Red Rose (3 page)

They had been formally betrothed after three months, and Edward had accepted an invitation to spend the summer months on her father’s estate. They were to be married at the end of August. The months had been bliss, heaven on earth. As they were betrothed and so soon to be married, they had been allowed more freedom than Edward had ever expected.

In the middle of August he had explained to her a theory of his. The idea was that a betrothed couple could best show their love and their total trust in each others vows by giving themselves to each other. He realized that for her this would be a greater commitment, but she could show him the way she would totally entrust herself to his keeping by giving him now what most girls withheld until the wedding night. He had been utterly sincere in this suggestion. It had not been an elaborate seduction ploy.

He had expected denial, or reluctance, or at best a sweet and shy surrender. They were on a deserted hill at the time, sitting on the grass before a Greek-style folly. He had not expected her to get to her feet, as she had, and begin to remove her shoes and stockings and turn her back with a smile for him to unfasten her dress. He had been delighted, but puzzled, by her total lack of embarrassment as he uncovered her body in the bright sunlight and then undressed himself. He had been unprepared for the way she lost no time in lying down and positioning herself for him, reaching up with eager arms to pull him onto and into her. She had not been a virgin.

She had told him afterward, as he lay bewildered at her side, one arm beneath her neck, that she would marry him because her papa wished it and because she now discovered that it would be great fun in addition—this with her innocent, wide-eyed smile. But he must not expect her to be faithful. She already had lovers—she named two men, with both of whom Edward was acquainted—and intended to continue the liaisons. She would not, of course, ever make mention of his own lapses. But she would, naturally, always observe the proprieties as she expected him to do.

Edward had dressed and stood looking down to the lake at the bottom of the hill while Annette clothed herself in more leisurely fashion. He had told her, coldly, that she would find some reason to put an end to their betrothal. If she did not, he would disclose the feet of her affairs, including the names of her lovers. He had walked down the hill without looking back.

And he had learned his lesson well that time. In eleven years he had had no relationship with a woman. He bedded one when he felt the need, sometimes the same woman on more than one occasion if she were beautiful enough and if she satisfied his needs well enough. But he had never set up a mistress and had never come closer to a woman of his own class than the occasional conversation at a dinner table or the rare dance at a ball if he felt he could not avoid it.

The Earl of Raymore set down his empty glass on the polished table at his right elbow and moved into the dining room.

Chapter 2

Sylvia and Rosalind were awed when they entered the Earl of Raymore’s home. The hall was enormous, the marble floor echoing beneath their footsteps. White marble busts lined the walls, huge paintings hung above them, gleaming chandeliers were suspended from the high ceiling. A broad marble staircase ascended from the center of the hall, two branches leading to an upper gallery and the upstairs apartments.

A wooden-faced butler, conducted the two young ladies past impressive liveried footmen and ushered them into a salon. He bowed himself out and closed the double doors behind him.

“Surely Carlton House cannot be grander than this,” Sylvia whispered. Somehow it seemed inappropriate to speak aloud in such surroundings. “Our guardian must be enormously wealthy, Ros.”

Rosalind was standing with her back to the room, her attention caught by the painting over the mantel. “It is surely a Rembrandt original,” she said in awe.

“Oh, do you think so?” Sylvia asked, glancing briefly at the painting. “Ros, I feel decidedly nervous. How, long will he keep us waiting here, do you suppose?” 

Rosalind too glanced hastily in the direction of the doors and sat down abruptly in a nearby chair.

They were not kept waiting for long. A footman opened the doors only a couple of minutes later and stood aside while a lady rustled into the room. The girls had a swift impression of a large, big-bossomed lady, fashionably dressed in a day dress of silver-gray silk, her face rouged, her gray hair frizzed and piled high on her head beneath a white lace cap, a lace handkerchief waving from one heavily ringed hand.

