Amanda McCabe (18 page)

Michael stumbled away, the expression on his face as dazed as she herself felt. His hands slowly fell away from her, and he raked his fingers through his hair. He was dark and tousled.

Rosalind closed her eyes tightly, shutting out the dangerously attractive sight of him. Never in all her life had she done something as shocking as kiss a man on a public terrace. Anyone could have seen them! And, if she was truly honest with herself, they had been doing rather more than kissing there.

She had spent so very long condemning her brother’s foolish behavior. But she was far more imprudent than he had been. She had broken so many rules tonight, she could never be redeemed. How could she ever look at her students again, ever teach them proper behavior, without knowing herself for the hypocrite she was?

Yet, somehow, she could not be truly, deeply sorry. She could not regret kissing Michael. For those few, precious moments, she had felt more
alive
than she ever had before.

Had the rules ever made her feel like that? She had to admit that they had not.

She moaned in confusion, and reached up to press her hands against the threatening headache. In the midst of all this turmoil, she felt a soft touch on her arm. Michael drew her sleeve back up to her shoulder, gently, tenderly.

Rosalind opened her eyes to peek up at him. He also seemed confused, bewildered, pained—but he smiled at her, a wry, rueful grin. “Oh, Rosalind. Mrs. Chase. I am so sorry. I never meant…”

He never meant—what? To kiss a tall, awkward schoolmistress on a terrace? To almost be caught? A
sour pang of disappointment added to Rosalind’s chill, to her disillusionment. She turned away, patting and pulling at her hair. She wished ardently for one of her caps.

“It is quite all right,” she said tightly. “There was no harm done. Perhaps we should go inside? I am sure Georgina will be looking for me.”

Actually, Georgina was probably hoping that something very like this—or rather, like their kiss—was happening, and she would not be looking for Rosalind for quite a while. But for Rosalind the thought of a crowded ballroom was a haven for once. There, she would have no time to think of all this, whatever
this
was.

“If that is what you wish, of course,” Michael said softly. She heard the sinuous rustle of cloth as he straightened his coat. “But I want to tell you…”

“Later. Please.” Rosalind simply could not hear him right now, not while she was so confused. Not while the voices of the new arrivals on the terrace were coming ever closer. “We will speak later, yes?”

“Of course,” he said. “But I will hold you to that—Rosalind.”

He stepped to her side, and offered her his arm. Rosalind slid her hand onto his sleeve, careful not to cling too tightly, to feel the warm strength of his muscles and bone.

As they walked past the group of people, she heard a woman say, “Is that not Lord Morley? But who is that with him? I heard he was at the theater last night with some unknown redhead. Is that she?”

One of the men with her answered, “Perhaps so, m’dear. But doesn’t
A Lady’s Rules
say ‘A lady will never walk alone with a gentleman after dark, or risk great harm to her reputation’?”

The entire group laughed tipsily, and Rosalind cringed. That was just one of the many rules she had broken this evening.

And she had the distinct feeling that it was not the last she would break before all of this was finished.

Michael moved through the crowd with Mrs. Chase on his arm, stopping to speak to friends, to bow to matrons, and smile and laugh. Yet it was as if he watched the entire scene from very far away, not participating at all. He had been through routs like this dozens, hundreds of times before, and could make all the correct postures, but he was not aware of them at all. He only felt the light pressure of her hand on his arm, the warmth of her at his side.

She also did everything that was proper, making all the correct responses and gestures. No one could possibly see the distraction in her eyes, the solemn downturn at the corners of her rose pink lips. No one except him.

He watched her as they traversed the edge of the ballroom. Mrs. Chase—
Rosalind.
Despite her solemnity, her stillness, she was quite the most beautiful woman in the room. The most beautiful woman in all of London. Her hair shone like the red and gold fire of dawn, caught up with coral-tipped combs and falling along the white column of her neck. She seemed serene, assured, as she took in the room with her sky blue eyes, but there, in their depths, he saw her uncertainty, her shyness.

