Red Rose (24 page)

He smiled indulgently. “If you wish, my love,” he agreed. “I was planning to take you to all the leading modistes and milliners so that you might turn every head with envy when we return to London.”

“So that everyone might notice me limp along?” she asked with a smile.

He frowned. She asked if they might go to Florence when they reached Italy. There were so many art treasures there that she had dreamed all her life of seeing for herself.

Sir Bernard chuckled. “Am I to have a bluestocking for a wife?” he asked. “I had thought to head for Venice, where we might ride in a gondola and I might fill your head with romance.”

“That would be lovely,” she agreed. “And St. Mark’s is in Venice. Will we see it, Bernard?”

He sighed with mock exasperation. “Do you know, Rosalind,” he said, “I believe I should deputize Raymore to take you on this wedding trip in my place. You and he would lap up all the dry dust of Europe and believe that you had shared a feast. But you may see any place you wish by day, my love, provided that your nights belong to me.” He leaned toward her with a wicked leer on his face and tried to kiss her.

Rosalind slapped his wrist with her closed parasol and laughed. “Sometimes I think you are no gentleman, sir,” she said with mock severity. But his words had given her a sickening jolt. The very idea of being on a wedding trip with Raymore! The thought made the bottom want to a fall out of her stomach.

Sir Bernard would not come into the house on Grosvenor Square with her, claiming that he had some business to attend to before dinner. Rosalind was not sorry. She was feeling unaccountably depressed. She wanted to be alone. She was craving, in fact, a session alone in the music room. Although she had played the pianoforte at Broome Hall, she had done so only in the presence of other people. There had been no chance to play for herself. Now she needed the mental discipline of playing something that offered challenge, the emotional release of playing something full of feeling. Surely Dr. Dehnert must have left already.

She talked briefly with Cousin Hetty in the drawing room, then excused herself by saying that she needed to rest before dinner. It was not a total lie, she told herself. What better way to rest than to devote an hour to music? She made her way to the music room, listening carefully as she neared the door to make sure that it was not still occupied. She opened the door cautiously, then stepped inside and closed it behind her. Soon she was bringing Bach to life on the harpsichord.

By the time she moved on to the pianoforte to tackle the Moonlight Sonata, which she had not played for more than a week, Raymore was listening. He had not left the house after the arrival of the Austrian pianist, although he had left the musician alone in the music room. And he had stayed at home afterward, having decided that he would leave only in time to keep a dinner engagement. He had seen Rosalind return to the house while he was standing at the window of his own apartments. Instinct told him that she would soon seek out the music room. She was playing the harpsichord when he stopped outside the door. He let himself quietly into the anteroom.

Her playing was not good at first. The days without practice had affected her precision. Worse, she appeared to be in a mood of some agitation. She stumbled over phrases that should have given no problem; her timing was inconsistent. As the minutes passed, though, she became more absorbed in the exercise. She played the piece through without error. But more than that, she had put the whole of herself into the interpretation of the music.

Rosalind sat slumped over the painoforte, rubbing her eyes wearily, and finally looked up. The Earl of Raymore was standing in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. She jumped to her feet, pushing back the stool with such haste that it tipped over and fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Oh!” she said, bending down to lift the stool to an upright position. "My lord! I, um, er...” She broke off in confusion and stared at him, waiting for the explosion.

“That is the best I have heard you play,” he said.

She tensed. He must be more than usually angry to speak so quietly. “In the drawing room I play popular music only,” she said. “I hardly consider it music at all.”

“I meant here,” he said. “This is the best I have heard you play here.”

Rosalind paled. “You knew I have used this room before?” she asked.

He inclined his head and walked a little way into the room, leaving the door open behind him. “I want you to play that sonata on Friday night,” he said.

“On Friday night?” she repeated uncomprehendingly. “Friday is the night of your concert, my lord.”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “I wish you to play at my concert, Rosalind. I usually have more than one artist. You will play at the end of the first half, before refreshments are served.” 

