by Godman, Jane
Jack paused to watch the dancers and his eyes were drawn immediately to Rosie. She looked stunning, but too much like every other woman present, he decided savagely … and she had far too much flesh on display! Her youthful partner was unashamedly ogling her breasts as they came together in the dance. Jack felt an unaccountably strong compulsion to take the stripling by the throat and shake the life out of him. He resisted this unsociable impulse by ramming his hands into the pockets of his breeches and leaning his shoulders against the wall. A giggly debutante, who much admired his heroic good looks, advanced towards him. Noticing the brooding frown on his face, she thought better of it and drifted nonchalantly away.
When the dance ended, Rosie curtseyed low to her partner who, to Jack’s further outrage, took the opportunity to snatch another lecherous eyeful. Without thinking, he marched over to where she stood and, ignoring the blaze of hope which lit her eyes, bowed stiffly.
“Your servant, Miss Delacourt,” he could barely speak for rage, “May I claim the pleasure of your hand in the next dance?”
Rosie’s smoke-grey eyes showed her dismay. She had no idea what she had done to provoke this mood, but he was clearly seething with ill-concealed outrage. But surely even Jack, unquestionably the most audacious man alive, would not dare to cause a scene here … at her engagement party? With an inclination of her head, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The last dance had been a minuet but the mood became less formal now as the musicians struck up a country dance. All around them, other dancers indulged in the opportunity for socialising, gaiety and even – disguised within the abandon of the dance – amorousness. Rosie was reminded of the dance she and Jack had shared at Christmas, in a very different mood. Why must these memories, all of which made her body ache with longing, keep tormenting her? Studying the clenched muscles of Jack’s jaw, Rosie prayed for the dance to end before he gave vent to his annoyance. Her prayers were ignored.
“Your gown suits you very well,” he informed her, steering her expertly around the floor, “It announces to the world that you have the heart of a common harlot beneath all that expensive silk and lace.”
He might be angry – although Rosie had no idea why – but that was going too far! They were separated briefly by the movement of the set and, when they came back together, Rosie’s own temper – usually slow to ignite – had already reached boiling point. Between his cold fury and her white hot chagrin, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that a sizzling argument was underway.
“How dare you!” Rosie hissed, her hand, gripped tightly in his, twitched convulsively with the effort of not slapping him.
Jack shrugged, “The truth stings, does it not?” he asked, through gritted teeth, “You should take yourself off to Covent Garden and ply your trade there. With your wares so openly on display,” he indicated the exposed half-globes of her bosom, “I’ve no doubt you would be a success.”
“Is that where you found your fine mistress?” Rosie spat back at him, “I don’t see you berating Lady Cavendish who is practically falling out of her gown. Since when did you become a puritan, my lord? Was it in her bed? I had heard she teaches a very different type of lesson from its oft-used depths.”
“Is this display for any man who cares to look his fill? Or is it to inflame your intended? I believe his predilection for whores is well known. Do you whisper sweet words of love to him as you flaunt your charms in front of his eyes?”
Jack knew he was degenerating into a jealous rant now, but he found he could not stop firing bitter questions at her. A few interested glances were cast their way.
“What do you say to him, Rosie? Do you use the same sugared phrases and feigned artlessness with which you charmed me?” He gripped her wrist tightly as she tried to swing away from him. “After all, it was not so very long ago that you said ‘I love you more than life itself, Jack’…”
“If I said that, I lied! I don’t love you!” she panted under her breath, trying to pull away. “I hate you! I wish I had never met you!”
Rosie chose words she knew must hurt him but, even as the angry denial left her lips, she wanted to withdraw it. Her anger died as quickly as it had flared. She could never wish that brief time, when they had loved each other, undone. And she would never, as long as she lived, be unable to love him.
His face was as white as hers was red and he released her wrist immediately.
“You cannot wish it more than I,” he informed her coldly and, with a contemptuous little bow, he turned on his heel and left her alone – embarrassed, humiliated and the object of a hundred curious eyes – in the middle of the dance floor.
The gossips were having a field day. Lord St Anton certainly gave value for money when it came to scandalous behaviour, even if one discounted his swashbuckling, Jacobite past! Not content with behaving in the most blatantly lustful manner with Lady Cavendish, he had now indulged in a very public tiff with a young lady set to be married shortly.
“In my younger days, “Mrs Drummond confided to any of her acquaintance who were prepared to listen, “One waited until after the wedding before taking a lover! The girls these days are positively feral in their lack of restraint!”
“But, my dear,” her companion lowered her voice confidingly, “Who can blame that pretty, little bride-to-be of Sir Clive Sheridan’s? One can scarce imagine he will be a loving – or even, for that matter, kind – husband. And Lord St Anton is quite outrageously handsome as well as being quite uncommonly dashing! What lady could resist him if he chose to turn his charm on her?”
Rosie was mortified to note the number of high-ranking ladies who whispered behind their hands as they passed her in the park the following day. Her instinct was to fly back to Derbyshire but Sir Clive, almost licking his lips in delight at her disgrace, forbade any such action.
