Red Rose (4 page)

“Come, ma’am,” he said coldly, rising to his feet and extending a hand in her direction, “I must hear you perform.”

“Oh, no, pray, my lord,” she protested. “You are a connoisseur of the arts, I am told. I play merely for my own pleasure.”

“Let us have no false modesty,” he said impatiently, looking steadily at her. “If you are good, I shall tell you so. If you are not, I shall also tell you.”

Rosalind’s heart was beating so erratically that she was having a difficult time breathing. The moment had come, then. The pianoforte was at the opposite end of a very large room. She had prepared herself for this, dreaded it. But now there was no postponing it. Already the earl’s face was showing signs of growing impatience. She stood up and began to cross the room.

"Have you sprained your ankle, Miss Dacey?” he asked sharply from behind her.

She turned to face his frowning stare. “No, my lord,” she answered coolly. “My limp is a permanent disability.”

His eyes narrowed. “Explain, please,” he ordered.

“I fell from a horse when I was five years old and broke my leg,” she explained. “The physician who attended me set it poorly. When I recovered, it was to find that the injured leg was shorter than the other.”

He stared at her blankly. “The doctor must have been drunk,” he said.

“I have been told that he was,” she replied calmly.

“Sit down, ma’am,” Raymore said, the pianoforte forgotten. The only thought in his head was that he had been cheated. No one had ever hinted to him that one of his wards was a cripple. How was he ever to find her a husband? He would be forced to support her for the rest of his life, a permanent millstone around his neck. To say that the girl limped was to put the matter kindly.

The earl did not seat himself again. He made his excuses, bowed with stiff formality, and left the room.

Sylvia followed Rosalind upstairs a short while later. “Is my cousin not quite gorgeous, Ros?” she bubbled as they climbed the staircase together, Rosalind holding on to the rail.

“Quite devastatingly handsome,” she agreed dryly.

Sylvia giggled. “Is it permitted to marry one’s guardian, I wonder?” she said, opening the door into her cousin’s room and following her inside.

“I imagine there is no law against it,” Rosalind replied, “but he is your cousin, Sylvie.”

Sylvia clasped her hands and smiled broadly. “But he is not yours,” she pointed out. “You must set your cap at him, Ros. The Countess of Raymore!”

Rosalind smiled and sat on the bed. “If I had your looks, I might be tempted,” she said with a lightness she did not feel, “but I think I shall settle for being an old maid. She held up a hand when her cousin made a face and would have spoken. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t like him, Sylvie.”

“Why ever not?” that young lady replied. “I thought him excessively polite, Ros, and he did not insult you when he saw you limp. I thought him quite kind when he told you to sit down instead of making you walk quite across the room to the pianoforte.”

“Did you not notice his eyes, Sylvie?” Rosalind asked. “They are cold and unfeeling. And his mouth sneers. I felt that the man holds us in the utmost contempt. The less we see of him, the happier I shall be.”

“Pooh,” Sylvia protested, “you are imagining things just because you were embarrassed to have him see you walk.”

Rosalind shook her head. “You must go and dress,” she said, changing the subject. “I somehow feel sure that his lordship would not take kindly to our being late for dinner—if he deigns to give us his company, of course.”

Rosalind did not follow her own advice well. She changed rapidly enough into a blue silk gown that fit as loosely as her day dresses. But her hair gave her trouble. She pinned and unpinned, coaxed and teased, but to no avail. She was not concentrating, she concluded. Finally she threw the brush with a clatter onto the dressing table and stared despairingly at her image in the mirror. She felt terribly betrayed. She had accepted her own ugliness; she had accepted the fact that no man would ever look at her with anything but revulsion. She had not become bitter, had not allowed herself to become jealous of Sylvia or of any of the other young ladies of her acquaintance. All she had was her dream. And she had felt safe with Alistair. Because he was unreal, a creation of her own imagination, he would remain with her through life, soothing her through the lonely years, giving the illusion of love and acceptance.

