Red Rose

by Mary Balogh

  "I had not meant to order you to play," he said gently against her hair. "It was a request. You are an artist, Rosalind, a very talented performer, while I am a mere patron. I ask you very humbly to honor me by playing for my guests on Friday. I will not force you or badger you. It will be your own decision. But please remember that, although no performer myself, my taste is well-respected. If I say you are good, you may feel confident that you are good."

  He grasped her arms and put her a little away from him. He looked down into her tear-stained face with great gentleness. "I am sorry that you hate me," he said. "I would not wish it. But please do not rush into a runaway marriage, especially to Gretna, when no one is opposing your wedding in the first place. You may think now that you do not care what society says, but in time you would be embarrassed to find that those who marry over the anvil are not readily accepted socially. And there is no need, Rosalind. If my presence is so intolerable to you, I shall stay away. You need not see me more than in passing between now and Friday, nor afterward, until you leave for the country with Crawleigh. Will that please you?"

  Rosalind looked into his eyes but could not answer. The lump in her throat was choking her. With one hand he gently put back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

  "Go now," he said, "and think over your decision, if there is anything to think about. Will you send word to me tomorrow? But whatever you decide, you may use this room whenever it is not in use. I give you my word of honor that I shall not come near. I will intrude no further into your soul."

  She was still looking into his eyes, her own large with unshed tears. He bent slowly and covered her mouth with his in a gentle and unhurried kiss.

  "Go now," he whispered, releasing her mouth, and he turned away so that she would not be made self-conscious when she limped the distance between the pianoforte and the open door of the music room.

  ***

  Rosalind lay facedown on the bed sobbing her heart out and not knowing quite why she did so. Perhaps it was the feeling she had had during the afternoon that all was not as it should be with Bernard. It was hard for her to pinpoint exactly what was missing. There was a feeling that perhaps their friendship was all of the surface. She knew that he did not share her love of music and art; she did not share his interest in high fashion and hunting. Once the first romance of their marriage lost its novelty, would they have enough in common on which to build a deep and lasting relationship? Such thoughts were absurd, of course. How many girls of her class had the opportunity or time to find a man to whom they were totally suited? It was silly to aim for the ideal. Her own marriage would certainly be no worse than the majority she saw around her. In fact, it was likely to be better than most. Sir Bernard Crawleigh was a good-natured, intelligent man who would always treat her with consideration for her feelings, she believed. It was pointless now to start feeling uneasy about her forthcoming marriage.

  Anyway, she really had no choice. If she broke off her engagement, she would be in the charge of the Earl of Raymore for the rest of her life. The prospect of spending two more weeks in his home was intolerable. She could not possibly contemplate a lifetime of such torture. Perhaps that was the problem, was it? She was totally lacking in freedom. All her life she had been ruled by men, as in fact all women must be, but never had she felt the restraints more than now.

  It was the Earl of Raymore, of course, who had provoked her tears. She really did hate him. He had insinuated himself into every part of her life in the short time she had known him. She had thought that at least her music was hers. Music had always been very private to her, a channel for the outpouring of her spirit. She was badly shaken by the knowledge that he had listened to her in the past weeks and that he had passed judgment on her skills. Would she be free of him even when she married? She almost doubted it. He was constantly in her thoughts to plague her. She was constantly remembering their arguments, thinking of other things she might have said on various occasions. She was constantly comparing him to the dead Alistair of her dreams and to Bernard. If she ever again felt dissatisfied with the placid nature of her relationship with her betrothed, she must murmur a prayer of thanks that there was none of the turbulence that marked her encounters with Raymore. If ever she felt that there was some emotion missing in her embraces with Bernard, she must be thankful that there was not the passion that turned her into mindless fire with her guardian.

  That was what she resented most about him. If he had always been the cold, arrogant, demanding man that was his normal self, she could at least respect him for a certain integrity. Her emotions would not be placed in turmoil. But there had been too many interludes of passion, when they had both behaved as if they could not possibly live one moment longer without each other. She still flushed hotly with embarrassment when she thought of that morning at Broome Hall when she had almost given herself to him completely. She could not forgive him for using her so. And then, most confusing of all, were those rare occasions when he was gentle, almost tender. She had tried to forget the night of Sylvia's disappearance when he had kissed her brow, apparently in a gesture of comfort. But what about his behavior of this afternoon? All her defenses had come crumbling down with his gentleness, with the humility he had shown when talking about her talent. His kiss had almost destroyed her completely. She had wanted to cling to the lapels of his coat and pour out her heart to him just as if he were a normal man who would understand and sympathize. For a moment she had felt as if she had glimpsed a different man, a warm and compassionate human being.

  It was clearer to her now, of course, why he had behaved so. He was a man who must have his way. For some reason that eluded her, he had decided that she must play at his concert, but she had almost thwarted him. He must have learned already that neither coldness nor anger would move her, and had consequently turned to other tactics. He was trying gentleness, humility, concern. Despicable man! She thumped the bed with her fists. How could he so coldly use the physical appeal that he must know he exerted over her?

