by Mary Balogh
"I shall also be in trouble if Cousin Hetty finds me alone in here with you," Rosalind said, and smiled.
"Since our meeting will be judged quite improper anyway," he said, smiling roguishly, "I might as well do what I wish to do." He held her lightly by the waist and kissed her on the lips. "Delicious!" he said afterward, smiling. "Now I must try to slink out of here without creating a grand scandal."
Rosalind stayed in the anteroom, the door ajar, for a while afterward, smiling to herself and tapping her foot to the music. What a pleasant evening this was turning out to be! It had been a delightful experience to dance. Sir Bernard had held her very firmly so that she had not felt unduly clumsy. And the kiss she had thoroughly approved of. That was what a kiss should be like, something shared, something enjoyed. Not like that horrid experience with Raymore, when she had completely lost control. That had not been at all a comfortable experience. She believed that she was falling a litde in love with Sir Bernard Crawleigh.
In those few weeks following her come-out, Rosalind also furthered her acquaintance with Lady Elise Martel. She visited one afternoon soon after the ball, when the baby still had not been born. It was a warm day for early May and Lady Elise was feeling rather uncomfortable.
"How thankful I am to see you," she told Rosalind. "Henry is feeling guilty about seeing me in this condition and wishes to stay with me to share my misery. But I sent him out today. The heat has made me cross as a bear and I was afraid that I would start snapping at him, poor man."
"Oh, dear," Rosalind said, "and are you planning to snap at me instead?"
"Gracious, no!" her hostess protested, laughing. "You are a visitor, you see, and it is easy to be polite to visitors. It is only those nearest and dearest to us who bear the brunt of our ill humor. Have you not noticed that?"
Rosalind enjoyed the visit. She could relax, as with a friend, and talk on topics other than parties and invitations and fashion. She left at the end of an hour, promising to visit again when Lady Elise's health permitted.
The Earl of Raymore stayed away from his wards as much as he possibly could. In the daytime it was very easy. He had never been a conscientious member of the House of Lords, but he found himself attending more often than usual during that spring. His clubs saw a great deal more of him than they ever had. He spent time riding and practicing his fencing and boxing skills. He began a liaison with the Covent Garden dancer that he had mentioned to Sir Henry Martel at Watier's, and convinced himself that she was a very satisfactory bedfellow. He seriously considered setting her up under his permanent protection, but did not do so immediately. He was restless with a nameless dissatisfaction, though he did not know why. She was the sort of woman most likely to please him: red-haired, petite, fragile, and beautiful. Although she was new to London, she had been well taught in the arts of her chief trade. He would wait awhile before doing anything so permanent and so uncharacteristic of himself as to establish her in a residence that he supported.
During the evenings Raymore occasionally sacrificed his own pleasures for the sake of accompanying his wards to some social function. He wished to lend them all the support of his own consequence. And he wished to watch the progress of his plans for them. He was well-satisfied that there would be no problem with Sylvia. His uneasiness over the attentions of Charles Hammond was soon over. After a couple of weeks the girl began to discourage him. Obviously she had some sense as well as a great deal of beauty. It seemed to him very likely that Standen would offer for her before the Season was over. A summer or an autumn wedding seemed a reasonable expectation.
He did not like to think about Rosalind. She had, of course, refused Axby, more to spite him than to serve her own interests, he believed. He had expected that her chances of attaching to herself any other man were remarkably slim. Yet it was not so. Her disability had been displayed very publicly on her first appearance, had shocked those who had witnessed her display, and had been accepted. She had no great following, but she was not ostracized, either. Axby still seemed to retain some hope; a few older men who were not obviously hanging out for wives seemed to enjoy sitting beside her and conversing, and Henry seemed quite fond of her. He gathered that she had visited Elise on more than one occasion. Strangest of all, Raymore noticed that Crawleigh was on easy terms with her and apparently enjoyed her company. If he could be brought to the point, it would be a great coup. Many hopeful mamas had had an eye on him for several Seasons.
