Improper Ladies: The Golden FeatherThe Rules of Love

by Amanda McCabe

  And then it hit him, like a lightning strike from the gods. He wanted to be that father. He wanted to be the man who took Mrs. Chase—Rosalind, Rosie—into his arms and his bed every night; who came home to find a tiny, redheaded imp running down the stairs crying “Papa!” He wanted to buy his Rosie gowns of silk and satin and glittering jewels, to take his family to Italy and Greece and watch them playing in the sun and the sea. He wanted to write odes to red hair and blue eyes like the sky, to pink lips that pursed in an adorably proper way.

  He had thought he just wanted to flirt with her, to enjoy teasing her out of her propriety and her rules. But, when he was not looking, it became more than that. So much more.

  He was falling in love with her. But she still thought him a silly ass, a reckless poet who ruined her life by leading her brother into trouble with rule-breaking.

  How could he show her that it was not true, that he was not that person she thought him? How could he even begin to persuade her of his finer qualities? Did he even have finer qualities? He was not sure. But at least she had agreed to this theater outing. That was a start.

  The front door opened so suddenly that he was forced to take a step back. He did not even remember knocking, yet there stood the Waylands’s butler, holding out a hand for Michael’s cloak and hat.

  “Lord Morley,” the butler said. “Mrs. Chase is expecting you. She and Her Grace are in the drawing room, if you care to follow me.”

  Expecting him, was she? Michael thought as he stepped into the gilt and marble foyer. He could only hope that was truly so.

  Rosalind peered one more time into the mirror, and smoothed the bodice and cap sleeves of her gown. She had worn one of her own garments this evening, her best gown of pale gray lutestring silk piped in black satin. It was a sort of armor; she felt protected in it, as she never could in Georgina’s dashing, brightly colored creations. But she had left off her cap, instead anchoring her piled-up curls with onyx combs.

  She touched one of those combs, and wished for one of those caps.

  “No, you may not go upstairs and put on one of those hideous caps,” Georgina called from over the high back of the settee where she lounged.

  “I was not even thinking of caps!” Rosalind retorted. She dropped her hand down to her side.

  “Of course you were.” Georgina serenely turned over a page in the fashion paper she was reading. “Since I have become a mother I have learned to read minds. I know when Elizabeth Anne is plotting mischief, or when Sebastian has a fever—or when you want to put on a cap. But you are lovely just as you are, Rosie, even if you would not wear the green satin. Come and sit down while you wait for Lord Morley.”

  There was no time for sitting, though, or for going upstairs to fetch a cap. The drawing room door opened, and the butler announced, “Lord Morley, Your Grace.”

  And there he was, as handsome as could be in an evening coat of emerald green velvet, another cravat of daffodil yellow about his throat. A square-cut emerald winked in its crisp folds.

  Rosalind was very glad she had not worn the green satin gown Georgina offered, for then she and Lord Morley would have looked like a walking Irish meadow together. Of course, no matter what she wore, no one would glance twice at her when they could look at him. He was like some dark, pagan god, and his beauty only increased when he smiled at her and gave her an elegant bow.

  “Good evening, Duchess. Mrs. Chase. You are both very elegant tonight.” His gaze lingered on Rosalind, warm and admiring.

  She could think of nothing to say, not even the little politenesses she wrote about so often. Her throat was dry, closed.

  Thanks heaven for Georgina, who never lost her social aplomb. She laughed and said, “You flatterer, Lord Morley! I look like an old ragpicker, since I am settled in for a quiet evening at home. But Rosalind is elegant, as always.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Lord Morley,” Rosalind finally managed to say. “You are too kind.”

  “Oh, I am merely truthful, Mrs. Chase. Shall we depart? I have heard that Kean is quite fine as Shy-lock, and it would be a shame to miss the opening curtain.”

  “Of course.” Rosalind picked up her gray satin shawl and handed it to him. He swept an errant curl from the nape of her neck before slowly, ever so slowly, sliding the smooth fabric over her shoulders. His fingers lingered at her bare skin for just an instant longer than was proper.