And now, in one day, just when she needed him the most, he had been destroyed. By what uncanny coincidence of fate had she imagined a man who was physically identical to her guardian? She doubted that she would ever be able to resurrect Alistair with his kind eyes and his platonic love that was completely centered on her. The stiff manner, the sneer, and the disapproving air of the Earl of Raymore would always intrude.

She hated him. Perhaps that was unfair. He had, as Sylvia said, acted with politeness. He had said and done nothing discourteous or unkind. Even when he had noticed and questioned her limp, he had not said anything to disclose disgust. But because he resembled Alistair so closely, she was unusually sensitive to the hard core of dislike that she was quite sure he felt for both of them. And he had no reason to feel that way. He did not know them. They had not imposed their presence on him. He had summoned them. Yes, she hated him.

Tomorrow she would go to him and ask to be sent back home. He surely would not refuse. He was a physically perfect man and he obviously cultivated beauty around him. His house was furnished with tasteful objects and priceless works of art. He was known for the first-class musical talent that he engaged yearly to entertain his friends. He must agree that she could merely be an embarrassment to him. She must convince him that she would never impose upon him in the future. He could forget her very existence.

He had been right about the doctor, though. He had been drunk, just like everyone else who had gathered on her father’s estate for the hunt. The hunt was an annual affair, her aunt had told her much later, but was more an excuse for an orgy of drinking and feasting than a sporting event. Rosalind had been at home with her parents. She lived mostly with her uncle and aunt, the Earl and Countess of Raymore, because her parents traveled almost constantly. But their times together were very intense. Her mother had taught her to sing, her father to ride. She remembered them as a vibrant couple, whom she had loved passionately, though she realized now that they had been very selfish people.

On that particular occasion, Rosalind’s father had insisted that she ride, although she was far too young to join the hunt. He had urged her, laughing, toward a fence higher than any she had jumped before. She could almost remember the sound of her own laughter as she had spurred her pony toward it. She could not remember anything else except the tedium of days and weeks spent in the house and, later, the garden, while her leg healed beneath the splints.

Everyone had laughed and teased her when the splints were first removed and she had limped and hopped excitedly around the house. But Rosalind could remember her father’s towering rage when it became obvious that the limp was involuntary and when someone—her mother?—had measured her legs. She was not now sure if her father really had gone and horsewhipped the doctor, or if she had just made up that detail to satisfy her child’s imagination.

But her father had insisted, cruelly almost, that she overcome her terror of climbing back into the saddle again. Only later, after his death, would she thank him for his foresight.

“We will make of you the finest horsewoman in the damned county, my little Rosalinda,” he had promised, “and everyone will see you as a creature of grace and beauty.” He had fingered a shiny lock of black hair lovingly as his gaze strayed to his wife.

They had both died of the typhoid a year later while visiting her mother’s relatives in Italy. Rosalind had not suffered outwardly. She had never seen a great deal of her parents. But inwardly something had been lost. The first of her dreams had died.

And now a second, she thought grimly, picking up her brush again and tackling her mane of black hair once more.

***

The Earl of Raymore was also not making any great effort to get ready for dinner. He had gone to the library after leaving the drawing room and still sat there.

He had a problem, there was no doubt about it. The cousin was all right, at least. She was lovely and appeared not to be unduly shy. Raymore had not taken too much notice of what she had to say during the few minutes he had sat talking to her, but he was sure that she would take well. She would probably have a large following of eager bucks within a few days of next week’s ball. All that would be required of him would be to choose the most eligible without delay.

But the other! What was he to do with her? His first instinct had been to send her back where she had come from. But that would not answer. He was responsible for her until she was married. He would never be able to forget about her, never be free of her, if he admitted defeat at this point. He would have to think of some way of getting her married. Surely there was someone who would be willing to take her off his hands, someone who really needed a wife and did not much care what she looked like or how she walked. Not that the girl was exactly ugly. If she dressed more becomingly and did something with her hair, she would be presentable, at least. He did not like her, though. She had been almost willing to argue with him about playing the pianoforte, and he had not liked the way she had looked directly and defiantly into his eyes when she had told him about her lameness. The girl did not know her place, he guessed. He would have to remind her, if necessary, of who was the guardian and who the ward.