“My dears,” she said, “I knew you would arrive today. Did you have a dreadfully tedious journey? I hate being cooped up in a carriage myself, especially in fine weather like we have been having. But no matter. You are here now and will be rested in no time. Would you like some tea, or would you like to be shown to your rooms immediately? Of course, you must need refreshment. I am sure your coachman did not stop for any, once he knew that he was close to the end of his journey. Come up to the drawing room. Gracious, how I shall enjoy having your company, girls. I have not had the excuse to go into society a great deal since my dear Arnold died twelve years ago. Now I have the come-out of two charming young ladies to arrange, and I shall enjoy every moment of it. I always regretted that I had no daughters of my own. Now, which is which of you two? That is a silly question, of course. You must be Lady Sylvia Marsh, my dear. You have the family coloring. And you, of course,” she said, turning to Rosalind, “have inherited your dark hair from your Italian mother. Now, am I right? And how stupid of me. You must both be wondering who I am, since I am very obviously not the earl. I am Sylvia’s papa’s Cousin Hetty.”

She paused for breath and smiled broadly.

Rosalind, still seated, felt overwhelmed. So this was the Cousin Hetty who had been going to stay with her while Uncle Lawrence accompanied Sylvia to London for her come-out.

“I am pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Sylvia was saying, extending a hand. “Is his lordship not at home?”

“He is expected for dinner,” Cousin Hetty replied. “But there is plenty of time before that for you to drink tea and to retire to your rooms to change and freshen up.”

She led the way from the room and up the marble staircase to the drawing room above. While Sylvia seated herself and Cousin Hetty rang the bell for tea, Rosalind forgot herself enough to cross the large room.

“What a beautiful pianoforte,” she said, running a hand reverently over the highly polished wood. “Does the earl play?”

“No, my dear,” Cousin Hetty replied, “but he is a well-known patron. He holds a concert in his home each year. But not in this room. If you think this a beautiful instrument, wait until you see the music room.” She nodded her head.

Rosalind recrossed the room to take a seat beside Sylvia.

“Did you hurt yourself on the journey, my dear?” Cousin Hetty asked her with concern.

Rosalind blushed hotly. “No, ma’am,” was all she could say. She knew that for politeness’ sake she should have explained, but she did not, and the moment passed.

The Earl of Raymore did not return for dinner. Rosalind was both disappointed and relieved: disappointed because she wanted to get the ordeal over with, relieved because she was tired and was glad to postpone the meeting until another day.

All three ladies retired early to bed at Cousin Hetty’s insistence. And indeed she was tired, Rosalind reflected. She hoped she would sleep. She had seen the music room during the evening and had been awed by the magnificence of the pianoforte there. It was a work of art just to the sight, but its tone when she ran her fingers over the keys was exquisite. She was excited, too, to discover a harpsichord. She had never seen one before and had thought them to be quite out of fashion. But she was delighted by the harsh and yet dignified sounds that it produced when she played a few bars of a Bach fugue.

Rosalind sat up in the four-poster bed and gazed around her at the elegant bedchamber that was to be hers during her stay in Grosvenor Square. She clasped her raised knees and laid her chin on them. Would he allow her to return home again? He would know immediately that she was no candidate for a marriage market. She would not be able to endure much of this. It had been ordeal enough today just to know that the butler and those footmen had witnessed her defect, in addition to Cousin Hetty. Surely he would never insist that she go out in public, though Cousin Hetty had talked constantly during dinner about all the social events that they would attend after his lordship’s ball the following week had introduced them properly to the
ton. 

It was not that Rosalind was not interested in marriage. She had all the normal impulses and cravings of any other girl. She was two and twenty already. The last four or five years had been long and lonely ones, especially when Sylvia grew old enough to attract the admiration and attentions of almost every young man who set eyes on her. Rosalind was not jealous of Sylvia—she was too close to her cousin and the girl was too sweet-natured for that. But her cousin’s constant presence in her life did serve to emphasize her own deficiencies as a woman.

Rosalind compensated for what was missing in her life in several ways. She rode a great deal when she was at home, using up energy and challenging herself by galloping Flossie and jumping hedges and fences that could quite easily have been avoided. Indoors, she occupied herself with music, both playing and singing, and with painting and reading.

