The Shamrock & the Rose (4 page)

Morgan turned to see Alvanley staring at
Miss Collingwood. The man said, “I suspect I shall have to compose
some verse myself if I’m to gain the reward I seek.”

Miss Collingwood did not look at the British
lord, but a blush crept into her cheeks, making Morgan certain she
knew the comment was directed at her. What did she think of all the
attention? Was she vain? It seemed not, for she appeared more
embarrassed than flattered.

“I promise my love notes, when I get around
to them, will exceed others in blandishments,” chimed in Sir Alex,
darting a look at Miss Collingwood and then at Lady Picton. To
Morgan, the two men’s verbal dueling was quite humorous. He decided
Miss Collingwood must agree, for it appeared she was fighting a
smile. Neither of her suitors lacked for pride.

As the footman served turtle soup, Miss
Collingwood turned to Morgan to ask, “I don’t suppose
you
would ever compose a valentine, Mr. O’Connell.”

“I might,” he teased. “Given the right
inspiration.”

She blushed and changed the subject. “Have
you been in London long?”

It was difficult to concentrate on her words
when she turned those green eyes on him. They were the color of an
Irish glen in early spring, full of promise for the sweet pleasures
of summer to follow. When his eyes fell to her rosebud lips, he
felt his groin tighten and he stammered, “I-I’m sorry. What did you
say?”

She laughed under her hand. “London. How
long have you been here?”

“Oh, sorry. I was often in London while I
attended Cambridge. Then I returned home to Ireland for several
years. When I decided to seek a career in law, my cousin Daniel
suggested it would be well for me to attend one of the Inns of
Court as he did, and I agreed. I’ve been here this time for two
years.”

“Do you like living in Town?” she asked,
taking a spoonful of her soup. “What I mean is, do you feel at home
here?”

He considered her question. “I like having
much to do, and London affords many…entertainments. As a barrister
in training, the lectures here are more to my liking, as there are
many learned members of the profession to share knowledge. But in
truth I will always see my home in Ireland.”

“Do you have a large family there?”

“Aye, the O’Connell clan has been blessed
with many children. I myself have two younger brothers and a sister
as well as a multitude of cousins and uncles.” Leaning close he
smiled and added, “My family has held lands in county Kerry for
centuries, and we are rich—at least in sheep, goats and
goodwill.”

Her laughter at his attempted humor was
hypnotic, her smile like the sun rising over an Irish meadow. His
mind conjured a picture of her standing in a sea of grass with that
sun behind, her long golden hair blowing free. He would like to
kiss her in that meadow. Aye, she was beautiful. But he was
perplexed as to who she really was. Not an actress of low moral
character to be trifled with, yet somehow she was also unlike the
usual London debutante who would have suitors like Alvanley and Sir
Alex.

“Where do you originate, Miss
Collingwood?”

“The far north of England near
Newcastle.”

“You’ve come a long way for your…current
stay.” He could not say in the presence of others that she had come
so far to play the part of Portia.

“Yes, I suppose so, but it fulfills a dream
I’ve long had.”

“To be another woman?” he whispered.

“Yes, but a particular one,” she said softly
in return.

“How is that?”

She glanced at Alvanley as if to reassure
herself he was engaged in conversation and said, “Wouldn’t
you
want to step out of a humdrum life to be the one whose
strategy saved a worthy hero?” In another whisper she added, “I
felt a kinship with Portia. I would be such a heroine, if I could,
forging my own path even if I have to don a disguise to do so.”

So the English actress was more like her
character than he first imagined. The name Rose suited her better
than Lily. The latter was too frail a flower to describe the
strength he sensed in the woman sitting beside him.

Wondering if the rose had thorns, he decided
to have a bit of fun with her. “Why would a gently bred woman have
to ‘forge her own path’?”

As he expected, she rose to the bait.
Visibly stiffening she said, “We are not all destined for the
sitting room, good sir. Some women have minds that demand
more.”

Pleased by her answer, he laughed at her ire
so easily raised. That mirth produced a frown on her pretty face.
Ah, yes, a thorn or two!
You would think she was Irish! And
even in her anger, she was beautiful.