“You have made your bed, my dear, and have lain in it many, many times with St Anton … behind my back …” he grinned lasciviously, and she was too tired of his determined refusal to listen to utter her usual denials, “And now you must suffer the consequences.”
Lady Harpenden and Lady Aurelia were secretly delighted at the scandal which followed what they persisted in referring to as ‘the unfortunate dance floor incident’. The only way to restore Rosie’s damaged reputation, they agreed, was for her and Sir Clive to set a wedding date for as soon as possible after the banns had been read. And, of course, she must henceforth eschew the company of Lord St Anton. Rosie, unusually pliant, meekly agreed to a date one month hence. What did it matter now? Although she had goaded him into it, Jack’s admission that he wished they had never met made the storm of scandal breaking about her head pale into insignificance.
Sir Clive, lingering after his aunts had left them, slid an arm about her waist and, when she did not resist, pressed wet lips against her neck. Rosie, limp as a rag doll, managed to hide a shudder of revulsion but, when he tried to slide his hand inside her bodice, she sprang up hotly, her eyes flashing. Sir Clive laughed, “Oh, my proud beauty,” he murmured as he rose to leave, “How much I look forward to bringing you to heel.”
Chapter Eight
Rosie regarded Lady Cavendish with undisguised bewilderment. It was surprising enough that her ladyship had chosen to pay Lady Aurelia a morning visit – they were hardly kindred spirits – but that she had done so in order to invite Rosie to join her on a picnic in the countryside was more astonishing still. Something of Rosie’s thoughts must have shown on her face because Bella, with her tinkling laugh, said, “La, child! You look quite confounded, I do declare! The truth is I find myself with far too many gentlemen for this expedition and not enough ladies.”
“Not a situation which usually fazes your ladyship, I imagine,”
Rosie regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. It would not do to show such open antagonism to Jack’s mistress, particularly since she was still trying to live down the debacle of her engagement party. Lady Aurelia threw her a repr
oachful glance but Bella, far from being offended, seemed delighted.
“How right you are, my dear Miss Delacourt!” she clapped her hands together, “So, it is decided? You will join me in my new landau, yes? I declare I am positively desperate for my coachman to try it out! I vow ‘twill be the most delightful jaunt imaginable.”
With a swish of chintz she was gone, only the lingering musk of her perfume lingering to remind them she had been there at all.
“Well!” Lady Aurelia seemed, for once to be at a loss for words.
“Shall I cry off, ma’am?”
Rosie hoped her voice did not reveal her desperate eagerness to do so. A day spent in the company of Jack’s mistress? She could not imagine a worse torture!
“I had thought her ladyship was not, perhaps, a proper person with whom to keep company?”
“Lud, no! Bella Cavendish may be a wanton, but she is accepted everywhere and ‘twould not do to offend her. Not after … well, enough has already been said about that dreadful scene at your party … No, my dear, you must join her on her picnic. She is famous for her hospitality,” she giggled naughtily, “If that is what it is called these days! Now, let us consider … will you wear the lavender chintz? ‘Tis a colour most becoming to your dark colouring … but then the rose coloured day dress is also quite heartbreakingly lovely. I do think, my dear, that perhaps we should purchase some new ribbon for your straw bonnet, that flowered lilac does not enhance your pretty face as it should …”
The day of the picnic dawned. Any hopes that Rosie may have harboured of the weather thwarting her ladyships’ plans were put swiftly to flight when, as the housemaid opened her bedchamber curtains, a beautiful sunny day greeted her. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and gloomily sipped her hot chocolate.
Lady Cavendish had arranged to send a carriage for her so that she could join the party at the agreed meeting point on Clapham Common. Rosie decided on the lavender chintz dress, which Lady Aurelia had so admired, worn over a flowered petticoat. A bonnet of bleached straw decorated with silk roses and tied beneath her chin with wide ribbons charmingly framed her face. Jack, seated astride Thunderer, his favourite horse, turned to observe the new arrival as Sir Peregrine hurried forward to hand her down from the carriage. Rosie’s beauty, as she smiled shyly up at his best friend, once more took Jack’s breath away. What the devil was Bella about now? He threw Lady Cavendish a fulminating glance. In return she kissed the tips of her gloved fingers in his direction and gave the order for the little cavalcade to advance.
Sir Peregrine managed to wangle himself a place in the landau and proceeded to devote himself to Rosie’s entertainment by maintaining a steady stream of flirtatious nonsense. He did this so successfully that she soon forgot her initial dismay at seeing Jack and, by the time they had travelled only a few miles, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks becomingly flushed. Bella was content to sit back and watch them, smiling faintly at Sir Peregrine's funning attempts to open Rosie's sunshade and casting an occasional glance under her lashes at Jack's rigid back. If he overheard Sir Peregrine's banter and Rosie’s answering laughter, he gave no sign of it.
On arrival at Winton Hill, a boulder strewn incline with a panoramic view across outstandingly beautiful countryside, a flurry of activity ensued. Lady Cavendish's servants unloaded an inordinate amount of food from a closed carriage and proceeded to lay rich rugs and pillows on the grass so that her guests could be seated in comfort. They erected a canopy to provide shade for the assembled company. While all this activity was taking place, Sir Peregrine offered Rosie his arm and led her on a pleasant stroll through a little copse of trees. He was good company and it meant she did not have to be close to Jack and bear the scorn in his eyes.