Rosalind bit her lip and moved around the pianoforte until it was between her and her guardian. “You mock me,” she said.

He looked annoyed. “Nonsense,” he said. “I am serious. Why should I come in here merely to tease you?”

“Then you wish to humiliate me, my lord,” she said, anger flaring in her face. “You would have me walk—limp—to this instrument in full sight of all your highborn friends just so that I might make a perfect cake of myself. You are an evil man, sir.”

“What a very foolish woman you are, Rosalind,” he said, moving forward so that only the pianoforte stood between them. “Common sense should tell you that that is the most ridiculous accusation you have ever leveled against me. Even if I did wish to humiliate you—which, by the way, is a thoroughly silly idea—would I choose to do so at my own concert? I am sure you are aware that I have spent years budding up its reputation as one of the Season’s most brilliant cultural events. I choose you because you are good, because I wish to share your talent with my friends.”

She glared at him. “I do not trust you for a moment, my lord. My music is very private to me. It is not for sale, not for public consumption. How dare you come here to spy on me. That anteroom, of course. Oh, how dare you!”

“Rosalind,” he said, a stubborn set to his jaw, “may I remind you that this
is
my house.”

“Yes,” she cried passionately, “and
this
is your music room, and
this
is your pianoforte, and
I
am your property. Am I to be allowed no privacy? Must you claim even my soul?”

She limped clumsily around the end of the pianoforte and made for the door. Raymore moved too and caught her by the arm. Rosalind was sobbing as she turned and struck at him with her fists. “I hate you!” she cried. “You would reduce me to nothing. I have no identity when I am with you. You would overpower me completely if you could. Oh, I shall send to Bernard and beg him to take me away from here even if we must run to Gretna Green. Let me go. Let me go!” 

Raymore let her fury run its course. He let her pummel his chest and rave at him, but he kept hold of her arms. Finally, her sobs prevented her altogether from speaking, and he pulled her against him and held her head against his shoulder. He rocked her comfortingly until the sobs had subsided.

“I had not meant to order you to play,” he said gently against her hair. “It was a request. You are an artist, Rosalind, a very talented performer, while I am a mere patron. I ask you very humbly to honor me by playing for my guests on Friday. I will not force you or badger you. It will be your own decision. But please remember that, although no performer myself, my taste is well-respected. If I say you are good, you may feel confident that you are good.”

He grasped her arms and put her a little away from him. He looked down into her tear-stained face with great gentleness. “I am sorry that you hate me,” he said. “I would not wish it. But please do not rush into a runaway marriage, especially to Gretna, when no one is opposing your wedding in the first place. You may think now that you do not care what society says, but in time you would be embarrassed to find that those who marry over the anvil are not readily accepted socially. And there is no need, Rosalind. If my presence is so intolerable to you, I shall stay away. You need not see me more than in passing between now and Friday, nor afterward, until you leave for the country with Crawleigh. Will that please you?”

Rosalind looked into his eyes but could not answer. The lump in her throat was choking her. With one hand he gently put back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

“Go now,” he said, “and think over your decision, if there is anything to think about. Will you send word to me tomorrow? But whatever you decide, you may use this room whenever it is not in use. I give you my word of honor that I shall not come near. I will intrude no further into your soul.” She was still looking into his eyes, her own large with unshed tears. He bent slowly and covered her mouth with his in a gentle arid unhurried kiss.

"Go now,” he whispered, releasing her mouth, and he turned away so that she would not be made self-conscious when she limped the distance between the pianoforte and the open door of the music room.

