Red Rose (9 page)

Raymore sat a long time silently considering what he must do. The most obvious solution seemed to be to give in to her demands and send her back to the country. Yet he could not display weakness by giving in to her so. He had very little hope left of finding her a husband in the near future. She had effectively prevented that by her behavior in the ballroom.

He had still not found a solution when the butler knocked on the door to ask if his lordship intended to eat luncheon at home. Raymore ordered a tray brought into the library. It cannot be said that he enjoyed his meal. He hardly tasted it, in fact. His mind was dealing with a thorny problem. Did he owe Miss Dacey an apology? The idea was quite unpalatable. She had clearly provoked him into anger. He was very ready to believe that she had lured him into that embrace. Even so, he admitted, he should not have touched her.

Raymore decided that he would join the ladies later in the drawing room. There would probably be visitors. His cousin Sylvia had appeared to take very well the evening before. He would draw Miss Dacey to one side, apologize briefly, and be done with the matter. It was far more desirable to do the job that way than to speak to her in private. She would be sure to make a major quarrel out of it if he did it that way.

In the event, though, Raymore found himself unaccountably uneasy when he entered the drawing room. As he accepted a cup of tea from Hetty and entered into a conversation with Standen and his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, he was uncomfortably aware of Rosalind sitting across the room talking to Standen’s younger brother. He talked to each of the visitors in turn, but failed to take the opportunity of moving to his ward’s side when Broome moved away to talk to Sylvia. Soon he lost the chance, when Axby took the empty seat that young Nigel had vacated.

Raymore left the room soon afterward without having spoken to his ward. In fact, he had not even looked directly at her the whole time he had been in the room. The earl frowned. What was the matter with him? Was he afraid of the chit? He hurried up to his room and rang impatiently for his valet. An hour later he left the house and remained away until the early hours of the following morning.

***

The ladies did not have any engagement for that evening, but they spent a productive evening going through the pile of invitations that had arrived with the day’s post. Now that they were officially out, Sylvia and Rosalind were entitled to attend as many routs, balls, Venetian breakfasts, soirees, and other events as could be reasonably fitted into each day. Sylvia and Cousin Hetty were trying to decide which of the invitations should be accepted.

“Lady Sefton promised me last evening that she would send vouchers for Almack’s,” Cousin Hetty said, scratching the ears of a sleeping poodle as she passed an invitation card across to Sylvia.

“Almack’s!” that young lady squealed. “How heavenly! Did you hear that, Ros?”

Fortunately for Rosalind, the question appeared rhetorical. Her cousin was already exclaiming over the card she held in her hand, which promised further delights at yet another party.

Rosalind did, in fact, escape early to bed, claiming that she was tired after the ball of the evening before. She was not exactly lying, she mused as she closed the door of her bedroom behind her and set down the candle on the table beside the bed. She was extremely weary and mortally depressed. Until the night before, she had buoyed up her spirits with the conviction that the Earl of Raymore would send her back home without delay once she had publicly embarrassed him. 

But her scheme had failed. Not only was she being forced to remain in London, but she had succeeded in embarrassing herself quite dreadfully. The only factor that had given her the courage to walk across that ballroom the evening before was her conviction that she need never face any of those people again. Now it seemed that she was doomed to face them all many times.

How she hated her guardian. Even that afternoon he had appeared in the drawing room, probably to check on her, like a jailer, to make sure that she was not hiding in her room. She shuddered at the memory of what had happened between them the night before. That he was physically very attractive she could not deny. She had loved Alistair, his dream counterpart, for several years. But how had she allowed herself to ignore the very contemptible character that was housed in the very godlike body? She never would have done so had she not been furiously angry, she persuaded herself.