And Rosalind had a dream companion. He never could be a real man, she realized that. He was too perfect. He was tall, with broad shoulders and narrow hips and long legs. He had thick blond hair and deep-blue eyes. It was the eyes that she could imagine most clearly. Their expression could change from humor to deep concern, but they were always focused full on her, and there was always a smile lurking in their depths. He loved her. To him she was perfect. He loved her black hair and pale skin; he told her that her defect did not make a mockery of her shapely figure. It was a lovely woman’s body, he said. And he would discuss for hours with her the books she read, the dreams she had. It was not a physical relationship. She never imagined him kissing her. She did sometimes rest her head on his comfortingly broad shoulder, though, as they talked. She called him Alistair. He had no last name.

He comforted her now as she slid down on the bed after blowing out the candle and tried to sleep. She was beautiful and she was a person who mattered a great deal to him. She was important. Rosalind almost believed him as she fell asleep.

***

The Earl of Raymore found out from his valet very late that night that his wards had indeed arrived. But he was in no hurry to meet them. It was Hetty’s job to entertain them, take them shopping and sight-seeing. That was what he had brought her here for. His own task would not begin until the ball the following week. At least his wards would be well on display then, he thought with an unamused smile. His invitations had been accepted by almost everyone to whom they had been sent. It was no ordinary event to be invited to a ball given by the Earl of Raymore. Very few of the
beau monde
could even remember what the ballroom of his house looked like. Most of them had seen only the music room in recent years.

It was quite late the following afternoon when the earl finally presented himself in the drawing room, where his cousin and his wards were taking tea. Hetty dropped a miniature poodle to the carpet and came hurrying toward him to make the introductions. The earl largely ignored her. His eyes swept the two girls, who had risen to their feet and were curtsying to him.

His eyes were drawn first to the little blonde. Pretty. Quite beautiful, in fact, once she had been got into more fashionable clothes and had something done to her hair. Thick clusters of ringlets had never appealed to his taste. She was blushing a becoming shade of pink and had large, innocent blue eyes fixed anxiously on his face. He immediately distrusted the eyes. He bowed coolly and turned to the other girl.

A more tricky proposition, he decided immediately. Her coloring would not please easily. Dark hair was not fashionable, and hers was positively black. She was too tall also, and had nothing for a figure; though it was hard to tell what was beneath that ill-fitting sack of a gown that she wore. Her face was too pale, though the eyes were fine enough. He did not like the expression on her face. Although she watched him as wide-eyed as the other girl, there was a tightness about her jaw that suggested a stubborn will. Well, she had a good-enough dowry, he reflected. There would be some fool who would think her an acceptable-enough bargain. He bowed, his face as expressionless as when he had entered the room.

Rosalind was finding it impossible to relax. If she unclenched her teeth, her whole body would start trembling and she would crumble. Alistair had never looked at her like that: coldly, a sneer on his lips, as if she were a piece of unwanted merchandise. Yet he was Alistair! The same height, tall enough to make her feel petite, the same magnificent build, the same hair and eyes. Strangely, she had never pictured Alistair’s mouth, but it must surely be the one feature that was different. She would never have created that sensuous mouth, certainly not with the distortion of a sneer. And the eyes. She could see through Alistair’s eyes into his very soul. These were opaque. It would be impossible to know what went on in this man’s mind. She shivered involuntarily.

The earl was seated now, making polite but stiff conversation with Sylvia, who was glowing, seemingly undisturbed by the sneer and the empty eyes.

Cousin Hetty was talking. “And Miss Dacey plays quite beautifully,” she was saying. “You would be impressed, Cousin Edward.”

“Indeed?” he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. He was accustomed to having his sensibilities murdered by eager debutantes who thought they could play the pianoforte divinely. He frequently amused himself by imagining the expression on their faces if he did what instinct directed him to do and slammed the lid down onto the dabbling fingers. He had never put his fantasy to the test. He intended to quell the pretensions of his ward without delay. He had no wish to hear his precious instruments abused by a mediocre talent or no talent at all.