Fran Baker (10 page)

While doing so, she reflected upon the oddity of her sister’s betrothal. It was obvious that Helen did not love the viscount—and Rose could only wonder at such singular taste!—for she could not seem to bear being alone with him. Rose did not know what had occurred between them yesterday, but last night’s performance had not deceived
her
, she thought as she absently stroked the softly mewling kittens. Altogether, Helen appeared frightened and unhappy, his lordship alternately exasperated and bored. Rose had tried to convey some of this to Sarah last night, but when she had mentioned Helen’s unhappiness, Sarah had given her a puzzled look.

“Helen seems quite happy,” she said. “She was certainly filled with gaiety tonight.”

“Overly so, I fear. Her manner wasn’t the least natural. You must see that they don’t suit?”

“I see, dearest, that you are refining too much upon her nervousness. I well remember how I was when John proposed. I’m sure I was cheerful beyond bearing. As for the viscount, I’ve seen nothing whatever to fault and much in him to admire. I think you must forget whatever prejudices you have against him.”

Rose abandoned the attempt then and did not speak of the matter again before the Charvilles departed for their own home in the morning.

So her thoughts whirled round and round with always the same ending: Helen was to marry Lord Stratford, happy or no. And there was nothing to be done about it. With a heavy sigh, she at last kissed the smallest of the kittens and returned them all to their watchful mother’s side. She then reluctantly began the descent of the steep wooden ladder. She hitched the hem of her brown gown up and was halfway down, her hands still on the topmost rung, when an imperious voice brought her to a full stop.

“I believe, Miss Lawrence, you were engaged as a member of our outing!”

She cast a surprised eye over her shoulder to discover the viscount standing below her, his brows pushed together over his snapping eyes. Having been informed by his fiancée that they could not leave without her sister, Stratford had gone searching for Miss Lawrence, and his ill humor had heightened with each step. He knew the chit did not like him and to be confronted with the prospect of a full afternoon of the Lawrence sisters and his cousin Baldwin for company was the outside of enough. Even the sight of two shapely ankles in white knit stockings did nothing to lessen his resentment and he stood glowering as she hung motionless on the ladder.

“A
gentleman
would remove whilst I came down,” she said finally.

“A
gentlewoman
would not be standing on a ladder with bits of straw sticking to her gown!” he retorted, anger beginning to give way to amusement.

Rose looked down the front of her dress and her hand slipped slightly. Stratford stepped quickly forward, extending his hand.

“Let me help you down, Miss Lawrence,” he commanded.

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then let him take her hand to steady her descent. His touch ignited her with the devastating desire to let herself fall into his arms. She firmly ignored this improper urge, though she found she could not ignore the searing warmth of his hand on hers.

Stratford’s ill temper ebbed further still as she negotiated the last few rungs, though he fully expected to be the recipient of her womanly wrath. Certainly, Thalia would have delivered the first volley of an explosive charge. But upon touching the ground, Miss Lawrence released his hand and merely said, “One moment, if you please, my lord.”

His amusement grew as he watched her prosaically pluck the straw from her gown and he actually smiled when she continued with her usual air of composure, “I’m sorry I put you to the inconvenience of having to find me.” As she was at this moment twisting her lanky frame in an attempt to remove the straw clinging tenaciously to her backside, Rose did not see the last vestige of temper fade completely from his lordship’s eyes.

“Are you never disconcerted, Miss Lawrence?” he asked.

She looked up from her endeavors, her brow raised quizzically. “Should I be?”

“Ah, well, I trust you were alone in the loft,” the viscount answered mischievously, taking her arm as they moved from the stables.

“To tell the truth, sir, I was not alone.”

He halted to turn a sudden frown upon her. “What are you saying?”

“Merely that I have been seeing an old friend,” Rose explained as she continued to walk on. When she tossed a merry smile over her shoulder she found his lordship was scowling in earnest, so she too stopped, adding with a laugh, “My cat has had kittens! And though Whiskers is a very protective mother, she kindly allowed me to pay them a call.”

Stratford’s brow cleared, and he came to her side with a roguish laugh.

