The woman who was turned away from Michael looked as if she could prove to be no less beautiful, even if she was less colorful. Her hair, a river of red ringlets, was piled atop her head and anchored with a bandeau of pale sea green silk twisted with seed pearls. Her tall, slender figure was set off perfectly by a gown of pale green satin that just barely skimmed her waist and the long length of her legs. She tilted her swanlike neck as one of her companions spoke to her, and one long curl slid over her shoulder.
Michael was drawn to her, this mysterious, sea-clad woman. She seemed an oasis of serenity in the overcrowded ballroom, a poised, elegant, gardenia-like blossom that promised sanctuary from all the empty chatter, the high-pitched laughter, the hands pulling at his arms.
He murmured some excuse to Lady Portman, and made his way across the room, drawn by the woman in green. It was not an easy endeavor; he was stopped numerous times, obliged to make polite conversation. Yet finally he was able to break free, to skirt around the edge of the dance floor. He was very nearly to the crowd by the French doors, when the woman turned.
Michael almost dropped his champagne glass. Standing not fifteen feet away from him in the Portman ballroom, clad in that shimmering satin and pearls, was—Mrs. Chase.
For one off-guard instant, he was filled with a deep flush of pleasure—pleasure at seeing her again, when she had been so much in his mind of late. And she was more beautiful than he remembered, her hair a glory when released from those hideous caps.
Pleasure was quickly swept away by cold shock, and Michael impatiently shook his head, certain he was hallucinating. Mrs. Chase could not be here. He must be dreaming, hallucinating.
He closed his eyes quickly, and opened them again. She was still there, and she was undoubtedly Mrs. Chase. She was watching him, her head tilted quizzically as if she could not believe he was there, either.
Then her gaze narrowed, and her lips pinched together.
Yes. It was assuredly Mrs. Chase. Michael pushed away his bemusement, and pasted on a wry half-smile. He could do nothing but go forward. “Mrs. Chase,” he murmured to himself. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Whatever was she doing here?
Rosalind stared around her at the teeming ballroom. Once, long ago, when she had been a young girl, she had daydreamed about such scenes. Had imagined herself in beautiful gowns, surrounded by handsome swains who flattered her and flirted with her.
The tableau she found herself in now was indeed very close to those old dreams. Her sea green gown was exquisite, and there were more handsome gentlemen than she could count. When she first stepped into the ballroom at Georgina’s side, she had felt giddy, dizzy, almost overcome by the color and noise of it all—so very different from her daily life.
But too much time had passed since her girlhood dreams; too much had happened. The dreamy daughter of the local vicar had grown up, married, been widowed, struggled to build up her own school. She was no longer as starry-eyed as she had once been. She saw this crowd for what it was, a seething cauldron of gossip and decadence beneath a veneer of frothy glamour. For a brief while, though, rules—her rules—had held them in check, at least outwardly.
She was not here to make merry, she reminded herself. She was here merely to discover what had made the popularity of A Lady’s Rules wane, and to set things right. When she had done that, she would leave her borrowed finery behind and return to the quiet life of the Seminary.
That was truly all she wanted. Truly, she told herself, even as she sipped at the sinfully delicious champagne and listened to Georgina relate a scandalous on dit to her gathered friends. London life had no interest for Rosalind, really it did not.
She told herself this even as she scanned a gaze over the dancers, trying to detect any infraction of the rules that could be causing diminished sales. She saw nothing there—everyone was wearing gloves, and holding their partners at the prescribed distance. When she had first entered the Portman mansion, she had noticed one or two tiny things—a couple laughing too loudly, a man who had had a bit too much to drink—but nothing to give any alarm.
She had not yet seen Lord Morley or any of his cronies, though. That might explain all the good behavior this evening.
“May I fetch you another glass of champagne, Mrs. Chase?” the gentleman beside her asked.
Rosalind looked down with surprise to see that her crystal flute was empty. However had that happened? She never overimbibed. Then she noticed that she was indeed a bit light-headed. “Oh, no, thank you,” she answered, with a small measure of regret. It was very good champagne. “Perhaps a lemonade, though.”
“Of course! I shall return forthwith.”
Rosalind wasn’t sure he could return “forthwith” in such a crush, but she smiled at him gratefully, and half-turned to watch him thread his way through the crowd. She handed her empty glass to a footman, and resumed her inspection of the dancers and the crowds that clustered about the edges of the room.
Her gaze skimmed over a couple strolling arm in arm; a group of young misses, one of whom was Georgina’s sister-in-law Lady Emily; a tall gentleman in a midnight blue velvet coat . . .
Her gaze veered back to that gentleman. As she saw who it was, she knew he could surely not be called a “gentleman”—gentlemen did not go about trying to ruin ladies’ livelihoods! They did not flaunt themselves and their so-called poetry, as Lord Morley did.
And it was Lord Morley who stood only a few feet away from her, watching her as if he had never seen her before in his life. Almost as if—as if he admired her.
But that could not be. She was not some dashing, daring titled lady, the sort who Georgina said clustered about him. Perhaps he meant to mock her, then, by watching her so intently. To poke fun at her for being in a ballroom where she so obviously did not belong.