“How is your so dear betrothed?” Sir Peregrine enquired, with a sidelong glance at her beguiling profile. She was as dainty a piece as he had ever seen, he thought lasciviously. He did not usually consider an impending marriage a barrier to a seduction, but this case was more complicated. Any fool could see his friend Jack was still smitten – more than smitten – by the delightful Miss Delacourt. Which meant she was out of bounds to Sir Peregrine. Really, he hoped Jack appreciated the sacrifices he was prepared to make for the sake of their friendship!
“He is well, thank you,” the words seemed to drain the colour and life from her.
She turned back to look at the rest of the party. Her eyes were drawn to a lone figure standing just to one side of the group. Even at that distance, she could feel Jack’s longing tugging her towards him – as powerfully as if an invisible rope had been tied between them.
Sir Peregrine followed the direction of her gaze.
“Do you know, Miss Delacourt,” he began and, with an effort, she turned her attention back to him, “If ever I am in any kind of trouble, there is one man above all others I would trust to get me out of it.”
Rosie sighed, any attempt at dissemblance abandoned, “Jack?”
“There is no better friend in all the world, Miss Delacourt, I assure you.”
“I know … but there are some secrets that, once shared, will cause a devastation so great it cannot be reversed, Sir Peregrine.”
There was a finality to her tone and, letting the subject go, he steered her back towards the opulent picnic area.
Arranging her skirts decorously around her, Rosie joined her companions on the rug. She leaned back against a large boulder, around which a thoughtful footman had arranged a pile of cushions. Lady Cavendish’s cook had laboured over a dazzling array of delicacies, including a roast beef joint, a shoulder of lamb, several large pigeon pies, a boiled calf’s tongue and a variety of salads. Baskets of fresh fruit sat next to compotes and puddings and, in addition to all of this, there were breads and cheeses. There was ale for the gentlemen. Champagne rested in ice buckets and half a dozen bottles of Lady Cavendish’s celebrated cognac were being lovingly tended by her butler. Rosie’s appetite had deserted her since the date of her wedding had been set, but she tried to do justice to the elegant fare, accepting a small portion of junket and a sliced apple. A group of young ladies and one or two gentlemen, their plates piled high, joined her and she was grateful for their artless chatter. Jack found a spot on the edge of the rug that was furthest away from Rosie and lay down, a pillow under his head and his tri-corn hat over his face. He appeared to fall instantly asleep and did not stir. Even Sir Peregrine, lobbing grapes at him, got no response. Lady Cavendish sipped champagne and chattered animatedly to her guests. In the midst of this idyllic scene, Rosie decided she had never felt so lonely or dispirited.
It was late in the afternoon when the guests drifted back to their carriages and horses. Lady Cavendish caught up with Rosie.
“My dear Miss Delacourt, I had my groom bring Firefly in case I should wish to ride today, but I find I do not,” she indicated a pretty little roan mare. “Can I prevail upon you to ride her home? She needs the exercise and I know Lord St Anton will be glad of your company on the return journey …”
Rosie blushed. What strange notion could have possessed Lady Cavendish that she would relinquish the chance to be at Jack’s side? Unless she wished to illustrate that he was so devoted to her that she could throw the temptation of a former lover in his way and know that he would not stray? It was a message Rosie did not need. She already knew how much Jack despised her. Whatever the reason for her ladyship’s odd start, she would be glad of the exercise, and she very much doubted that Jack would ride alongside her. It was with a feeling of nostalgic pleasure that she allowed the groom to help her mount Firefly. She missed Cleo and her daily rides dreadfully.
Jack, already mounted, had drawn up alongside the landau.
“You have missed your calling in life, Bella,” he told her, an amused twinkle lighting his cobalt eyes. “You remind me of a match-making mama scheming to shackle the highest bidder.”
Rosie brought Firefly alongside in time to overhear Bella’s laughing response, “And you, my dearest Jack, remind me of a man
deep in love. Now get you gone and keep Miss Delacourt safe.”
They rode in awkward silence behind the cavalcade of vehicles. Rosie’s mind dwelt uncomfortably on Lady Cavendish’s words. How secure in Jack’s love she must be to joke so openly of it! He was mine once, she thought sorrowfully. I was wrapped in the comforting blanket of his unconditional love … until I threw it away.
Jack, watching the play of emotions across her face surreptitiously, felt his heart go out to her. This was definitely not a bride joyously anticipating her nuptials. Bella, with her inimitable turn of phrase, had said Rosie looked like she was ‘on her way to the gallows instead of the altar’. He wished she would confide in him. He knew Bella – curse her interference! – had thrown them together in the hope that Rosie would do just that.
“Shall we cut across the fields?” he had to repeat the question, so lost in thought was she.
“Oh!” Rosie cast a longing glance towards the open countryside, “Oh, yes, indeed! I should like that above all things.”
Bella and Sir Peregrine, watching from the landau as they left the road and promptly disappeared from view, smiled at each other in a congratulatory manner.