The footmen took away the soup dishes and
served the main course of venison pasties, baked ham and roast
beef, accompanied by roasted root vegetables, greens and small
potatoes seasoned with herbs. Soon Morgan was feeling like a
stuffed goose. He noted that Miss Collingwood ate sparingly though
she tasted all.
What long, graceful fingers she has.

Alvanley left off his conversation with the
countess to speak to Morgan. “O’Connell, are you here in London
playing the bear hiding in the Orange den?”

“Not a bear, Alvanley, and certainly not
hiding. I am merely seeking my living at the bar, trying to find my
place in the world.”

“An Orangeman all the same, I think.”

“Because of my family, I doubt the Irish
Orange would claim me as one of their own.”

“Ah well,” said Alvanley. “You seek a living
at the bar? A wonderful place to drown your sorrows. My father, the
first Baron Alvanley, was the Chief Justice of Common Pleas and
spent many years there.”

“I dare say the bar you speak of,”
interjected Sir Alex from across the table, “is
not
the one
to which the barrister aspires, if I have the right of it.”

“You have caught my meaning, Sir Alex. I
allude to the bar where refreshment is sought after too many hours
on the bench.”

Recognizing the comment as in the spirit of
good fun, Morgan took no offence. “The Irish have long had an
appreciation for that bar,” he agreed. “And after several hours of
dull legal exposition, I find myself eager to wet my throat.”

“I’m very fond of Irish whiskey myself,”
said the countess, surprising everyone if the looks on the faces of
her guests were any indication. “A strong spirit on a cold night
warms the heart as well as the body.”

“You’ll find no argument from me, Countess,”
said Morgan. Alvanley and Sir Alex murmured their agreement, and
Miss Collingwood and Lady Picton exchanged knowing smiles, their
affection for their hostess apparent.

As the footman reclaimed the dishes the
countess declared, “I ordered an apricot tart among our desserts
tonight just for you, Alvanley.”

“’Tis so well known I rarely dine without
the pastry following?” the lord asked somewhat sheepishly. The
countess merely raised a brow. “Well,” he continued, “I thank you
for your kindness.”

The tart was served with dishes of honeyed
almonds and a pink marchpane, for Morgan the perfect ending to a
wonderful meal, all the more so because he saw the pleasure on Miss
Collingwood’s face as she pursed her lips and savored the nuts,
obviously a favorite treat. Watching her eat gave him ideas of what
he’d like to do with those lips.

Sometime later, after taking their port, the
men rejoined the women and Morgan was happy to see Miss
Collingwood’s eyes search the room and light when she saw him. So,
the actress was not indifferent. But she was not just an actress,
he reminded himself, or he would seduce her. She was a lady, and a
gentleman
married
a lady. But she was English and a baron’s
daughter. Surely Irish gentry would not be on the countess’s list
of acceptable suitors for her ward. Nor would his family embrace
the very English Rose.

The evening at an end and the other guests
departed, Morgan lingered at the door, seeking a moment alone with
the object of his fascination. There could be no more delay.
Handing her the note from his coat pocket he said, “This was my
purpose in coming, the reason the countess invited me.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Connell,” Miss Collingwood
said, accepting the envelope and brushing her fingers against his
as she did. The small touch set off a fire within him.
Damn
.
The attraction was a strong one.

“Knowing the countess,” she said, “I am
certain her intent was not merely to see you deliver the note. I
believe she is already fond of you.”

He could not resist asking: “And what about
you, Miss Collingwood?”

She blushed and looked down. “Even if it
were true, surely you could not expect me to admit to such a
thing.”

“Still angry at me for my question about a
woman stepping out of her role?”

She looked up. “Not angry, exactly. More
frustrated at my sex being held to such a low standard. It’s the
reason the part of Portia appealed to me. She prevails by her wits.
She sets a much higher standard.”

Against his own reservations he said,
“Perhaps you should show me more of that. Though I came to give you
this note, Miss Collingwood, if you are willing I would like to
call upon you again. Might you have time for a ride in the park
tomorrow?” Seeing her draw back he added, “My uncle, with whom I
reside much of the time, has a fine cabriolet, one that would be
quite warm with heated bricks.”