She frowned at the thought, and her head gave a warning pang. She started to turn away from the sight of him, to try to immerse herself again in Georgina’s conversation, but she stopped when she saw Lady Clarke come to Lord Morley’s side.
As Rosalind watched, Lady Clarke, the mother of one of Rosalind’s very own pupils, laid her hand on Lord Morley’s arm and stepped up close to him. Far too close for propriety. Lady Clarke went up on tiptoe and whispered into his ear, her ample white bosom displayed in a tiny orange silk bodice. Lord Morley placed his hand—his ungloved hand—on her waist. It was unclear if he was pushing her away or holding her there.
Rosalind found she could scarcely tear her gaze away from the ridiculous spectacle. But when she finally managed to look elsewhere, she saw that the people around them, far from being aghast, watched with smirks and smiles of scandalized satisfaction. No one cared at all that Lord Morley was breaking at least four—no, five!—rules.
Much to Rosalind’s shock, however, she found that it was not entirely the rule-breaking that pained her. She also felt a sharp pang of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy in her heart.
Her head throbbed in earnest as she watched Lord Morley’s hand slide from Lady Clarke’s waist to her arm. He said something quietly to her, and her red lips curved up in an enticing smile. Lady Clarke began to turn away from him, but Rosalind turned first, unable to bear the disgusting sight a moment longer.
She needed to be alone. The noise of the ballroom had risen to an infernal din, and even the orchestra was too loud and clanging.
“Do excuse me for a moment,” she murmured to Georgina. “I must go to the ladies’ withdrawing room.”
Georgina’s emerald eyes, so bright and laughing only an instant before, turned dark with concern. She laid her hand on Rosalind’s arm, her sapphire bracelets tinkling. “Is something amiss, Rosalind? Shall I come with you?”
Rosalind managed to give her a smile. “It is a slight headache only. I think I just need a quiet moment. You must stay here and enjoy the party, keep an eye on Emily. She is such a sought-after young lady.”
“Are you certain? I can make Alex leave his discussion of new farming
techniques and watch his sister while I am gone. My husband needs to remember his social duties anyway! He is a duke, after all, even if he would rather just be a gentleman farmer!” Georgina laughed, but the soft glow on her face spoke volumes of her love for her “gentleman farmer.”
Rosalind felt another twist of envy, and she did not like it at all. How could she be envious of anyone, least of all Georgie, who so richly deserved her happiness? Or of Lady Clarke, whose impropriety was legendary? To be envious at all was horribly unladylike.
It was not envy, Rosalind told herself. It was simply fatigue. She was not accustomed to the social whirl.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Leave His Grace to his conversation. I will just go sit down for a moment and will be quite well soon.”
She gave Georgina what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and turned to make her way through the ballroom. Since she was of little importance in the grand ton scheme of things, it did not take her very long to make her escape—no one stopped her to talk, aside from one or two of Georgina’s friends. She slipped out the ballroom doors and∙past the butler, who waited to announce any latecomers.
The ladies’ withdrawing room was down the staircase from the grand ballroom, and along a quiet, dim corridor. The long expanse was lit only by a couple of branches of candelabra, and only the faintest echo of music and voices could be heard from the party.
Already Rosalind could feel the tight band of her headache loosening. She leaned back for a moment against the papered wall, and closed her eyes.
So it is true, she thought. Lord Morley was the one responsible for the diminished popularity of the rules. He was using his dash, his reputation as a rogue and a poet, to break the rules of good conduct, and others were following him. Not just young nodcocks like her brother, either, but people in polite society.
She did not know why she should feel such a sourness of disappointment at the realization. Surely she had known all along. Yet it was one thing to know; it was another to know, to see it with her own eyes.
Morley was a care-for-nothing, a slapdash poet who squandered the benefits and duties of his high position. She had always known that. And yet—and yet, he had been so kind to her that day in her office. He had brought her tea, had made her laugh.
She could scarcely reconcile that man with the one who had stood so intimately with Lady Clarke in the ballroom.
She was such a fool to feel so disappointed.
As Rosalind reached up to rub at her temples, a voice came echoing down the empty corridor.
“Good evening, Mrs. Chase. What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you here.”
Lord Morley. Rosalind’s eyes flew open, and she turned to see him standing there, half in the shadows. He looked mysterious, almost insubstantial, with a single flickering beam of candlelight falling over his dark hair, his high cheekbones. She could almost have fancied that he was a ghost, the spirit of a wild pirate of old, come back to claim his treasure—his woman.
Unfortunately, he was all too real. And he had caught her yet again at her most vulnerable.
Drat the man.
Chapter Nine
“A gentleman must never approach a lady uninvited at a soiree.”
A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Five
Rosalind pushed herself away from the wall, staring dazedly at Lord Morley. She knew she was gaping like the veriest lackwit, but she could not seem to help herself. He was like a mirage—or a nightmare—standing there in the shadowed, quiet corridor. She had known she would see him here in London sooner or later; that was really one of the purposes of her visit, was it not? To somehow stop him from his rule-breaking.
