Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  With his quizzing glass raised to view her, Maret lamented to his friend in a sleepy undertone, “But, my dear Stratford, you told me she was quite plain.”

  The viscount did not reply. He simply stood and stared.

  Feeling her age no longer required the unbecoming pastels demanded of a debutante, Rose had chosen a gauze gown decorated with silver rosettes worn over a dove gray satin sheath, the color of which perfectly matched her enormous eyes. A silvery gauze shawl was cunningly draped over her arms and allowed to trail behind her, providing adornment as no amount of jewelry could have done.

  But it was her hair that commanded his lordship’s attention. Having previously been hidden by a succession of spinsterish caps, the soft brown radiance had been unexpected. Like Helen’s, Rose’s hair was not fashionably cropped, but kept long in a profusion of gentle curls. For the occasion, she had piled her hair into an artful topknot, threaded with the silver ribbon so generously offered by Amy, with tendrils tumbling over her ears. Gazing at the warm blend of color, Stratford was reminded of the patina of some richly mellowed wood.

  Helen darted forward to take Rose’s hand, guiding her to the gentlemen, where she shyly introduced her to Mr. Maret. He took Miss Lawrence’s hand and held it for a still moment as he searched her eyes.

  “I am honored,” he said at last, lightly caressing her fingertips with his lips.

  Rose, for her part, examined him just as directly. Despite the studied languor, she recognized the intelligence behind the sleepy eyes and the strength of character beneath the elegant clothes. She decided that, wager or not, she liked what she saw.

  “The honor, Mr. Maret, is mine,” she replied. “I’ve heard a great deal of you, you must know, and have long anticipated this pleasure.”

  A smile graced his lips. “Ah, but you must put aside whatever you have heard, my dear, for the half of it, I am persuaded, can do me no justice at all, while the other half does me rather too much justice.”

  Her honeyed laughter enchanted him as much as it had the viscount. His lordship took the moment to make his own greeting of her, saying, “It is becoming a novel experience to see you, Miss Lawrence. Have you quite finished with all the sights to be seen in the metropolis?”

  “Oh, I am quite certain, my lord, that you could show me a few not even mentioned in my guidebook,” she returned, laughing.

  Their attention was captured just then by the announcement of dinner and the small party proceeded to the formal dining room to pass a pleasant interlude preceding the ball. Sitting at opposite ends of the lengthy table, Stratford was granted no further opportunity for speech with Rose, but throughout the meal, his eyes wandered often toward the spot where she sat next to Daniel. Conversation was light and witty, the food savory and fulfilling, and the small company at last rose from the table satisfied with it and with each other.

  Within the hour, Brook Street was the scene of a bustling fervor as carriages, coaches and vehicles of all kinds rolled forward to dispense their occupants at the front of the well-lit town house. Footmen ushered the arrivals within, removing cloaks and capes, walking sticks and hats, before each guest mounted the stairs to formally greet their hostess in the threshold of the elaborately decorated ballroom.

  Not wishing to copy Mrs. Knight’s recent success with silk hangings, or to resort to following Lady Holloway’s lead in festooning her rooms with fresh flowers, Elizabeth had shrewdly struck upon the notion of placing mirrors throughout her rooms. The prismatic reflection of shimmering candles, sparkling gems and splendid gowns was stunning. In addition, small bits of mirror hung from the ceiling with ribbons, creating a celestial glitter much admired by her guests.

  Music penetrated the air as Lord Stratford led Miss Helen to the head of the first set. Other couples fell in behind them, and Rose was gratified to see her cousin wreathed in smiles as she took to the floor on the arm of Mr. Baldwin. Mindful of Rose’s advice, Amy behaved with an unsurpassed decorum and was so gracious toward her partner that the two were soon in perfect charity with one another.

  Sitting on one of the armless Sheraton chairs lining the walls, Rose placidly watched the colorful activity around her.

  “May I request the honor of this dance, Miss Lawrence?” a lazy voice inquired.

  She turned her head to behold the lithe figure of Jacques Maret. “I do not intend to dance, sir.”

  “Ah, then I intend to sit with you.” He put his words easily to action, settling beside her. “I have heard, Miss Lawrence, that you old Lord Stratford to dislike.”

  She followed the direction of his gaze to study Stratford as he moved with graceful ease through the dance with Helen. She then turned to scrutinize the long, thin face of her companion before saying, “You have been misinformed.”

  “Indeed?”