  She was almost resolved to refuse to play for him on Friday night. She could not give him the satisfaction of feeling that his blandishments had succeeded. Anyway, she could not possibly perform before a large and critical audience that would include the great Hans Dehnert. Even so, a little niggling thought at the back of her mind kept reminding her of one thing that he had said. His concert was very dear to him. He would not have asked her to perform if he did not truly believe that she was worthy. Whatever his personal feelings for her, he must consider her talented. And she could trust his judgment; he was one of the most respected patrons of the arts in England, she had learned since moving to London. She had a chance to play in the same concert as Hans Dehnert! The thought was overwhelming. Although she still believed that she would say no the next day, or, better still, give him no answer at all, part of her was glad that she did not have to make a final decision until the following day.

  Rosalind got up from the bed and rang for a maid to bring her some fresh water. She had only a litde while in which to repair the damage her tears had done to her face before going down to dine with Cousin Hetty and preparing to attend the opera with Sir Bernard and a party he had invited.

  Chapter 15

  The Earl of Raymore was true to this word. Rosalind saw nothing of him between the time of their meeting in the music room and the concert on Friday evening. The day following her encounter with him she was still as undecided as she was the day before about what her reply would be. She wandered into the music room in the morning and played some music that she found undemanding. She sang a little. But she could not bring herself to even try the Beethoven. She wandered out again little more than a half-hour after she had begun.

  In the afternoon she decided to pay a call on Lady Elise Martel. She had not seen her since before going into the country. They spent a pleasant half-hour exchanging news and cooing over the baby, whom Lady Elise had brought down from the nursery for her guest's inspection.

  "
I have a terrible problem," Rosalind said finally, "that I am hoping you can help me solve."

  "Yes," Lady Elise said, "I have noticed that you are preoccupied. Trouble with Sir Bernard, my dear?"

  Rosalind hesitated. "No," she said, "it does not concern him. It is that my guardian has asked me to play at his concert on Friday evening."

  Lady Elise gasped. "You mean on the pianoforte?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "He has heard you play?" Lady Elise continued. "You are that good?"

  "I have never thought of myself as a very good player," Rosalind said. "I have always played to please myself, you see. I have always found that playing both relieves my emotions and helps me build self-discipline. It is challenging to play a difficult piece perfectly."

  "But you must be good if Edward says you are," her friend assured her. "What is the problem, Rosalind?"

  Rosalind pondered. "It is as if he intruded into the most private part of my life," she said. "He has been listening to me all these weeks, you see, without my knowing it. I am honored to know I could play on the same program as Hans Dehnert, but… Oh, Elise, I cannot allow him to just take over my life. I have to keep part of me for myself. I am not explaining myself very well, am I?"

  Lady Elise absently stroked the curled hand of the child who slept on the sofa beside her. Her eyes were wide and fixed on Rosalind. "Oh, you explain yourself very well," she said. "Tell me, my dear, do you feel the same about Sir Bernard?"

  "About Bernard?" Rosalind repeated, frowning slightly. "No, of course not. He has never tried to bore into my very soul."

  Her friend nodded several times but said nothing. "Elise?" Rosalind queried.

  "Have you realized that you love Edward?" Lady Elise asked quietly.

  Rosalind could feel the blood draining from her head. "Love Edward?" she said, appalled. "Of course I do not love him, Elise. I hate him with a passion."

  Lady Elise did not comment. She leaned back on the sofa and regarded her friend with gentle amusement. "And it just might be that your feelings are returned," she said. "Henry told me tbat Edward has been behaving strangely in the last few days. He dined here two nights ago, you know, and seemed quite happy to be here, though he was the only guest. He appeared almost reluctant to leave, in fact. Well, how famous!"

  Rosalind leapt to her feet. "Please do not say such things," she said. "Oh, do not make sport of me. I detest the earl. Nothing will make me happier than to leave his house in two weeks' time knowing that I never have to return again."

  "Please sit down," her friend said. "I am sorry, Rosalind. I did not mean to distress you. Come, I shall ring for tea. But before we drop the subject entirely, please do consider accepting Edward's invitation. It would be a shame to have the talent you must possess and not share it at least once with a discerning audience."

  It was a piece of advice that Sir Bernard Crawleigh echoed a couple of hours later when he took Rosalind driving in the park. She did not mention to him any of the emotional overtones of her interview with Raymore the afternoon before, but merely told him that she had been asked to play and had to give her answer that day.

  "I say," Sir Bernard said, "much as I dislike the man, Rosalind, I must respect his judgment on music. You must be good."

  She shrugged. "He seems to think so."

  "You must accept, you know," he said. "I must confess that I have been looking forward to the evening as a crashing bore, but knowing you are to play, I shall definitely be interested."

  "What if I make a mess of it?" she asked doubtfully.

  "I told you," he answered with a grin, "I respect Raymore's judgment. How does he know you are good, by the way?"

  "He has been listening to me," she said, a thread of anger in her voice. "Without my knowledge, of course."

  He grinned again. "I'll wager you were furious when you found out," he said. "I wish I might have seen that interview. Did you strike him, Rosalind?"