The difficulty was, her plan was only half conceived, and she had no clue what to do with him now. She had not thought beyond arriving in Town, and doing something to save her situation. What, she was not sure, but she had imagined that a plan would occur to her once she saw Lord Morley.
She had not imagined she would meet him like this, however. Alone, in the half-dark. She thought herself a self-possessed woman, a woman of social poise. Of good sense. All that sense had fled, though, and she did not know what to say.
She straightened her shoulders, and reached up to be sure her hair was smooth. “Good evening, Lord Morley. I did not see you standing there.”
“No. I can see that.” He moved closer to her still in the shadows. The gold threads embroidered on his cream-colored waistcoat glinted in the candlelight. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“Indeed? Then what are you doing here, Lord Morley, lurking in the shadows? I was under the impression that this was the direction to the ladies’ withdrawing room.” Or perhaps she had taken a wrong turn? There appeared to be no one about in this part of the house at all. Rosalind tried to draw in a deep breath, but her chest felt tight, constricted—and not from her light stays or silk chemise. It was from this man’s very presence. He made her feel unsure; he seemed to take up all the air in the narrow corridor.
It was just because she loathed him, she told herself sternly. Because he was a wastrel, who squandered his life in shallow, careless ways.
That was all it was. That was the only reason she felt her face burn, her fingertips and toes turn icy. She just wanted to be out of his presence.
“I believe the withdrawing room is the other way,” he answered lightly, with a shrug of his wide, velvet-covered shoulders. “Yet I could not believe my eyes when I saw you in the ballroom. You are one of the last people I would expect to see here. I had to assure myself that it was you, Mrs. Chase.”
He could not believe it because she was of such lowly station, perhaps? Rosalind frowned. She would have thought that men who flouted their position by writing poetry would not think of such things. But then, he was of the ton—she should not be amazed that he was like everyone else. She remembered the shifting of peoples’ gazes, the smirks, when they discovered she owned a school.
She was past caring about all that now. She had always done what she had to do, to take care of herself and her family. Why, then, did it sting so when he implied as much?
“Oh, Lord Morley?” she said, with a forced, careless little laugh. At least, she hoped it sounded careless. “And why is that? Because I am a mere schoolmistress?”
He gave her a smile, a knowing grin that made her cheeks burn hotter. “Not at all. Because it seems as if Town would be too wicked for you, Mrs. Chase. Too full of temptations. Sins.”
Temptations? Such as a pair of fathomless dark eyes that seemed to see into her very soul? A heady whiff of some citrus soap? Oh, yes. Apparently Town, or at least Lady Portman’s corridor, was full of those. She stepped back from him, until she felt the edge of a marble-topped table against her hips.
He just took another step toward her, so close she could see the faint blue-black shadow of whiskers along his jawline.
“It is not safe here, Mrs. Chase,” he said softly, tauntingly. “Not like it is behind the high walls of your school.”
Rosalind’s gaze flickered past him to the painting on the wall, but she still sensed him there. Sensed his warmth. She did not see the indifferent seascape at all. “Ah, but Town has become much more civilized of late, has it not? Since people have found a source of manners, of good behavior.”
“You mean A Lady’s Rules, do you not?” he said, with a rich chuckle. That sound seemed to vibrate deep inside of her. “Do you truly think of them as a simple guide to manners? A gentle suggestion of how to be—civilized?”
She looked back to him, unable to break her gaze away from the velvet of his eyes. He watched her intently, leaning toward her, as if he truly cared about her answer. “Of course. What else could they be?”
“Oh, now, I do not know. A way to keep people in line? To make them conform to someone else’s views of how things should be?” He leaned one hand against the wall, carelessly, as if he was not aware of his action. The soft fabric of his sleeve was near—so near—her neck, her bare shoulder.
�
��C-conform?” she choked out. She tried to edge away from his arm, but the table blocked her path. “Conform to what?”
“Society has always been constrictive in certain ways,” he said. “Yet there has also been room for a degree of freedom for people who, shall we say, have a different way of looking at things.”
“People such as you, perhaps?” she asked. “People who behave in wild ways, not caring what boundaries they cross, or who they hurt by it.”
Something flickered in the sherry brown depths of his eyes, a flash of anger or maybe even pain. But it was gone in an instant, and he glanced away from her with a laugh. “I would never knowingly hurt anyone, Mrs. Chase. I only try to enjoy my life; it is far too short to do otherwise. How can that harm people?”
Rosalind didn’t know what he was saying, what he meant. Her head was spinning, her ears ringing. She wanted to move away from him, to run away, but she was frozen to the spot. “How have the rules hurt anyone?” she cried, more passionately than she intended. Her voice echoed along the corridor.
He seemed startled by her vehemence, and studied her closer. His hand, as of its own volition, moved to her hair, to the long curl that lay along her neck. It twined like a twist of red silk around his finger.
Rosalind forgot to breathe. She could not move away, she could not do anything but stare at her hair twined about his long, elegant finger.
“Oh, Mrs. Chase,” he whispered. “They hurt people in ways far too complicated for me to explain. They are hurting you, if you could only see it.”
Improper Ladies: The Golden FeatherThe Rules of Love Page 23