She looked at him a moment as if pondering
the invitation. Then: “Yes, a ride seems a most pleasant thing to
do. I will ask the countess.”

Happy with her answer, Morgan took his
leave. “Assuming the countess approves, I will call here on the
morrow.”

* * *

“Did Mr. O’Connell give you the note?” asked
the countess, standing in front of the crackling fire after the
Irishman had gone.

“Yes,” said Rose, holding it up.

“And was it, as we suspected, from the same
man?”

Rose nodded. “The handwriting is the same
and, like the others, it is unsigned.” She decided to reveal her
deep concern to the countess. “His words grow ever more ardent. And
whether coincidence or no, he speaks of me as ‘a fair rose.’”

“Indeed,” said the countess with a look of
concern. “That is most worrisome, my dear. You’d best have a
footman standing close by when you come and go from the
theatre.”

“I will, though I keep hoping the author is
harmless. I’ve received other notes from those taking a fancy to
the imaginary Portia and hoping to win her hand.”

“A possibility,” the countess allowed. “A
most definite possibility. But keep that footman close by. Speaking
of winning your hand, what did you think of Alvanley and Sir
Alex?”

Rose lowered herself onto the sofa. “I quite
enjoyed the evening and the conversation. About the two of them,
I’m not certain. You know I’m not seeking to marry. Why, I’ve only
just arrived in London! Besides, Alvanley is a dandy who likes his
own wit too well. If he ever marries, it will just be to gain
another audience member.”

“As I thought, which is why he didn’t appeal
to my friend Emily either. Still, he is a good friend to have, as
Brummell discovered.”

“Sir Alex was a perfect gentleman,” Rose
noted, “if a bit riled by Alvanley. That whole discussion about
valentines!”

“All men are competitive, my dear,
particularly in the presence of two beautiful young women.”

“I could not say,” Rose admitted.

“Sir Alex kept Emily and me entertained
enough. He told stories from his days as an officer and from his
new position in Parliament. I must say, the two places he’s served
are not so different. Battles rage in each.”

“That is not surprising,” Rose said. “Both
are governed by men.”

The countess laughed. “Still, Alvanley or
Sir Alex. I think your father would have approved either’s
suit.”

Rose shook her head, truly not looking to
wed. “They seem more consumed by their affairs and not interested a
partner, except perhaps to add to the collection of possessions
they can parade before other men. I rather agree with Emily. It is
best to stay as I am.”

“Make no mistake,” said the countess, “Emily
will not escape marriage forever—and neither will you, my dear. No,
I have plans for her. I’m just looking for the right man. So do not
think to remain unwed yourself!”

Hoping to change the subject Rose offered,
“I found the discussion about the Irish issue most interesting,
didn’t you?’

“That is one matter that will, I fear,
consume England for some time. And in the middle of it is the
O’Connell family.”

“I learned a bit about Mr. O’Connell,” Rose
admitted. Such as, he’d been the most handsome man in the room.
Recalling that his family was rich in sheep, goats and goodwill,
she added, “He has a wry sense of humor and that rare quality of
being able to laugh at himself. Unlike Alvanley, who likes to be
laughed
with
. He might have made a great actor,
Alvanley.”

“No doubt he would. He is known for his
active mind and large presence.”

“Oh.” Rose wondered what the countess would
think of the invitation from the Irishman. “By the by, Mr.
O’Connell has asked to take me for a ride in the park
tomorrow.”

The countess’s eyes found hers. “I doubt it
not. His gaze was fixed upon you all evening.”

Rose’s heart gave a little leap at those
words, at yet another thought of the barrister with the head of
dark curls and the rakish smile.

“Do you propose to accept his invitation, my
dear?”

“I would like to,” she confessed.

“Perhaps it would be fine for an hour, no
more. Just a jaunt around Hyde Park. You’re years past a
come-out.”

“He did make me laugh several times this
evening.”

“He has the Irish charm, and wrapped in a
fine form.”

“Countess!”