“Whatever can you have been thinking, my lord?” Rose asked, widening her large eyes in pretended innocence. As they had come upon the rest of the party on these words, the viscount had no opportunity to answer, but displayed a broad smile.

Seeing it, both Daniel and Helen sighed with relief. His lordship had left them in such ill humor that the two had despaired of the picnic ever coming to pass.

When she saw Stratford’s cheerful mien, Helen was able to say quite happily, “Thank you, my lord, for finding Rose. Our picnic would never have been the same without her.”

“I’m much inclined, my love, to agree with you,” he responded as he handed her up into the phaeton.

Though this ancient vehicle appeared to be not too well sprung, it was of a generous size and could easily have accommodated the four on their airing, but the gentlemen elected to ride beside the carriage. As they spent the journey exchanging bantering compliments, each trying to outdo the other, the party arrived in a mood of convivial companionship. They chose a gentle slope which fanned beneath a small grove of trees. They were soon settled upon the grass, enjoying the fine, warm spring day and the sumptuous luncheon extracted from the wicker basket.

The auspicious beginning seemed destined to blossom into an agreeable time for all. Congenial conversation flowed easily throughout the meal. Rose described the stable loft’s new residents; the cousins reminisced about childhood picnics on the manicured grounds of the Keep; Helen contributed the secret of the dandelion wine she had prepared for the party.

By meal’s end, the viscount’s engaging good humor had nearly relaxed his bride-to-be. In turn, her simple manner, free of the overshy missishness that so annoyed him, had Stratford thinking they would suit well enough after all. It was unfortunate Daniel chose to remark that he hoped they should have a day as fine as this for their wedding day. Color swept instantly over Helen and as instantly fled. In a scarce whisper, she stuttered that she hoped so, too.

A look of wearied irritation passed over Stratford’s face, though he made no comment. Rose then had the happy notion of sending her sister off to pick a bouquet for their mama. Daniel attempted to mitigate his previous error by offering to accompany her. Once left alone with the viscount, Rose rummaged through the basket, pulling a slim volume from its depths.

“This is Lord Byron’s latest work and though Esmond will hold that it’s not worth reading—e favors the classics of antiquity, you know, and anything not at least two hundred years old is too modern for him—I count myself fortunate to have procured this copy,” she explained as she braced her back against a tree. “Shall I read aloud, sir?”

“By all means, Miss Lawrence, do so if you wish,” he answered, stretching out over the grassy knoll. He lay on his side, propped upon one elbow, watching her expressive face as she read the verse. He decided her voice lacked the musical quality which made Helen’s so unique, but its mellow tone had a soothing effect that he quite liked. Studying her face, he found much to admire, though she was clearly not a beauty. He was particularly taken, he decided, with her ever-changing, oversized gray eyes.

“Do you know,” he interrupted her, “your eyes are like a misty morn? As mysterious and as enticing.”

Her voice paused for the merest instant, then Rose continued to read with all the placid air of one who had not just received her first flowery compliment.

“Miss Lawrence, you are not listening!” he complained.

“No, of course not,” she concurred calmly, looking up from her book. “If you wish, sir, to practice the pretty things you intend to say to Helen, I would rather you do so upon Anne, for she would like them prodigiously. She is at that age, you know.”

“Practice the . . .” he said, dumb-struck.

“Perhaps you are not practicing,” she admitted, “for I dare say you have said such things so often, they now come naturally to you, whether or not there is the least cause. At any rate, you must see the effort is completely wasted upon me.”

“Yes, I do see,” he agreed, warmth gracing his dark eyes.

The leather volume again claimed Rose’s attention, but she had not read much beyond the next stanza when the viscount again cut in.

“Why do you object to my betrothal to your sister?” he inquired, staring fixedly at her.

His serious tone quite unnerved her, but she replied evenly enough, “I have already—”

“You must be aware that many marriages not founded on love turn out well enough,” he said with a hint of impatience. “I fear your objections go beyond that. Tell me, why is my suit so repugnant to you?”

“Well, there is your money,” she said slowly.

“You object to my
money
?” he queried, disbelieving.