  She ignored this weary inquiry to observe, ‘I’d not have thought that the two of you would make close friends.”

  “Stratford is somewhat . . . shall we say, energetic.”

  “But he is your friend nonetheless,” she persisted.

  “He is my friend.”

  It was simply said, but she was conscious of a sudden desire to change topics. Several impartial subjects were covered, with Rose being kept much amused by Maret’s air of fatigue, when toward the end of the first set, he commented, “I trust you will change your mind about dancing, Miss Lawrence.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I fear you shall be hard put to find enough excuses for not doing so,” he said while surveying the rooms through his beribboned glass. “I find I must apologize for putting you in such a position.”

  “You apologize? Whatever can you mean?”

  “It will have been observed that I’ve been conversing with you for the whole of this dance,” he explained. Dropping his glass, he looked at her with the air of one slightly beset with worry. “You shall—I’m sorry, my dear—be plagued with requests the rest of the evening.”

  “I shall?” She smiled her disbelief.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Maret came to his feet as Stratford and Helen emerged from the crowds. It appeared his lordship was in one of his kind moods, for Helen was smiling happily. With a silent sight of relief, Rose stood to join her sister and the two ladies were soon surrounded by an admiring circle of eager young beaux.

  A thin white hand on his sleeve detained Stratford from joining that circle. His face was a mask of ineffable boredom as Maret mused, “I perceive, Colin, that I’ve made a mistake. You are far too dark for Miss Helen. Perceive what a striking couple we should have made with my fairness emphasizing her dark beauty and vice versa.”

  “Most definitely vice versa!” Stratford laughed. “Don’t expect me to apologize, Maret—you chose her for me after all.”

  “So I did, dear boy, so I did,” Maret returned in tones of utter ennui. “It behooves me to permit the ton a glimpse of what might have been.” So saying, he wandered over to solicit Helen’s hand for the next quadrille.

  Pressing past two youthful and well turned-out exquisites who stood arguing for the hone of leading the protesting Miss Lawrence into the set forming, Stratford presented the lady with his own petition. She declined politely. He persisted, but she was not to be persuaded, insisting she meant only to watch the dancing of the evening.

  Lady Minerva swooped down to claim her nephew’s attention before he could make an issue of the matter, and much to Rose’s relief, he was drawn inexorably away.

  When, some few minutes later, Stratford chanced to see Miss Lawrence stepping lightly into the quadrille with Baldwin, his anger, he felt, was justified. To give her her due, Rose had tried to deny Mr. Baldwin. But in his way, Daniel was as obstinate as his cousin, and as no one had swept mercifully forth to rescue her, her objections had at last been overcome.

  Once she had succumbed to Mr. Baldwin’s entreaties, Rose gave herself up fully to the pleasures of the quadrille. She loved to dance and executed even the most intricate steps with the lightest
of grace. When, as Maret’s prediction proved all too accurate and she was presented with the novel experience of having men encircle her, Rose forgot altogether her intention to remain on the sidelines as became the matron she considered herself to be. She favored one zealous gentleman after another, stepping happily to the music and thoroughly enjoying her astounding success.

  Her enjoyment was observed by Stratford with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. His annoyance, however, grew as Miss Lawrence continued to elude him. The more she seemed to prefer the attention of others, the more securing a dance with her became an object with him. He found himself needing to know the feel of her in his arms. When he saw her dancing with his cousin Baldwin for a second time, annoyance gave way to anger.

  He waited impatiently, watching them moodily from beneath half-lowered lids as he struggled to keep from striding forth and tearing her from Baldwin’s side. When, after what seemed to him an interminable length of time, the dance came to an end, Stratford met the guilty pair with a heavy frown.

  “I had thought, Miss Lawrence,” he said tight-lipped, “that you had chosen not to dance this evening.”

  She strove to keep her voice light as she replied, “Indeed, my lord, such was my intention. But as Mr. Baldwin overcame my every objection—”

  “I had not realized my cousin could be so determined,” he cut in with faint derision. “Come, Miss Lawrence, I believe the next dance shall be mine.”

  Dimly aware of the first strains of a waltz being sounded and thinking she could not bear to be in Stratford’s arms, Rose shook her head in wordless protest.

  “I am certain this is our dance,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no denial.

  “But I am persuaded you would much rather stand up again with Helen,” she countered, turning to her sister beside her.

  “Oh, no,” Helen said unhelpfully. “You must dance with him, Rose. You have no done so once tonight.”

