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared down at her, dark, serious, intent.

“I hope they do not end up using their lessons in quite this way,” he said hoarsely. “At least not until they are a good deal older.”

“In what way?” she asked, mesmerized by his gaze. “This is all quite proper.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Quite proper.” They danced past half-open glass doors, and, before Rosalind could even blink, he twirled her out of them onto a night-shadowed terrace. They ended behind a tall, sheltering bank of potted plants.

“Proper—until now,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

Rosalind gasped against his lips, shocked at the feel of them, the softness, at the suddenness of the caress—at the feelings that crashed inside her heart. For a flash, her old, sensible self shrieked in horror, but that old Rosalind was quickly submerged beneath the sweetness, the heat of the kiss.

Her lips parted, and she twined her arms about his neck, leaning into him. She trembled as if in a windswept storm, and it was frightening. Almost as frightening
as it was delicious. Part of her wanted to step away, to be in control again, but a larger part, that now
was
in control, knew that this was precisely where she wanted to be. Where she had to be. In truth, she had longed for his kiss, his touch, ever since he had come to her in her office at the Seminary and offered her a cup of tea.

Her arms tightened around his neck, her fingers seeking the waves of his hair that fell over his velvet collar. The locks clung to her silk gloves, warm and living through the thin fabric. He pulled back, as if surprised, and stared down at her, breathing fast.

Rosalind blinked open her eyes. Everything was blurred around the edges, soft and hot. He was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the way his hair, disarranged by her fingers, tumbled over his brow.

“Rosalind,” he murmured. “Rosie. You are so beautiful.” One of his magical fingers trailed down her cheek, traced her lips.

She? Beautiful? She had never thought so before; she was too tall, too redheaded, too freckled. In his arms, at this moment, she was beautiful. He made it so.

“Not as beautiful as you, Lord Morley.”

He smiled, and his hands slid up to cradle her face. “My name is Michael.”

“Michael,” she whispered. The name was dark and sweet, like a cup of chocolate, a sip of brandy, in her mouth. “Michael.”

He groaned, and bent his head to kiss her again. She fell back against the wall of the house. The stone was cold and sharp through the thin silk of her gown, but she scarcely noticed it when Lord Morley—
Michael
—leaned in close to her. His lips slid from hers along the line of her throat, down to her bare shoulder.

“So sweet,” he whispered, the words reverberating against her skin. She felt his hand on the sleeve of her gown, drawing it down…

A ripple of loud laughter pierced the haze of her passion. Suddenly, the wall at her back was hard and cold again, the hand on her shoulder shocking. With a sharp intake of breath, she drew away, hitting her head with an audible thud on the wall. Her hands fumbled against his chest, pushing him back.