She was as affected by their kiss as he was. He still trembled deep inside from the unexpected force of their passion, from the desire, the raw
need
, that had seized him when he took her in his arms. Never had a simple kiss affected him so deeply! There had been nothing in the world but her, her perfume, her lips beneath his, her arms around his neck, drawing him ever closer to her.

Now, as he peered down at her in the color and flash of the ballroom, he knew the truth, the truth he had only suspected when he called on her at Wayland House yesterday. He loved her. He loved his sister’s stiff, proper, rule-following teacher! And he had loved her ever since he saw her alone in her office. Even
then, he had sensed the bright fire beneath her restrained coolness, and it drew him in.

He
loved
her! After all the years of writing of passion and longing, of searching for it so desperately in his own life, he had finally found it where he would have never thought to look.

He wanted to shout his feelings to all the world, to seize Rosalind by her slender waist and twirl her about until they were both dizzy with laughter and joy. He could hardly do that in front of the entire
ton
, though. Even he had to follow some rules. But he did reach for her hand, drawing her around to face him. They stood still in a quiet corner, slightly apart from the social fray.

She blinked up at him, as if surprised by their sudden stillness. “Lord Morley?”

He wished she would call him by his given name. He longed to hear it in her voice, hear her whisper
Michael.
“When can I see you again?” he asked.

“You—wish to see me again?”

Had she so soon forgotten their kiss? How could she think he would
not
want to see her after that?

“Of course I do. Tomorrow? We could go for a drive in the park, early, before the fashionable hour.”

She flicked an uncertain glance over her shoulder, back at the crowd. She opened her mouth, and closed it again. Her fingers tightened on his for one moment before she drew her hand away and took a step back. He had never seen the cool, collected Mrs. Chase so discomposed before.

So she was
not
immune to him. But he feared she
was
about to refuse his invitation, and he tried to gather his arguments to persuade her to agree. He wanted so much to see her again, away from this blasted crowd. He
needed
to see her.

He had no need to argue with her, though. She slowly nodded, and said, “Yes. A drive would be—most agreeable. I have some things I would like to tell you, Lord Morley. Important things I think you ought to know.”

He smiled at her, amazed by the rush of relief and anticipation. He
would
see her again! They would be together in the comparative quiet of the park, close to each other on the seat of his phaeton. As for whatever it was she had to tell him—well, it could be nothing so dreadful that they could not talk it over together. Could it?

As he took her arm again and they turned to resume their promenade about the ballroom, he saw two familiar figures coming in the doors. Mr. Gilmore and Lord Carteret, without Mr. Lucas tonight. So the young pup had kept his promise to go back to university after all.

Gilmore noticed Michael standing there with Mrs. Chase, and pointed them out to Carteret. Carteret gave Michael a smirk, and an elaborately polite bow. “
The rules
,” he mouthed, and he and Gilmore turned away in laughter.

Well
, Michael thought ruefully. So he had some things to tell Mrs. Chase, as well.

T
 
he room was dim, shadowed, with rich red velvet draperies over the windows, hanging from the bedstead. The scent of wine, flowers, and woodsmoke lingered in the cool air. The only sounds were the crackling flames in the grate—and a man’s husky whisper.

“Rosalind,” he murmured. “You are so beautiful. So glorious.”

His kiss, light as a butterfly’s wings, moved down her throat, over her shoulder. His fingers drew her thin silk gown down her arms.

Her limbs were heavy, flooded with a languid warmth. Rosalind leaned back on satin pillows, and opened her eyes to see Michael smiling lazily down at her…

Rosalind sat straight up in bed, gasping. “It was a dream,” she whispered. “Just a silly dream.”

But a silly dream that left her trembling. She rubbed her hands over her face, and pushed back the unruly curls that had escaped from her careful plait. It had felt so very real, that dream. Not just the sensations, but the emotions.

Emotions she was not sure what to do with.

