Red Rose (13 page)

“Why?” she asked, staring across at him incredulously. 

“What a disconcerting female you are,” he commented, smiling back at her. “You are supposed to be in transports of delight at the moment, or possibly in a swoon at my feet.”

“Fiddle!” she said.

He laughed. “You are one of a kind, Rosalind,” he said, “an original. I like your company and I am attracted to your person. Have I answered your question?”

She stared at him silently, trying to understand his enigmatic smile. She had never found Sir Bernard to be a mystery before, but now she did not know what to believe. How much was truth and how much was gallant lying?

“Will you marry me?” he asked. “I would be truly honored, I assure you, and I shall do my best to be a good husband.”

Rosalind got abruptly to her feet and crossed the room to the desk. She stood with her hands flat on its surface, her back to the room. “Bernard,” she said, “please speak the truth to me. I value your friendship and would far prefer that you speak what you feel rather than what you think you should say. You did not compromise me last night and are not honor-bound to offer for me. Even his lordship admitted that to me when we arrived home from the ball. Please let us be friends again. I do not wish you to come to hate me for forcing you into a course of action that you did not freely choose.

She turned to look at him and found that he had come up behind her while she talked. He was standing now just a foot away. He took her chin in his hand and raised her face to his. “Tears, Rosalind?” he chided gently. “Indeed there is no need to cry. I have spoken the truth to you. I wish above all things to make you my wife. And I ask you again if you will consent to be betrothed to me. The choice is entirely yours, dear. If you wish it, we shall announce our engagement immediately. If you have doubts, you must tell me so and I shall wait.” He smiled again into her eyes and lowered his head in order to touch his lips very gently to hers.

Rosalind turned her head away from his hand and fingered a quill pen that lay on top of the desk. “Will you mind very much if I say yes?” she asked apologetically. “I think that I should like to be married to you, Bernard.”

He chuckled. “I should mind very much if you said no,” he replied. “Now, if we are truly betrothed, may I have a proper kiss, please?”

Rosalind allowed him to hold her and kiss her with more ardor than he had shown on any previous occasion. She even put her arms up around his neck and let her body lean against his. Her mind, in a whirl, was trying to assimilate what she had just done, trying to believe that she had made the right decision.

Cousin Hetty was in an ecstasy of delight. Two announcements had appeared in the
Gazette
within just a few weeks of each other. Both her charges were betrothed and both to extremely eligible young men. She congratulated herself on her accomplishment. She spent many cheerful hours with the latest edition of the
Belle Assemblée, 
planning a trousseau for each girl. Sylvia joined in with enthusiasm, Rosalind only halfheartedly. But it was far too soon to make any definite plans. Lord Standen’s house party had to be given first consideration.

Lord Standen had decided to celebrate his betrothal in the country with a more intimate group of friends than had gathered for his sister’s ball. The visit was to last only a week, as most of his guests would want to return to London for the final events of the Season. But he wished to introduce his intended bride to his widowed mother, who rarely ventured away from his country estate. The party was to consist of his brother, Nigel; his sister, Letitia; her husband, Mr. Thomas Morrison; Sylvia; and her cousin Rosalind. Sir Bernard Crawleigh had been added to the guest list after his unexpected betrothal to Rosalind was announced. Sir Rowland Axby had already been invited when it had been thought that he was the girl’s suitor. Two of Sylvia’s newly formed friends, Miss Susan Heron and Lady Theresa Parsons, were also to be of the party. The Earl of Raymore, of course, had been invited and was to come for the last few days. He excused himself from spending the whole week in the country on the grounds that he was busy organizing his musical concert, which was to take place soon after the end of the house party.

Sylvia bubbled with enthusiasm. Nigel had told her that his brother’s estate was a particularly beautiful place, especially in summer. It was known for miles around for its masses of rhododendrons that lined the mile-long driveway and surrounded the house. Nigel had also told her of the stables and the horses that were the pride and joy of his brother.

“You will enjoy yourself, at least, Ros,” she said, hugging her cousin happily on one occasion. “You will be able to ride to your heart’s content again. I know you have been missing Flossie, although you have not complained at all.”

“Yes, it will be splendid,” Rosalind agreed with a rare burst of enthusiasm. “But tell me, Sylvie, do you never talk to his lordship? Everything you know of him and his house you seem to have learned from his brother.”