  "Yes, I did," she replied, her face hardening.

  He laughed outright. "Famous!" he said. "He did not hit you back, though, did he? I should have to call the fellow out if he did, you know, and I am not altogether sure I would like that. He is a better shot than I."

  Rosalind said nothing.

  He looked at her more closely. "Did he hit you, Rosalind?" he asked.

  "No," she said, looking down at her hands. "No, he did not strike me."

  He continued to look at her for a while before turning his attention back to the horses. Several minutes passed before they again engaged in light chatter.

  When she returned to the house, Rosalind went to the drawing room and seated herself at the escritoire there. She wrote a short note to the Earl of Raymore, telling him that she would be honored to play at his concert on Friday evening. She gave the letter to the butler, with instructions that it should be handed to the earl as soon as he returned to the house. She then went to the music room, where she began to practice the Moonlight Sonata with a furious kind of dedication. Only the gathering gloom later warned her that it was time to go down to dinner.

  ***

  Raymore had passed a wretched day. He had spent more than an hour at Jackson's boxing saloon working off some of his physical and emotional energy, but apart from that he had avoided company. He had ridden early in the park, dined at home, alone, in the library, and sat in the same room all afternoon while Hans Dehnert practiced upstairs. He left the room and the house only when he heard Rosalind come in after her drive with Crawleigh.

  He had certainly made a mess of things the day before. He wanted Rosalind to play in his concert on Friday evening because she had a great deal of talent. She had more than technical excellence; she had the rare gift of being able to put the whole of herself into the interpretation of what she played. Yet it seemed very doubtful that she would play.

  For several years past Raymore had developed skill at persuading the most temperamental artists to play at his musical evenings. Hans Dehnert had been one of his most difficult conquests. Yet with Rosalind he had botched things so badly that he felt like a schoolboy again. He had walked in on her at a moment when she was obviously caught up in a very private experience. He had revealed to her that he had been spying on her for weeks. And then he had somehow given the impression that he was ordering rather than asking her to play for his guests. He could not have miscalculated more badly. He could fully understand her anger. He would be bitterly disappointed if she refused his request. And, in fact, it looked as if she was going to do worse than refuse. It seemed that she was going to ignore him altogether.

  But that was not the worst of the matter for Raymore. He had wanted the day before to begin to make amends for the high-handed way he had treated her in the past. He knew that he had no chance of winning her love, but he had hoped to show her that at least he esteemed her and saw her now as a worthy and talented person. He had hoped that she might come to like him so that they could part on friendly terms. He had not wanted to lose her altogether. He had hoped that perhaps, as friends, they might meet in the future.

  But he had succeeded only in hurting her deeply, in making it seem as if he wanted to destroy her sense of self. She had seen his actions as an unforgivable example of tyranny, spying on her in her most private moments.- She hated him now worse than ever, and he could hardly blame her. He was consumed by an agony of remorse. He had had no right to listen to her all those times, uninvited.

  Holding her in his arms the day before had been a terrible agony, because he knew as he did so that it would be the last time he would ever touch her. He had known that as soon as she recovered from her fit of sobbing he would tell her that he would stay away from her, never force his presence on her again. And even then he had not been able to resist one final act of self-indulgence. He had kissed her.

  And fare-thee-well, my only Luve,

  And fare-thee-well, a while!

  The words of that song would haunt him forever, he felt. The next line would never apply to him, though:
"And I will come again, my Luve." He would never be able to come to her again now. Once she was gone, he would probably never see her again, except for a chance glimpse at some ton event when she was in town, perhaps. And she might as well be gone already. He had pledged not to see her while she remained in his house, except on Friday evening, if she still planned to attend his concert.

  Raymore thought about Sir Bernard Crawleigh. He hated to think of Rosalind belonging to him. The man was pleasant enough, he supposed, and he would certainly never ill-treat her. But there was no depth to the man's character. He still kept a mistress at an establishment that he owned. Raymore had checked quite carefully into the matter within the last week. And Crawleigh had made a lengthy call there since his return to London. The fact did not call for any great alarm. Crawleigh might be a perfectly decent husband despite the existence of a mistress. He would merely be doing what a large number of other husbands did. But it was not good enough for Rosalind, Raymore decided. She was very special: intelligent, talented, very cultured. She needed a man who could match her passion for the beauties of life. And Crawleigh was definitely not that man.

  Had she chosen him freely? Had he himself pushed her into the betrothal by making such an infernal to-do over the episode in Letty's summerhouse? Had his treatment of her in general forced her to consider marriage to Crawleigh a welcome escape from his guardianship? Or did she love the man? It was impossible to know the answer.

  But Raymore made a decision. Before he left the house, he wrote a letter, which he left with the housekeeper to deliver to Rosalind the following morning. He would have liked to speak with her himself, but he could not for two reasons. He had promised that she would not have to see him before Friday night. Also, he knew from experience that any meeting between the two of them was bound to flare into an angry quarrel. He did not wish to quarrel with her ever again. He wanted to love her.