“It is not your money, my lord, but what you do
with
your money that is so distressing. Why just last year, the Henleys returned from London full of the tale of your having lost five thousand pounds at one sitting. Five thousand pounds! Gambling such a sum away seems sinful to me.”

“I see,” he said, his full lips pressed firmly together. “Is there anything else, ma’am?”

“I do not think this discussion should be continued. There is no point in making you angry—”

“Come, Miss Lawrence. I’ve been the object of censure for years. Your plain speaking, as you put it, does not in the least disturb me.”

As his face was at that instant filled with wrathful resentment, Rose wanted very much to laugh. The attractive young man was rapidly giving way to the disdainful peer. Perhaps a set-down to his esteem was called for, after all.

“Very well, my lord,” she said. “Your style of living is not altogether pleasing—devoted as you are to the pursuit of pleasure. Besides your passion for all forms of gaming, your various escapades have set the
ton
on its ear for years! And, of course, one constantly hears tales of your many mistresses.”

“And what,” he prodded crossly, “do you think I do wrong with my mistresses? Beat them?”

“Why, no,” Rose replied. “I suppose you make very pretty love to them.”

“What would
you
know of love, Miss Lawrence?” he snapped.

If he had slapped her, the sting could not have been sharper. The book tumbled from her hands and her fringed shawl slid off her shoulders. Rose did not notice either one. A fierce flush spread over her cheeks as she struggled to find a response to his insult.

Discovering that there was, after all, one blushing virgin very much to his taste, Stratford immediately lost all desire to further wound her. He jumped to his feet and came to her side. “Forgive me, Miss Lawrence. I should not have said that.”

“There is no need to apologize, my lord,” she said, also rising. “It’s not your fault I’m a spinster and therefore unversed in the ways of love.”

“Don’t! I deserve that frosty tone, but I’ll not have you place yourself in the ranks of the matrons—”

“
You
, my lord, have nothing to say to the matter. I’ve been placed among the matrons for years. And now, if you will excuse me—”

But Stratford entrapped her wrist before she could move away and they stood, unspoken emotion exploding between them. He searched Rose’s face as if it held the secret to his own unexpected consuming need for her approval. The fading stain of embarrassment contrasted oddly with her defiant eyes. He had seen that same discordant mixture of chagrin and contempt before. Gazing at Rose, he suddenly saw a much younger girl in a gaudy gown whose scornful eyes had belied her obvious discomfiture.

“I’ve met you before.”

It was not a question, yet Rose felt compelled to answer. “Yes. During my coming-out season,” she said without expression. “We danced at Mrs. Frisch’s supper ball.”

“You wore some godawful pink thing,” he recalled, running his gaze over her figure.

Her heart stopped. “You remember that?”

Stratford did not reply as he continued to look at her in an inscrutable manner. In his mind, he pictured the lanky, awkward girl whose hair pinnings had threatened to come undone, who had stammered at their introduction, who had, he vaguely recalled, bored the boy he had been. In those days, he thought ruefully, nothing but a diamond of the first water had been worthy of his attention. Again meeting Miss Lawrence’s deep gray eyes, he knew a flash of regret for the damnable folly of youth.

As he held her captive, staring so intensely, Rose saw the memories pass through his restless eyes and she trembled with an abrupt desire. Aware that he had suddenly, in some inexplicable way, found her attractive, she longed to throw herself into his arms and show him precisely what she knew of love. But she resisted temptation, knowing that for all his wild ways, the viscount would despise such impetuosity.

Where his hand encircled her wrist, Rose’s pulse throbbed violently. She tried to snatch free of his burning clasp, but Stratford tightened his grip.

“Miss Lawrence, please, let me ask your pardon—”

“For not remembering me, my lord? You needn’t cry pardon for that, for I assure you I did not expect it of you.”

Though her tone was matter-of-fact, it cut him to the quick and he reacted with a flare of temper. “No, of course you did not. How could you?”

“How could I, indeed?” she retorted, pulling her wrist free at last. “When one is as selfish and arrogant as you, my lord, one need not remember those so unworthy of notice.”

“Thank you,” he shot back. “Your assessment of my character is most enlightening. But let me tell you . . .”