"Oh, Lord Standen is a very reticent man,” Sylvia explained airly. “Nigel says that he has always been quiet. I was rather awed by his silences at first, for I wondered if he was disapproving of me. But Nigel says no, it is just his way.”

“Oh,” was all Rosalind could think of to say. She did not know whether to be amused or uneasy by the constant references to “Nigel says.”

On the whole Rosalind was happy about the approaching holiday in the country. It would be delightful to be away from the glare of the public eye. Even though there were to be several house guests at Broome Hall, she felt that there she would have greater freedom to do as she wished. She could avoid the more public entertainments and spend more time alone or— blissfully—out riding. It would be heavenly to be away from the Earl of Raymore for a few days. Her hatred of him had become almost an obsession. She had only to anticipate his arrival in a room, had only to hear his voice, to feel her whole body tense and to lose her ability to concentrate on whatever activity she was involved in. When he was in a room with her, she felt every muscle tighten. She found it difficult to behave or talk naturally to anyone else. It was almost impossible to look at him and almost impossible not to look at him. She would find that in the end she could not resist darting a glance at him with an almost jerky movement of her head, and almost invariably she would choose a moment when he too was looking at her, often with the ice-blue eyes she was accustomed to, sometimes with a still, brooding look that made her breathless and uncomfortable for minutes afterward. It would be good to be free of him for at least a few days. Rosalind hoped that perhaps he would not join the party, after all.

Most of all she welcomed the prospect of a week in the country with Sir Bernard Crawleigh. She felt uneasy about their betrothal. She was not quite certain of her own feelings. She knew that she liked him. She found his kisses pleasant. Certainly marriage to Bernard was like a fulfillment of her wildest dreams. No, not her wildest. Her greatest dream had been to marry Alistair, and no living man could take his place. But had she known a few months before that she would be betrothed to a handsome, charming man of rank and wealth, she would have been ecstatic. For so many years Rosalind had convinced herself that no man would ever want to make her his wife. But now that the impossible had happened, her spirits were curiously flat. Something was not quite right.

She persuaded herself that her unease was due to the fact that she could not be sure of Bernard’s feelings. During that morning visit in the library, he had convinced her that he really did wish for the match, that he had intended to offer for her even before Raymore had caught them together. And since then he had been flatteringly attentive, sending her flowers each day, taking her driving in the park, organizing a small party to attend the opera, pressing for an early wedding in the autumn. But she could not help but wonder. Apart from the fact that he had kissed her twice, he had never given a hint of any special attachment before the night of Letitia’s ball. His manner had been easy and friendly, frequently teasing, as it still was.

Although Cousin Hetty and Sylvia frequently complimented Rosalind on her appearance, and although Bernard had several times assured her that she was lovely, Rosalind could not free her mind of the habit of thinking herself ugly. It was hard for her to believe that Bernard was not repelled by her appearance, particularly by her limp. How could he love her? And, in fact, she realized, he had never claimed to do so.

These days his friendly, teasing manner was like the surface of a shield. She was not sure if Bernard really meant all that he said, or if his sense of honor was forcing him into an elaborate charade. She looked forward, then, to the stay in the country. Surely if they were together for a week in a more tranquil setting, she would be able to understand her own feelings and she would learn where his wishes really lay.

Only five days were to elapse between the day of her betrothal and the day of the departure for Broome Hall. Rosalind used one of those afternoons to pay a call on Lady Elise Martel, who had finally delivered a son one week before. She was reclining in her private sitting room when Rosalind was announced.

“Do come and sit down, Rosalind,” she said eagerly. “How very kind of you to come and visit me when you must have so many more exciting things to do. Henry has told me of your engagement to Sir Bernard Crawleigh. I am so happy for you. I can remember the time when I wished he would pay attention to me.”

“Then I must be very thankful to Sir Henry that he put a stop to the possibility,” Rosalind said with a smile.

The conversation switched immediately and inevitably to the new baby, who had to be brought from his crib by a nurse to be held and admired by the guest. Holding the sleeping child and examining the perfection of his tiny, curled fingers, Rosalind felt a surge of fierce gladness that she was to be married soon. For the first time in her life she was able to hope and dream of a child of her own.