Raymore could not understand why Crawleigh was interested, if indeed he was. He watched them together at one drawing-room gathering following a dinner party. Rosalind was dressed vividly, as she usually was these days, in emerald-green satin. Her hair, dressed high in intricate coils, shone and made her neck appear long and slender. She was laughing. Her dark eyes sparkled, her teeth showed very white in contrast to the darkness of her hair. Had her face been so animated when she had first arrived in his house? He seemed to remember gaining an impression of a stubborn will and perhaps a sullen nature.
His eyes slid down her body. The gown became her well. Its bright color and high sheen gave the impression of elegance, although its style was not calculated to reveal her figure. Raymore remembered those full breasts beneath his hands, the tiny waist, the flaring hips. She laughed again as he watched, a pealing, girlish laugh, and laid a hand lightly on Crawleigh's sleeve for a moment. The earl felt anger flaring. She need not set her cap so blatantly at the man. It might be a brilliant match for her if she could accomplish her goal, but he could not like the connection. He did not have a chance to analyze his feeling; his hostess claimed his attention at that point.
Rosalind's sessions in the music room had not discontinued after her come-out ball. In fact, it became almost a necessity to her to spend at least an hour a day playing and singing. Music soothed her and provided some kind of anchor to an existence that she found a great strain. Rarely was she at ease when she was in society. With Sir Bernard and Sir Henry Martel she found she could relax, but she was always aware of other people in the room and she always wondered what they thought of her, especially when she found it impossible to stay seated. But in the music room she could be herself, forget that she was not as other women. Cousin Hetty had warned her that Raymore had one of his concerts planned for later in the spring and that the artists he chose would probably use the music room for a few weeks prior to the performance. But for the time the room was hers. No one else ever used it and no one ever came there to interrupt her. She believed that no one else except Cousin Hetty and Sylvia even knew that she practiced there regularly.
Rosalind began to challenge herself. She had always played to entertain herself. But in the country she had had other activities, notably painting and riding. And riding had always been the big challenge. Because she was disabled, she had prided herself on being an accomplished and daring horsewoman. But here she had nothing but her music. She had never asked if she could ride here. She supposed that her guardian might consent; riding was an acceptable pastime for ladies. But riding in London meant walking, or at best trotting, a horse in Hyde Park. It was yet another social activity. It would offer her no freedom. She forced herself, then, to aim for greater musical achievement. She practiced for hours on the harpsichord, almost exclusively Bach music, trying to achieve the crisp brilliance that she was now convinced his music was meant to sound like.
But Beethoven had always been her greatest love. There was a passion underlying the surface intricacy of his music, she had always believed. And she had been contented to play those pieces that came easily to her. She had often played the first movement of his Piano Sonata Number 14 because it was relatively easy to play and the melody was so breathtakingly beautiful. Some poet had called it the Moonlight Sonata because the music reminded him of moonlight on Lake Lucerne. Rosalind had always tried to picture such a scene as she played, sparkling cold water, snow-capped Alpine mountains all around. But now she tackled the second and third movements too, forcing her fingers through the tricky runs
, trying to achieve power and precision and passion in the chords. But for days she despaired of ever mastering the technicalities.
There was a Sevres vase in the music room, a priceless work of art, Rosalind judged, as well as a beautiful one. She frequently spent time just gazing at it and running her fingers lightly over its texture. When her frustration with Beethoven became so powerful that she felt a strong urge to stalk over and smash the vase, she would turn to song and restore her tranquillity with love songs and ballads. She chose songs for their simplicity and emotion. She was never tempted to try opera or vocal music that required more power or expertise.
Part of the charm of her times in the music room was the fact that there she was completely alone, quite free of the necessity to smile, to make polite conversation, to pretend to be enjoying herself. She would have been horrified indeed had she known that the music room exerted just as strong a pull on someone else. The Earl of Raymore despised himself for his weakness. She was, after all, only a girl dabbling in an art that was beyond her talents. But though he was from home far more than had ever been his practice in the daytime, he was drawn back there, against his every instinct, almost each afternoon when he knew that in all probability Rosalind would be singing and playing.