But her own abandonment to the embrace quite disturbed her. Rosalind had never been kissed before. Indeed, she had rarely had any contact at all with men, having always avoided the few social events that she and Sylvia had been invited to in previous years. She should, then, have been shocked even by the mere touch of a man’s lips. And she had been shocked at first. She had pulled away from him with the same instinct as she would have withdrawn her hand from a hot surface. But when she had looked at him, his free had for once been unguarded, the coldness absent. His eyes had had depth, and she had fallen into those depths as he drew her to him again. And she would never be able to explain why she had reacted as she had that second time. Her behavior was frightening to look back upon. Rosalind could explain it to herself only by admitting that she had wanted him. She had wanted to be close to him, closer than she could be even by pressing her body against his. She had opened her mouth when his tongue had asked entrance, though she had not known there could be such a kiss. She had moved against his hands, wanting them to know her. She had always been embarrassed by her full figure, but she had welcomed his hands on her breasts, had ached to have them beneath the fabric of her gown. She had wanted him.

Rosalind was clinging to one of the posts of her bed. She hung her head and closed her eyes. How could she have behaved so, had those feelings with
him?
With him of all people! Had she no shame? Could she be attracted so powerfully to beauty when there was no substance behind it? He was a cold, unfeeling man who just happened to be extraordinarily handsome. Was she to be seduced by external appearances alone?

And why had he participated in that embrace? Rosalind knew that her deformity repelled him. She knew that he disliked her. She knew that she was ugly. Why, then? He could not have been led astray by appearances. She turned her face to the bedpost as she faced the truth as it must be. He had deliberately set out to humiliate her. She had bested him in the ballroom, and being the sort of man who could never allow another to outmaneuver him, he had coldly and calculatedly taken his revenge almost immediately. With practiced powers of seduction, he had drawn her into making a complete cake of herself. Forever afterward now, when he looked at her, he would be able to sneer at the poor, ugly girl who had responded eagerly to an embrace in the library, believing it to be a sign of real attraction.

Rosalind’s knuckles were white as she clung to the post. She would get even with him. She did not have the faintest notion of how she would do it, but she would.

The Earl of Raymore rose the next morning with the determination to see Miss Rosalind Dacey as soon as possible, make his apologies, and forget the whole matter. He was heartily sick of the whole situation with his wards. Having them in his house and setting about getting them married was proving a decidedly troublesome business, and that one girl was occupying his mind far more than he could wish.

When he finally sent for Rosalind to attend him in the library just before luncheon, however, something had happened to completely reverse his mood. For the first time in days he was feeling positively cheerful.

“Good morning, Rosalind,” he said when she came through the door. He had decided to drop the “Miss Dacey.” She was, after all, his ward. He stood with his back to the windows, his hands clasped behind him.

“My lord,” she said, nodding coolly in his direction. She stopped inside the door and stood facing him.

“Will you not have a seat?” he asked. “I have good news for you.”

She did not move, but her face lit up as she looked fully at him for the first time. “You are sending me home?” she asked.

He clucked his tongue impatiently. “Far better than that,” he said, and paused to let his words take effect.

Rosalind’s face became shuttered again. She stared at him.

“I have an offer for you,” the Earl of Raymore said.

Rosalind still said nothing.

“Come,” he said, leaving his place by the window and crossing the room to her. “Are you not eager to know the identity of your suitor?” He had intended to take her by the hand and lead her to a chair. But he stopped ten feet away from her, halted by her utter stillness.

She did not answer him.

“Sir Rowland Axby has visited me this morning and asked if he may pay his addresses to you,” Raymore said, frowning briefly. The girl should be ecstatic. What was the matter with her?

“I see,” she said finally, her face devoid of all expression. “And did you sell me, my lord?”

“Sell?”

“That is what I said,” she agreed. “Sir Rowland has come buying and you have sold, I gather. Me and my modest dowry in exchange for what? Freedom from my troublesome presence? I daresay for you it is a thoroughly satisfactory bargain.”

“Why do you persist in seeing yourself as merchandise?” he said irritably. “It is perfectly normal for girls of your class to make marriage alliances. It is normal for fathers and guardians to help make those alliances. It is the way our society works. I fail to see why you apparently object.”