“Henry wants Edward to be godfather,” Lady Martel was saying, “though I could wish that he had a wife so that little Andrew could have a pair of godparents.” 

“The Earl of Raymore!” Rosalind snorted inelegantly. “I very much doubt that he would come within a mile of the baby. How could he be godfather? By proxy?” 

Elise chuckled. “He is a rather formidable man, is he not? I can remember being terrified of him at one time when my mama was trying desperately to match us up. Those piercing blue eyes! But I forgave him all when he introduced me to Henry, though I believe he did so only so that he would not have to partner me himself in that particular quadrille.”

“I would not doubt it,” Rosalind said dryly.

“But you are quite wrong about the baby,” Elise continued. “He came here yesterday with Henry and brought a most extravagant gift. I did not offer to show him Andrew, because I felt as you do. But Henry brought him to the drawing room—he is bursting with the most absurd paternal pride, you know. And Edward actually took the child in his own hands. I just about died of horror. But he put his hand beneath the baby’s head and bounced him gently just as if he had a whole nurseryful of his own to practice on, and Andrew did not even cry.”

“Amazing!” Rosalind commented.

“Yes, is it not? I told Henry afterward that there is quite a domestic man hidden beneath the rather cold exterior. Poor Edward! If he could just get over his hatred of women.”

“Does he hate all women?” Rosalind asked. “Not just me?”

“Indeed he does,” Lady Martel replied. “Henry says that he once had a rather unfortunate experience with a broken engagement.”

“But it is rather absurd to hate the whole sex because one of us proved to be a jilt,” Rosalind said.

Lady Martel smiled and handed the baby back to the waiting nurse. “I quite agree,” she said. “But perhaps we do not know the whole story. I would hate to judge Edward too harshly. I must confess to a soft spot for the man.”

“Hm,” said Rosalind.

“But tell me about your betrothal,” her hostess said. “I was never more pleased in my life.”

Rosalind found herself confiding the whole to this woman whom she considered a friend, though they had known each other for such a short time.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Martel said when Rosalind had finished. “You see? I was quite right earlier when I said that you cannot judge another. I have been feeling very happy for you, assuming that you must be deeply in love. However, you must not despair, Rosalind. I think I can assure you that Bernard would not do anything just for the sake of gallantry. He is close on thirty, you know, and has successfully avoided all the matchmaking females of the last several years. I do not believe that he would have offered for you if he did not really wish to marry you. As you have explained to me, he did not seriously compromise you and could easily have refused to offer had he wanted to.”

“Do you really believe so?” Rosalind asked hopefully.

“And you must not give in to overmodesty,” Lady Martel said severely. “Because your disability precluded you from many activities as you grew up, you have convinced yourself that you are worthless and ugly. I told you when I first met you that in fact you are not so. And indeed your new clothes and your changed hairstyle make you look quite striking. I might almost say beautiful. I find it not at all difficult to believe that Sir Bernard Crawleigh has developed a
tendre
for you.”

Rosalind smiled.

“And do not be afraid of your own feelings,” her companion said. “If you love him, Rosalind, admit it to yourself and to him. You must not feel that you are unworthy of his love. There,” she said, laughing suddenly, “Henry always says that sometimes I talk so much that I forget the necessities of life. I have not even rung for tea yet. How rag-mannered you must think me.”

***

Whenever she could, Rosalind spent time in the music room. She felt she would have gone insane without her music. Her uncertainty over her own feelings and those of Bernard, her unhappiness in her guardian’s house were all accentuated by the steady stream of visitors who came to congratulate both her and Sylvia on their good fortune. Rosalind, who had been so accustomed to privacy and even loneliness for many years, found the tension almost unbearable. In the music room she could forget. Her singing helped her to escape into an imaginary world of love and dreams. Her pianoforte playing made such demands on her skill and concentration that the real world receded for hours at a time. She had almost mastered the Moonlight Sonata. She wished to eliminate the few remaining flaws and hesitancies in the few days before she left for the country. But it was not easy. She found herself becoming more and more emotionally involved in the music. A few times she found herself actually sobbing as the third movement built in tempo and volume. And she could not understand why. She knew only that her technique was faltering, that she increasingly stumbled over passages that she thought she had mastered.