The earl thought with distaste of the ball that was planned for the following week. He frowned. That was too long to wait. He must begin the campaign before then, especially for Miss Dacey. She would certainly not show to advantage at a ball. He made a mental note to speak to Hetty the next morning and instruct her to take the girls to a modiste to have new wardrobes made and to a stylist to have more fashionable hairstyles. They must be ready with at least one outfit apiece by the following day. He would take them to the theater and let them be ogled from the other boxes. A limp was not apparent when one sat at a play.

Raymore rang the bell at his elbow. When the butler appeared, he was informed that his lordship would not dine at home. White’s Club was a more congenial setting for this particular evening than his own home.

Chapter 3

The Earl of Raymore entered his house late the following morning and made his way, as usual, to his secretary’s office to examine the morning’s post. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had his promised talk with Hetty earlier and she had been most eager to comply with his demands. She had been delighted at the prospect of preparing her charges for a visit to the theater. Henry had just agreed to join the party, provided there had been no further developments in his wife’s delicate condition by the following evening. And, best of all, Raymore had just thought of Sir Rowland Axby. A middle-aged man of unprepossessing appearance and totally lacking in personality, he had nevertheless succeeded in finding a bride fifteen years before and fathering a brood of six youngsters before his wife died. His efforts to find himself a new mate were fast becoming a standing joke with the
ton.
Miss Dacey would be perfect for him. Axby would want a wife who would be prepared to rusticate with the children. His ward would doubtless be grateful to have her future settled and to be removed from the embarrassment of a public setting. He instructed Sheldon to send an invitation to Sir Rowland to attend his ball the following week.

“Miss Dacey has asked to speak with you on your return, my lord,” Sheldon said.

“Eh?” said Raymore, looking up from a letter that he held in his hand. “Has she not gone shopping with her cousin and Mrs. Laker?”

“I believe they have postponed the outing until after luncheon, my lord,” the secretary replied.

Raymore put the letter down on the desk in irritation and frowned at Sheldon. “What does she want?”

“She did not say, my lord.”

“Send word that she may attend me in the library at once,” the earl directed and strode from the room. The infernal chit! He had known she would be trouble.

Rosalind assumed a confidence she did not quite feel as she waited for a footman to open the library doors for her. Her guardian was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk at the far side of the room, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, making a halo of his blond hair. She felt that he had deliberately placed himself there so that she would be forced to undergo the ordeal of limping across the room toward him while he watched her steadily. His elbows were on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Alistair with a stony expression!

“Have a seat, Miss Dacey,” he said, motioning to a straight chair at the other side of his desk.

Rosalind sat down, her back straight. He did not initiate any conversation. He sat and stared at her.

“My lord, will you please allow me to return home?” she blurted, and watched his eyebrows rise haughtily. She had not intended to broach the subject quite so bluntly.

“Home, Miss Dacey?” he queried, ice dripping from each word. "You are at home, ma’am. This is your home as long as I choose to make it so.”

Rosalind blushed and bit her lip. “I mean to Raymore Manor, my lord,” she said. “Indeed, I appreciate your kindness in inviting us here. For Sylvia it is a dream come true to be in London during the Season. But you did not know when you invited us here that I am disabled. I cannot mix with society, my lord. My presence would merely be an embarrassment to you and to myself. I am sure you must agree.”

“Must I?” he asked quietly.

Rosalind paused, uncertain of his reaction. His eyes gave no clue. “Will you allow me to return?” she asked. 

“No, I will not,” he replied.

Rosalind swallowed. “Why not?”

His eyebrows rose. “Because I choose not to allow it, Miss Dacey,” he said. “This is reason enough.”