  Rosalind almost forgot to breathe. “I—I do so enjoy Shakespeare,” she gasped.

  “As do I,” he answered, a hint of laughter in his brandy-dark voice. “And I think I will enjoy the old Bard of Avon tonight more than ever.”

  He stepped around to her side and offered her his arm. She smiled up at him, and slid her fingers over the rough softness of his velvet sleeve.

  “Good night, you two!” Georgina called gaily as they left the drawing room. “Do not stay out too late.”

  The theater was crowded with merrymakers when Rosalind stepped into the box Lord Morley had reserved. Every box glittered with jewels and opera glasses and silks, though it seemed no one was paying heed to the pre-Shakespeare farce playing on the stage. The level of conversation and laughter was so high that Rosalind could not hear the dialogue at all.

  Not that she could have paid it much heed, anyway. Not with Morley beside her.

  The box was one of the smaller in the theater, so their gilt chairs were placed close together. Rosalind fussed with her shawl, and with taking her opera glasses from her reticule.

  “Are these seats to your liking, Mrs. Chase?” he asked. “There was not much choice to be had when I went to procure tickets. It seems to be a fine vantage point, though.”

  “It is quite fine,” answered Rosalind. Fine for people to see them anyway, she thought, watching as numerous gazes turned their way. She lifted her chin and ignored them, focusing her attention on the stage. “I have not been able to attend the theater as much as I would like since coming to Town. I was very happy to receive your invitation.”

  “Were you, Mrs. Chase?” he asked, his voice oddly intent. Almost as if he truly cared about her answer.

  Rosalind glanced at him, but it was shadowed in their box. A ray of light slanted over his brow, his sharp cheekbone, but his eyes—the windows to his thoughts—were in darkness.

  But she could not turn away.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “I was. I did so enjoy our afternoon yesterday. Lady Violet is looking well. Sometimes, when she returns to the Seminary from her times at home, she seems rather—tired.”

  “She was excited to see you. You are her idol, you know. Everything with her is Mrs. Chase this and Mrs. Chase that. One could hardly blame her, of course.”

  Rosalind gave a startled laugh. “Her idol? I am a poor choice for that.”

  “No, indeed, Mrs. Chase. I think you are the finest choice she could have made.”

  “I am glad, of course, if I have been of some help to her. I become so very fond of the girls who pass through my school.”

  “You enjoy teaching, then?”

  Rosalind relaxed a bit. Here was a topic she was truly comfortable with. “Oh, yes. Mr. Chase and I never were blessed with children. I suppose these girls are a bit like—well, like substitute daughters. I am fond of them. Most of them, anyway!”

  “I envy you, Mrs. Chase, having a life’s work you love so.”

  “Do you not love your own work, Lord Morley?” Rosalind asked in surprise. “Your poetry is so very glorious! You must put so much of yourself into it.”

  “Have you read my poetry, then?” he asked, that dark, intent note in his voice again.

  “I—yes. A few poems.” In truth, she had gone secretly to a bookseller when she first arrived in London and purchased all three volumes of his work. She found his verse intoxicating, exhilarating. Only someone who truly loved what he was doing could write so very passionately. “I found them to be—interesting.”

  “Interesting, eh?” He gave her a very pleased smile. “I am f
lattered, Mrs. Chase. And rather surprised you would bother with my piddling verses. I am hardly Shakespeare, as I am sure you have discerned.”

  “Just as your sister speaks often of me, my brother speaks of you. I was curious about his idol. And, speaking of my brother, I had a very interesting visit from him this afternoon.”

  “Did you, Mrs. Chase? I trust he is well.”

  “Very well. In fact, he has vowed to me that he is returning to Cambridge and will stay there. I wonder whatever could have inspired such a change of heart?” She peered closely at Morley. She knew very well what could have precipitated such a change—a man Allen admired giving him a stern talking-to. And she knew Allen had gone to Morley’s lodgings yesterday afternoon.

