The Rebel's Promise (10 page)

He rose jerkily and stood over her. Although she infuriated him, he recalled the one occasion when he had laid a hand on her in anger. A few days into their betrothal she had objected to his suggestion that she should sell the pearls her mother had left her in order to settle some of his more pressing debts. During the ensuing argument, he had grabbed her upper arm and spitefully twisted it, leaving her flesh bruised and swollen. The following day Tom Drury noticed the marks and, although Rosie dismissed them lightly with a plausible story, a dark look had appeared in the big man’s eyes. Later, in a very brief, to the point conversation with Clive, he left her betrothed in no doubt of his fate should he ever harm a single hair on Rosie’s head in the future. The humiliation and genuine fear instilled by those few pointed words had been sufficient to ensure Rosie’s safety ever since. But just wait, my proud beauty, he thought gloatingly. Drury will not be present in our bed chamber ... and there you will pay dearly for your defiance.

“You delight in thwarting me, madame betrothed,” he sounded like a sulky schoolboy, “My Aunt Aurelia is returning to London next week, and I have said I will accompany her.”

If Rosie was surprised at the abrupt change of subject she did not show it. She felt a sense of relief at his impending absence, which was short-lived.

“You and the boy will accompany us. Aunt Aurelia has invited you to stay with her and I wish to introduce you to my other aunt, Lady Harpenden.”

“I would prefer not to do so …” Rosie began.

Just six short months ago the prospect of a visit to the metropolis, with its associated parties and fashions, would have filled her girlish heart with joy. Now, the London season held no charms for her, particularly during this period of mourning for her father and Jack.

Clive frowned his annoyance, rising to loom over her.

“’Fore gad,”

He leaned in so close that she could see the broken red veins on his cheeks and the sparse, sandy lashes which appeared almost invisible at a distance.

“You will learn who is the master in this relationship or you will live to regret it!”

Rosie, a flash of anger lighting her eyes, tried to rise from her seat but he thrust her back by slamming the heel of his hand hard against her collar bone, driving the breath from her body and making her wince in pain.

“Now I suggest you go inside and prepare for the trip,” tight-lipped, he bowed and went into the house.

Chapter Five

“Devil take it, Perry!” Jack regarded his reflection ruefully. “I look like a damned painted marionette!”

Sir Peregrine Pomeroy, that well known arbiter of fashion, lounged gracefully in a chair, observing his friend’s toilette with amused interest. Jack was clad in snow-white breeches and a beautifully embroidered, flowered waistcoat. A profusion of lace frothed at his throat and wrists and diamonds glinted in his ruffles and on his shapely fingers. His own hair was hidden beneath a heavily powdered wig and he had reluctantly permitted Sir Peregrine to sparingly apply paint and patches to his face.

“Forsooth, Jack,” Sir Peregrine, himself exquiste in lilac satin, assured him, “I protest … the veriest trace of haresfoot! Indeed, one would be hard pushed to notice it. You must suffer to be modish, old chap.”

Jack grimaced, as he shrugged into a heavily brocaded coat of deep blue velvet.

“I would much rather remain un-modish,” he regarded his shoes, the high heels of which were studded liberally with diamonds, with an expression of extreme distaste.

This was not a new topic of conversation between the two men and Sir Peregrine wisely held his peace. Upon his arrival in London, Jack had declared his avowed intent of eschewing polite society and had promptly embarked on a hell raising spree of epic proportions. Sir Peregrine, his friend since childhood, had correctly ascribed the reason for this binge to an unsuccessful love affair and had, initially, been content to join him. London was the place to be to yield to a bout of damn-it-all recklessness. Together they had indulged in the many excesses available to gentlemen in possession of youth, wealth and daring. Many of these had involved copious amounts of alcohol and increasingly wild wagers in which life and limb were subjected to alarming risk. Sir Peregrine quickly realised, however, that Jack was hell bent on oblivion, and gradually, albeit with several setbacks along the way, steered him down a less ruinous path. Tonight marked a breakthrough. Jack had agreed to attend the Duchess of Rotherham’s ball. His friend knew, however, that in making this bow to polite society, Jack had not let go any of the anguish which held him so intensely in its thrall. He was walking an emotional tight-rope and the fact that he was forced to mince along it in fashionable attire did not make it any easier.