***

Rosalind lay facedown on the bed sobbing her heart out and not knowing quite why she did so. Perhaps it was the feeling she had had during the afternoon that all was not as it should be with Bernard. It was hard for her to pinpoint exactly what was missing. There was a feeling that perhaps their friendship was all of the surface. She knew that he did not share her love of music and art; she did not share his interest in high fashion and hunting. Once the first romance of their marriage lost its novelty, would they have enough in common on which to build a deep and lasting relationship? Such thoughts were absurd, of course. How many girls of her class had the opportunity or time to find a man to whom they were totally suited? It was silly to aim for the ideal. Her own marriage would certainly be no worse than the majority she saw around her. In fact, it was likely to be better than most. Sir Bernard Crawleigh was a good-natured, intelligent man who would always treat her with consideration for her feelings, she believed. It was pointless now to start feeling uneasy about her forthcoming marriage.

Anyway, she really had no choice. If she broke off her engagement, she would be in the charge of the Earl of Raymore for the rest of her life. The prospect of spending two more weeks in his home was intolerable. She could not possibly contemplate a lifetime of such torture. Perhaps that was the problem, was it? She was totally lacking in freedom. All her life she had been ruled by men, as in fact all women must be, but never had she felt the restraints more than now.

It was the Earl of Raymore, of course, who had provoked her tears. She really did hate him. He had insinuated himself into every part of her life in the short time she had known him. She had thought that at least her music was hers. Music had always been very private to her, a channel for the outpouring of her spirit. She was badly shaken by the knowledge that he had listened to her in the past weeks and that he had passed judgment on her skills. Would she be free of him even when she married? She almost doubted it. He was constantly in her thoughts to plague her. She was constantly remembering their arguments, thinking of other things she might have said on various occasions. She was constantly comparing him to the dead Alistair of her dreams and to Bernard. If she ever again felt dissatisfied with the placid nature of her relationship with her betrothed, she must murmur a prayer of thanks that there was none of the turbulence that marked her encounters with Raymore. If ever she felt that there was some emotion missing in her embraces with Bernard, she must be thankful that there was not the passion that turned her into mindless fire with her guardian.

That was what she resented most about him. If he had always been the cold, arrogant, demanding man that was his normal self, she could at least respect him for a certain integrity. Her emotions would not be placed in turmoil. But there had been too many interludes of passion, when they had both behaved as if they could not possibly live one moment longer without each other. She still flushed hotly with embarrassment when she thought of that morning at Broome Hall when she had almost given herself to him completely. She could not forgive him for using her so. And then, most confusing of all, were those rare occasions when he was, gentle, almost tender. She had tried to forget the night of Sylvia’s disappearance when he had kissed her brow, apparently in a gesture of comfort. But what about his behavior of this afternoon? All her defenses had come crumbling down with his gentleness, with the humility he had shown when talking about her talent. His kiss had almost destroyed her completely. She had wanted to cling to the lapels of his coat and pour out her heart to him just as if he were a normal man who would understand and sympathize. For a moment she had felt as if she had glimpsed a different man, a warm and compassionate human being.

It was clearer to her now, of course, why he had behaved so. He was a man who must have his way. For some reason that eluded her, he had decided that she must play at his concert, but she had almost thwarted him. He must have learned already that neither coldness nor anger would move her, and had consequently turned to other tactics. He was trying gentleness, humility, concern. Despicable man! She thumped the bed with her fists. How could he so coldly use the physical appeal that he must know he exerted over her?

She was almost resolved to refuse to play for him on Friday night. She could not give him the satisfaction of feeling that his blandishments had succeeded. Anyway, she could not possibly perform before a large and critical audience that would include the great Hans Dehnert. Even so, a little niggling thought at the back of her mind kept reminding her of one thing that he had said. His concert was very dear to him. He would not have asked her to perform if he did not truly believe that she was worthy. Whatever his personal feelings for her, he must consider her talented. And she could trust his judgment; he was one of the most respected patrons of the arts in England, she had learned since moving to London. She had a chance to play in the same concert as Hans Dehnert! The thought was overwhelming. Although she still believed that she would say no the next day, or, better still, give him no answer at all, part of her was glad that she did not have to make a final decision until the following day.