  But Lord Morley merely shrugged and grinned. “Lucas is not a bad young man, he is merely—young. He just needs to be nudged in the right direction.”

  “I am very grateful to anyone who can, as you say, nudge him. I have had little luck in the past few years.”

  “I will always be happy to assist you in any way I can, Mrs. Chase. Any way at all.”

  She felt his hand touch hers, briefly but so very warmly, under the cover of a fold in her heavy skirt. And, much to her shock, Rosalind found herself pressing his hand in return.

  “Friendship and theater tickets,” she whispered. “Those are fine assistance indeed.”

  “Then, since we are friends, may I escort you to the Smith-Knightley ball tomorrow evening?” he whispered back.

  “I would like that very much, Lord Morley,” she replied, forgetting every rule she herself had written about demurely turning away invitations.

  This fairy tale would all end soon enough. Why should she not enjoy it while it was happening?

  She would enjoy every minute of it.

  Wayland House was dark and quiet when Rosalind returned from the theater. The butler, who took her wrap and then melted back into the shadows, seemed to be the only living being in the marble silence.

  Rosalind was grateful for the solitude. She had so very much to think about, to process in her own mind, to hug close to her heart after her splendid evening. She knew Georgina would want to find out every detail, but Rosalind did not think she could talk about it. Not just yet.

  But as she walked down the corridor that led to her chamber, she saw that she was not alone in Wayland House after all. The door to Georgina’s personal sitting room was half open, spilling golden firelight across the dark wood floor. Standing by the fireplace, silhouetted in the glow, were Georgina and her husband. They were locked in each other’s arms, in a passionate kiss, Georgina’s brilliant hair flowing over Alex’s hands.

  “My darling Georgie,” he groaned, sliding his lips to her temple, her cheek.

  “Alex,” murmured Georgina, as she swayed closer to him.

  Rosalind eased the door shut before they could realize they were being observed and went on her way. Her heart warmed at the knowledge that there could be such love in the world—and sparked with just a hint of envy.

  Chapter Tifteen

  “Always wear gloves when dancing; bare flesh should never, ever touch bare flesh.”

  A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior , Chapter Four

  The Smith-Knightley ball was every bit the crush that the Portman soiree had been. People clad in the first stare of fashion were crowded to the walls, their laughter and conversation a thick cloud hovering over the room, drowning out the lively dance music. Couples swirled elegantly through a pavane, while observers gossiped about the gowns and partners of others. It was all a perfectly ordinary evening out for the ton.

  Yet Rosalind was more nervous than she had ever been in her life. She had attended more routs and fetes in her short time here in Town than ever before in her life, and she had became rather accustomed to them. Not exactly comfortable, yet she did not find them unenjoyable by any means. They were—interesting.

  But she had never attended a ball on the arm of Lord Morley. That made this evening an entirely different proposition altogether.

  Her silk-gloved fingers tightened on Morley’s superfine sleeve as they waited outside the ballroom doors for the Smith-Knightleys’s butler to announce them. This had seemed such a fine idea last night, when she sat so close to him in the darkened magic of the theater. She had even looked forward to it, when she looked into his dark eyes as he issued the invitation.

  Now things felt so very different. Now that they were actually faced with a roomful of people—people who were avidly interested in everything the dashing Lord Morley did, people who had seen them together at Gunter’s and in the theater. She was abandoning years of quiet living and perfect discretion on this portal. She had imagined it would be difficult.

  It was harder than any imagining could have been.

  Rosalind would have turned and run away, if Georgina and the duke were not standing right behind her, chatting and laughing as if this was an absolutely ordinary evening. They, and a few other couples who waited beyond them, blocked her exit utterly.

  Rosalind turned back to face the ballroom doors, fidgeting with the skirt of her coral-colored silk gown. She peered down at it, watching the way the shimmering fabric draped and glistened in the candlelight. This dress was far more elaborate than anything she ever wore in her real life, sewn with golden spangles on the short, puffed sleeves and along the hem. She gained some superficial courage from its sparkle and flash.