Sir Peregrine, keeping these thoughts to himself, bowed low as he handed Jack his gold-trimmed tri-corn hat and jewelled snuff box and accompanied him to the waiting carriage. He wondered idly who the lady might be, and what had caused the tormented look which now and then touched Jack’s expression. Particularly when he thought no-one was watching. Devilish popular fellow with the ladies, St Anton, Sir Peregrine, himself no slouch in that direction, mused with a touch of envy. The role of star crossed lover did not sit well on those proud shoulders. There were plenty of opportunities for sexual intrigue available to a man with his looks, wealth and title and Sir Peregrine was hopeful – although not entirely convinced – that this would provide the route to Jack’s recovery.

Rotherham House was an imposing edifice several miles from the centre of town. An astonishing number of coaches rumbled up the sweeping drive towards the flambeaux-lit façade. Jack regarded the scene morosely. Not so long ago this was just the sort of evening in which he would have found unbridled relish. But dancing, drinking, conversing with acquaintances and indulging in mild flirtations – or even amorous assignations – no longer held any charms for him. London had palled almost as soon as he arrived. Would Paris have more to offer? Vienna? Rome? Somehow he doubted it. Who would have thought that the sociable, celebrated Earl of St Anton could reach such a pass as this? The only place he wanted to be was a certain bedchamber in Derbyshire … and only one companion would do for him. Fiend seize her!

“Do try and look cheerful, old chap,” Sir Peregrine muttered as they emerged from their carriage. “Although I must concede that the inferior wine served by her grace has oft caused me just such a sour expression.”

The vast, elegant ballroom was already crowded, and it appeared that all the youth and beauty of the English aristocracy had turned out that night in force. Her Grace greeted the new arrivals with pleasure. The presence of two such personable young men could only enhance the success of her evening’s entertainment. After murmuring a greeting and bowing gracefully over her proffered hand, Jack followed in Sir Peregrine’s wake through the scented, powdered throng. Pinpoints of light from the giant chandeliers bounced back off the jewels, shimmering satins and rich tapestry of colour provided by the exquisite attire of the assembly. As they made their way deeper into the fashionable crush, Sir Peregrine paused countless times to greet an acquaintance, and Jack was hailed with delight by several young bucks and by a surprising number of ladies. It would appear, he reflected ruefully, that polite society had already forgiven him his transgressions. Securing them each a glass of wine, Sir Peregrine took up a vantage point against one of the ornate plasterwork columns. He began, in a speculative undertone, to point out the rival merits of various young ladies to his friend. Since his comments were delivered in his inimitable droll, light manner, he succeeded in keeping Jack in a ripple of laughter.

“Lud,” he remarked, observing the progress of one debutante whose coiffure had reached such alarming proportions that it swayed precariously whenever she moved.

“Miss Parkinson’s attempts to deflect our attention away from her sad lack of chin would appear to have reached new heights.”

Jack groaned, “Perry, you are quite, quite shameless,” he informed him. He directed a slight bow in the direction of a pretty matron who had been brazenly ogling him for some minutes.

“I do my poor best,” his friend informed him blithely, taking the opportunity to secure two more glasses of wine from the tray of a passing footman.

“Do you not think,” Sir Peregrine enquired, “that Lady Farquahar was ill advised to adorn her décolletage with flowers this evening? There is something about the rose – surely the loveliest of all flowers – which means that only perfection can survive the comparison. Her ladyship’s raddled flesh falls somewhat short, I fear.”

Jack paused in the act of raising his wine glass to his lips. Sir Peregrine’s words evoked a memory of Rosie – his own perfect rose – so sharp that it stung. In his mind’s eye she was glancing back over her shoulder at him, her cloud of dark hair loose and her mischievous smile just starting to dawn. The image was as clear and fresh as a midsummer sky.

“My dear child, I do understand your sentiments in this matter and, believe me, they do you great credit,” Lady Aurelia fluttered her hands expressively, “But you must allow
me
to be your guide in this matter. Trust me when I tell you that there can be no possible objection to you attending her grace of Rotherham’s ball.”