“Why has Sir Rowland chosen me?” she asked quietly.

“Why? Because he is pleased with you, I suppose. Because he needs a wife and because you are single girl belonging to his own class.”

“You are a liar,” she said dispassionately.

Raymore’s eyes narrowed. “And you are deliberately trying to provoke me, ma’am,” he replied testily.

“You know as well as I do why I am to receive this most flattering offer,” Rosalind said. “Sir Rowland is an aging widower who has nothing to recommend him to a prospective bride. He has neither looks, nor intelligence, nor charm. But he does have a large family. He has looked around him for the girl who is least likely to refuse his offer and he has settled on me. Quite admirable, of course. The man has sense, if not intelligence. What does he see?” She held out her arms and looked down at herself. “He sees a girl who is too tall and too dark for fashion, one who does not have a pretty face. And best of all he sees a cripple. Such a girl, of course, is bound to be so beholden to him for the kindness of his offer that she will devote the rest of her life to being a slave to him and his six children and to any other children that he may condescend to give her.”

“Are you finished?” Raymore asked, still ten feet away.

Rosalind let her arms fall to her sides again and stared silently back at him.

“The truth of the matter is,” he said coldly, his eyes opaque again,“that this is a flattering offer. You are
not 
ugly, Rosalind. In fact...He hesitated and did not complete the thought. “But you cannot expect to be numbered among the beauties of the Season. Coming, as you do, from a life in the country, I can see that you have not been taught to face reality. The life of an old maid is a frightful one. Such a woman is passed on from one relation to another, always at everyone’s beck and call, not wanted by anyone. I do not wish that life for you. Sir Rowland Axby may not be the man of your choice, but believe me, Rosalind, marriage to him will be better than no marriage at all. At least you will hold a respectable position in society.”

“I would rather die,” she said.

He gestured impatiently. “Pure melodrama,” he said. “I took you for a woman of some sense.”

“I, on the other hand, have understood you from the beginning,” Rosalind said. “You are a cold, hard man who has so little regard for the feelings of others that you do not even know that those feelings exist.”

“Always we come back to your hatred of me, do we not?” he said, moving away from her and walking to the fireplace, where he stood staring down at the unlit logs. “If you hate me so much, Rosalind, I would think you would be delighted to have an opportunity to be independent of me.”

“I will not marry Sir Rowland,” she said.

He looked up sharply at her. “You will listen to his proposal this afternoon,” he said, “and you will accept, my girl.”

“Oh, no, Edward,” she said quietly. “Pray do not work yourself into a lather over this. You have no way of winning. You cannot force me to marry anyone and it is pointless to engage in a battle of wills with me. I would guess that most people crumble before your will, but you will find that I shall not.”

The Earl of Raymore had gone very still as he watched her. “We shall see, ma’am,” he said calmly. “We shall see. You may leave me now.”

He stood staring at the door for several minutes after she had taken a quiet departure.

Chapter 6

Sylvia fell in love twice during the following few weeks. At first it was with Charles Hammond, who pressed his suite quite ardently. He made a point of discovering which events Sylvia was to attend and was always at the same places himself. He was at Almack’s to claim her hand the first time she attended that hallowed establishment; he was at a musicale she attended and seated himself next to her to listen to an Italian soprano; he was at a regatta and was in the right place to hand her into a boat. And he was a constant visitor at Grosvenor Square, staying in the drawing room as long as any visitor and being sure to be the first to ask Lady Sylvia Marsh to drive with him in the park afterward.

Perhaps it was his very persistence that caused Sylvia’s affection to cool. “He
does
smile too much, Ros, does he not?” she asked seriously one day when the two girls were together in the breakfast room.

“Would you have the poor man frown all day long?” Rosalind asked, laughing.

“No, but no one can be cheerful and lighthearted all the time, can they?” the girl replied. “Anyone who is, is either playing a part, not acting naturally, or is rather empty-headed.”