  “Are you sorry you came?” Morley whispered, leaning close to her. His cool breath stirred the loose curls at her temple.

  Rosalind shivered at the sensations this evoked. Warm, unfamiliar, tingling sensations. “Of course not,” she answered stoutly.

  He grinned at her. “Liar.”

  Rosalind laughed. “I would never tell a falsehood. That would be most improper.”

  “Against the rules, eh?”

  Her lips tightened at the mention, the reminder, of the rules. How could she have forgotten them so quickly, when they were such a large part of her life? Whenever she was with him, everything else just fell away. “Quite right.”

  They did not have time to say anything else. The doors opened, and the butler took their names. “The Duke and Duchess of Wayland,” he announced. “Mrs. Rosalind Chase. Viscount Morley.”

  On legs that seemed turned to water, Rosalind stepped into the ballroom. Her hand tightened on his arm. She no longer held onto him just for appearance’s sake—she needed his strength to hold her up.

  As she had expected, and feared, heads swiveled in their direction. She had a blurred impression of disappointed pouts on the faces of young ladies, the glint of raised quizzing glasses, waves of avid curiosity.

  There was nothing for her to do but lift her chin, feign deepest disinterest, and keep moving into the crowd. At Lord Morley’s side.

  She was very glad for Georgina and her steady stream of inconsequential talk. “Oh, look over there, Rosalind. Isn’t that Mrs. Strandling? We went to school with her, did we not? She should never wear that shade of green. Ah, champagne. Delightful. Do you care for a glass, Rosalind? Alex, darling?”

  Rosalind stared intently at the pale, beckoning liquid, sparkling in crystal flutes on the footman’s tray. The delicious drink called to her, but she knew she should not indulge. Champagne tended to make her giddy. The last thing she wanted to be tonight was giddy.

  “Oh, no, not right now,” she said.

  “Mrs. Chase has promised me a dance,” Morley told them. “I hear a waltz beginning, and she knows that is my favorite dance.”

  Rosalind knew no such thing—she did not think she had ever spoken two words about dancing with him. But the promise of occupation, of movement, of having something to concentrate on besides people’s stares, was enticing indeed. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Morley. A waltz sounds very pleasant.”

  He led her onto the polished dance floor, and they took their place amid the assembled couples. When he put his hand on her waist, pulling her close, but not
so very close as to incite more talk, the gawking crowd seemed to melt away. Rosalind heard no whispers. The two of them were all alone in the teeming crush, just as it had seemed they were last night in the theater box. Nothing else mattered, not even the fact that she had only practiced the waltz a few times, in classes with the girls at her school.

  She had no fears of making a fool of herself, of being the object of gossip. Not when he stood so close to her, smiling down at her.

  “Are you quite all right?” he murmured. “You went very white all of a sudden.”

  “All right?” she whispered back, thrown off balance by his question.

  “I should have realized how very interested people would be when we appeared here together. I am so accustomed to being speculated over that I scarcely take note of it anymore. But you are not used to such scrutiny. I’m sorry.”

  “It does not matter,” Rosalind answered, and realized, with some degree of shock, that it truly did not. She had lived all her life being careful, being always so painfully proper. She was suddenly so deeply tired of it all. She just wanted to dance, to forget, to have fun—like everyone else. Like people who had no school or wayward brother to worry over.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to worry again. Tonight, she would just dance.

  “Good,” he said. “I am very glad to hear it.”

  She tightened her clasp on his hand, and closed her eyes as the music reached its lively opening beats. They swayed together, and swung into the dance.

  This was like no dance she had ever known before. Dancing classes with the girls, local assemblies with her husband—they were nothing like this. Rosalind’s feet, which she had always hated as being too big, seemed dainty and graceful as they glided across the floor. She hummed along with the lilting tune, and turned and twirled effortlessly in his arms. She felt—why, she felt beautiful! She felt desirable and flirtatious and merry, as if deciding she would leave her real life behind until tomorrow had freed her to be someone else.