‘Really,’
she thought crossly, ‘
Clive’s betrothed was being quite bothersome
about the whole business of
mourning. And it was, after all, for a mere father! One might almost infer that Clive was correct in his suspicion that she did not wish their impending marriage to become public knowledge.
That would
not do’.
Lady Aurelia and her imposing sister had discussed the matter at length and were agreed … the only thing that could save Clive’s reputation and with it the Sheridan name was a good marriage. It seemed a shame that this innocent child was to be the sacrifice that the house of Sheridan required. But Lady Aurelia was able to convince herself that all would be well. If a little voice questioned her conviction – in the wee small hours as she lay awake – there was, after all, something in Clive which even his close family found repugnant … well, it was a quiet voice and easily silenced. Her ladyship was not given to dwelling on that which she found unpleasant. Besides, the girl was quite tiresomely lovely and Lady Aurelia, who lived for fashion, was looking forward to having the pleasure of advising her on what to wear. She had already counselled Rosie extensively on the thorny subject of suitable mourning attire. It was, her ladyship assured her, perfectly acceptable to now wear subdued, matte colours. Excessive trimming and jewels must, of course, be avoided.

“And while, my dear, it it would be prudent to wear gloves or scarf of dove grey to announce your grief during the day, white is perfectly acceptable, I do
assure
you, for evening wear.”

Tonight Rosie was becomingly attired in a silk-brocade gown of soft mauve, embroidered all over with tiny flowers. Detailed shaping on the back and the tight stomacher accentuated her slender figure. A waterfall of white lace at the elbows with matching trim at the low cut neck drew attention to the smooth creaminess of her skin. Dainty satin shoes trimmed with diamante studs peeped from beneath the heavy skirts. Lady Aurelia’s maid had styled her hair and, conceded that Miss Delacourt’s complexion needed no enhancement. She had added only a string of pearls and matching tear-drop earrings before standing back, satisfied, to admire her work.

“Oh, miss!” she clasped her hands to her breast, permitting herself a tiny moment of indulgence, “You are prettier than any picture.”

Rosie smiled in response, it was impossible
not
to find pleasure in a dress such as this, she decided. What a pity it was – to all intents and purposes at least – for the benefit of Clive, on whom, she felt sure, it would be wasted. The mask of respectability he wore in the country, and which was largely effective in concealing his true nature, had been allowed to slip somewhat on his arrival in London. His aunt’s plump face hardened into unaccustomed lines when she heard that he had taken lodgings in a less than fashionable part of town because of the constraints on his purse. Heaven forbid that she should find out how often he frequented a certain notorious gaming hell. Or, indeed, an even more nefarious establishment run by a lady rejoicing in the name of Ruby Portal. Rosie, glancing idly at a pamphlet he had carelessly discarded, had read enough about the services offered by Miss Portal to make her shudder.

In spite of this, London had proved to be all that her girlish dreams had promised, and more. The vibrant city, fully recovered from the fire of the previous century, was thriving and growing. It was swallowing up the surrounding countryside and spewing out buildings in its place. It was a city of huge contrasts and Rosie wondered how the wealthy and privileged managed to turn a blind eye to eye-watering degradation suffered by the slum dwellers. This was the Age of Enlightenment. However that enlightenment, it appeared, was limited to those with inherited wealth, status and feudal power. For visitors such as Rosie and Harry there seemed to be almost too much to do, and their growing list of places to visit included pleasure gardens, fairs and curiosities. Rosie, bowing to Lady Aurelia’s insistence – after all, prolonging her seclusion would not bring her beloved father back – must also endure an endless round of balls, soirees and routs. Tonight marked the beginning of that merry-go-round.

To her new acquaintance, Rosie appeared content. Her engagement to Clive had not been publicly announced because of her mourning state, but it was generally known that she was promised to him. Rosie was reminded of the swans on the lake at Delacourt Grange and the way they glided smoothly across the water with scarcely a ripple. Yet, all the while, their feet were paddling wildly just below the surface. ‘
I am one of those swans
,’ she thought. ‘
Although my emotions are raging beneath the surface, I surprise even myself by continuing in an outwardly calm and serene manner.
’ No-one would ever suspect that her mind played a perpetual series of memories of Jack, so that he was with her constantly. It was only Harry, knowing the laughing, light-hearted sprite of a girl his sister had been, who wondered at her unnatural tranquillity and regarded her with brotherly concern. He must never know – no-one must ever know – that it was only by maintaining this cool, collected and unfamiliar persona that she could function at all. She lived in fear that, if she let the mask slip, she would tumble headlong into the bottomless pit of her grief.