At first he stood outside the door listening, but his constant unease lest someone should come along and find him spying outside a room in his own house or- worse-that she would unexpectedly emerge and find him there, drove him into an adjoining salon. It was a good choice. Part of the wall between the two rooms was merely a thin paneling that could be folded back and always was during his concerts so that a supper could be laid for his guests to feast upon during the interval. He could listen in the salon almost as well as if he were right in the room with her. And it suited him very well not to see her. He tried to ignore the fact that the music that had become almost a drug to him was produced by Rosalind Dacey.
And so the Earl of Raymore discovered with Rosalind the wonder of Bach on the harpsichord, and he suffered with her through her mastery of the Moonlight Sonata. He would find himself sitting forward in the only chair that had been stripped of its holland covers, clutching his head in frustration, sometimes anger, as she repeatedly played over the same bars and repeatedly made the same mistakes. He would grip the arms of the chair, his eyes tightly closed, willing her through a passage that she had finally grasped. And he listened in a kind of agonized wonder when the melody came flowing in all its glory through the intricate runs and crashing chords.
Raymore had to admit to himself finally that Rosalind Dacey was no dabbler. She was an artist. And he always waited for her to sing. There was nothing brilliant about her vocal performances; the music was too simple to demand brilliance. But she brought a clarity of style and depth of feeling to the old songs that gave them power and dignity. He always waited in hope for the song she had sung that first time he had listened, the one about the rose. He had spent more than an hour in his library one morning trying to find the words of the song. But he had had no success. It must be something recently composed, though surely something that would last. It must be by one of the new poets. He had even gone to a bookshop and bought a copy of Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads. But if one of them had written the poem, it was not in that particular volume. The song haunted him. He found himself thinking of the singer as a red rose. He could even picture her dressed in the rose-red gown that she had worn on the night of her come-out. But he steadfastly resisted putting Rosalind's face and character into the hazy mental image that he carried with him almost against his will. His rose was becoming a fantasy creature, different from women as he knew them in reality.
***
Even Raymore, who had judged the progress of Sylvia's connection with Lord Standen quite satisfactory, was somewhat surprised at the speed with which he came to the point. Less than a month after Sir Rowland Axby had paid his morning call to ask for the one ward's hand, Standen was repeating the performance for the other ward.
Raymore had no misgivings. The connection was quite unexceptionable. Standen had rank, wealth, looks, and sense to recommend him. His serious nature would complement Sylvia's exuberance. The two men quickly came to an amicable agreement.
As he had done on the previous occasion, with Rosalind, Raymore summoned Sylvia to the library before luncheon. He awaited her arrival with a feeling of relief. She at least could be counted upon to behave predictably. He was very thankful that it was not Rosalind again. He could not be sure that she would accept any suitor, even if Crawleigh were to offer for her.
Half an hour later Sylvia rushed with undignified haste into Cousin Hetty's sitting room, where that lady and Rosalind were examining purchases made during a morning shopping expedition. "Ros, Cousin Hetty," she began, breathless from her run up the stairs, "Lord Standen has called on Edward and has offered for me."
Rosalind looked up sharply and searched her cousin's face.
"Well, how splendid, my dear," Hetty said, moving across the room to hug the girl and startling a poodle that had been stretched beneath the hem of her dress. "I knew when I saw you that you would make a brilliant match. And Lord Standen is very grand. I do believe you will be most happy. I wonder when the wedding is like to be. Oh, how exciting. We must get to work immediately on your trousseau." She clasped her hands and gazed in rapture at the prospective bride.
"Are you planning to accept his lordship's proposal, Sylvie?" Rosalind asked more soberly.
Her cousin looked at her incredulously. "But of course," she said. "You know that I love him, Ros."