Rosalind pushed back the bedclothes and slid off
the bed to the floor. She padded on her bare feet over to the window, which she pushed open to the night. She closed her eyes to savor the cool breeze on her flushed face.

When she opened them again, she felt calmer, yet still unsettled. The city was quiet at this hour, with the barest tinges of a pale gray predawn light just peeking over the horizon. Everyone was home from the night’s revels, tucked up safely in their beds. Soon, very soon, it would be full light, and in only a few hours Michael—Lord Morley—would be here to take her for that drive.

Rosalind groaned. How could she face him after such a dream? How could she face him, knowing how she truly wanted him? How she—cared for him?

Loved him.

Yes. There it was. She had fallen in love with him. Truly, she was the most pathetic woman in London. Perhaps in all of England.

Rosalind had never in her life been a romantic sort. She had never had the time, between looking after her family, running the school, writing her books. There had never been a chance to sigh over poetry, to wax sentimental over flowers and moonlight and handsome young men. She had cared for her husband, true, but their marriage had been above all an eminently sensible match. His touch, his gaze, had never made her burn or tremble…

…as Michael’s did. There was nothing sensible there! He was so very wrong for her—too young, too highly placed in Society, too wild and romantic. For heaven’s sake, the man kissed her on terraces where anyone could come upon them! Kissed her with a fervor, a passion, she had never before dreamed could truly exist.

This was madness. It was hopeless. A man like that could have no serious ideas of a woman like her. She was a prudish schoolmistress.

Yet she did not
feel
like a prudish schoolmistress any longer. Not when she was with him, or even when
she just thought about him. She felt young, and giddy, and very silly. The old patterns, the old ways of thinking no longer fit in her heart. Michael had proven himself to be more, much more than she had first thought him. He
was
romantic, but he was also kind-hearted and steady, with a lovely consideration for his sister. He was a man she could almost begin to trust.

Could she herself also not be more than she had once thought? The old Mrs. Chase would never have dreamed of confiding in someone, especially a man, about her troubles. The new Rosalind wanted to tell Michael all, everything about her school, her books. She longed to put her head on his shoulder, feel his arms about her, and know, even if only for one moment, that she was not alone.

But she was scared. So scared that it chilled her heart.

Rosalind pushed her hair back from her neck, holding the heavy plait away from her flushed skin. For the first time in her life, she just did not know what to do.

Michael reached for a cravat—and paused. The cloth was of a sky blue color, a perfectly starched length of cloth just waiting for him to wrap it about his throat. Usually this was one of his very favorite colors, and it went perfectly with his silver brocade waistcoat. Today, it made him hesitate.

It made him wonder what Mrs. Chase would think of the color.

He could not remember when he had last considered what another person would think about his attire. Perhaps when his mother had been alive; she had been such a fashion plate, and had taken such delight in her child’s early sartorial choices. But never since. People’s opinions just did not matter.

He wanted to see the light of admiration, even of desire, in Rosalind’s eyes when she saw him—eyes that were almost the color of this cloth. The light had been there last night, he was sure of that. He wanted
to see it again more than he had ever wanted anything before in his life.

And Rosalind did not approve of the least hint of gaudiness in her attire. He considered reaching for a white cravat instead, something simple and stark, like a clergyman might wear. And
dull.
So very dull. He was
not
a curate, after all. His blue, and pink, and yellow cravats were a part of him, just as his writing was. Rosalind had seemed to like his colored cravat last night.

He tied it in a neat, stylish whorl, and speared it with a pearl-headed pin. As he turned away to reach for his dark blue superfine coat, his gaze fell on the papers that littered his desk. The sheets were stained and blotted with ink, some of them torn in deepest frustration. They were the beginnings of a poem he had started in the fevered depths of the night.

He could not sleep when he returned from the ball, could not stop the wild swirl of his thoughts, his emotions. They were tangled, confused, and he tried to sort them out the only way he knew how—by writing.