"Are you sure?" Rosalind asked dampeningly. "You have not known him long, Sylvie, and you know that you fall in and out of love very frequently. Would it not be better to wait longer and be quite sure?"
"Ros," Sylvia pleaded, "I thought you would be happy for me. Lord Standen is far different from all the others, you know. They were mere boys. He is a man. Nigel says that he spends much of his time in the country and insists on running his estate himself. He is very kind to his tenants. I think he is worthy of my love."
"I am sure you are right," Rosalind said, "but we do not always love people just because they are worthy. There has to be a real friendship and attraction too, Sylvie."
"He is always very kind to me," Sylvia replied, "and I know that he thinks me quite the most attractive girl he has ever met. Nigel told me so."
"Well," Rosalind said, smiling cheerfully and rising to her feet, "I am sure the man has a great deal of sense. And for your sake, Sylvie, I hope that this time you do remain in love. I am sure he will make a quite admirable husband."
But she could not help wishing that Nigel Broome would let her cousin do her own thinking. Rosalind was not at all convinced that this attachment would prove any more lasting than any of the others.
Chapter 7
Lord Standen had decided to celebrate his betrothal to Lady Sylvia Marsh with a week-long house party on his estate in Sussex. Even so, his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, felt that such an event called for a larger gathering in London. One week after the announcement appeared in the Gazette, she held a dazzling ball in honor of her brother and his fiancee.
Rosalind was becoming almost resigned to such occasions. She had learned to live her own life as far as was possible during the daytime and to accept the boredom of the evenings when she must sit and look cheerful and converse with whoever chose to sit with her. The event at hand gave her some interest in this particular ball. She watched her cousin and Lord Standen with interest when they were together. They danced twice before supper and stood together between dances speaking to their guests and receiving their congratulations. It was very hard to judge if there was a real attachment between them. They did not appear to talk much to each other, but then the occasion did not give them a great deal of opportunity to do so. They looked happy enough. Sylvia's eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed; she smiled constantly. Standen was gracious and had a word for each of his well-wishers. Rosalind
liked him. He seemed to be a man of good sense and stability of character. She hoped that Sylvia had made the right choice.
The Earl of Raymore was also present at the ball. He looked with satisfaction on the newly betrothed pair. Half of his responsibility at least seemed to have been safely disposed of. Unfortunately, it was the easier half. He frowned in the direction of Rosalind, who was seated at one side of the ballroom talking to Nigel Broome. Axby had not pressed his suit since her rejection of him and it was unlikely that she would look more kindly on him a second time even if he did. He had been neglecting his responsibilities, Raymore decided. The Season was half over already. If he wished to be rid of her before the summer set in, he would have to work very hard. She looked different from her usual self tonight, he concluded, his eyes assessing her from head to toe. The sky-blue lace gown made her look younger, but also made her appear more foreign. He had never been an admirer of Italian women, but to those who were, she was not unhandsome.
Broome might not be an impossible match for her. He was a younger son, but had a comfortable fortune of his own, inherited from his grandmother. He was an unassuming, rather dull young man, bookish, it was rumored. But they might suit. He might see if he could throw them together a bit during Standen's house party, to which both he and Rosalind had been invited. In the meantime, he strolled around the dance floor, talking to acquaintances, considering the possibility of introducing some of his friends to his ward.
Soon after the supper break Rosalind could stand the boredom no longer. She was fortunate enough to be seated close to a doorway that led onto the terrace. She slipped through into the relative darkness of the lantern-lit outdoors while a set was forming for a country dance and no one's attention was on her. There was only one couple on the terrace and they were quite a distance from her, deep in conversation. The air was too chilly to entice many guests out of doors. Rosalind limped in the opposite direction, one hand on the stone balustrade, until she could descend the few stone steps down onto the lawn. She walked on the grass, taking deep breaths of fresh air, glad to be free of prying eyes for just a few minutes. She shivered.