  Miss Lawrence looked from her sister to his lordship, then firmly aside her mounting panic and quietly agreed. It was only, she told herself resolutely, a dance. Though the hand she set upon Stratford’s velvet sleeve shook slightly, Rose appeared calm as they moved into the swirl of couples waltzing.

  Beneath the gleaming mirrors, they paused and faced one another. His gloved hand clasped hers and the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors. A startling tremor of desire passed between them as Viscount Stratford took Rose Lawrence into his arms and twirled her into a blur of time and essence. She saw nothing but the dark passion burning within his eyes. She heard nothing but the erratic leaping of her heartbeat. She felt nothing but the heated touch of his hand resting on her waist.

  Though they did not speak, it seemed to Rose as if the sudden acknowledgement of their love had been shouted through the room. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  The music faded to stillness. Stratford stood motionless, staring at her. Then abruptly, he turned and strode away.

  Her fingers still trembled where he had touched them. Her every breath was taken with effort. She stood where he had left her and knew again, nothing would ever be as it had been before.

  *****

  Some twenty minutes later Colin Phillips, Viscount Stratford, formally announced the plighting of his troth to Miss Helen Lawrence. Amid the outpouring of felicitations, his lordship looked not at his new fiancée, but stared at Rose with such searing intensity that she was forced to make her excuses and retire straightway from the festivity.

  She lay down fully clothed upon her bed and stared dully up into the darkness, trying to understand what had just happened. That Stratford now loved her she had no doubt. As the gay melody of the Duke of York’s Quick Step floated faintly up to her, she tried to decide if the knowledge of this love was a painful joy or a joyous pain.

  Out of the shadows came one clear thought: Their love could never be fulfilled. She knew that for all his wildness, Stratford was an honorable man. He would not jilt Helen. And Rose thought it highly unlikely that her timid sister would ever cry off from a betrothal so publicly announced. She wondered bleakly, as she had so often before, what had prompted Helen to accept the offer of a man she so clearly did not love.

  It was at this point that a tap on the door disturbed her woeful meditation.

  “Rose? I do not mean to hector you,” Helen said quietly as she closed the door and moved to her sister’s bedside. “Stratford sent me to discover if you are all right, which was very kind in him, was it not?”

  For some seconds Rose made no response. Then she said woodenly, “You may tell his lordship there is nothing to be concerned about. I am unused to such excitement, that is all.”

  She seemed unwilling to elaborate so Helen lightly kissed her brow and backed toward the door. “Do get some rest, dearest,” she whispered as she left her sister to the dull comfort of the darkness.

  Rose did not know how many hours had trudged by when another rap sounded upon her door, to be followed by a cropful of blond curls.

  “Rose, dear, are you awake?” inquired a voice full of suppressed excitement.

  She forced her lips to part, her tongue to move. “Yes, Amy.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaimed, rushing in. “I could not think of going to bed without tell you the news!”

  Rose made a supreme effort. She sat up and lit the candle in the pewter lamp at her bedside. “What news?” she asked, trying to care.

  “Daniel—Mr. Baldwin—has spoken!” Amelia swirled to the bedside, then amended. “Well, not precisely, for he will have it that he cannot ask for my hand until my eighteenth birthday, even though that isn’t until midsummer. He is such a dear with his quaint notions! But we have come to an understanding.”

  The young girl glowed with her happiness and Rose roused herself to give her a tight hug. “That’s the best news I could have had, Amy.”

  “Well, I wanted you to know. Helen should be up in a moment.” She darted out. An instant later, she whisked back in to inquire solicitously, “Has your headache gone, Rose? I do hope you’re feeling more the thing.”

  “Thank you, yes,” she replied mechanically, even as Amy was disappearing once again.

  *****

  The following morning Rose reclined upon the padded sofa in the smaller of the sitting rooms, not trying very hard to keep her mind on the romantic novel lying in her lap. She had endured listening to breakfast talk consisting solely of the triumphant ball, which everyone had deemed an appalling crush and therefore an impressive success, until she felt she must surely give vent to a silent scream. When the Thacker town carriage was called for, she pleaded exhaustion and was at last left to her solitude.

  This she had not found to be much of an improvement, for Rose could not cease indulging in the bittersweet pain of remembering those brief, dizzying moments in Stratford’s arms. She was remembering them now, when a rapid footfall outside the door interrupted her reverie. The door flung open and Viscount Stratford stood on the threshold.

  With a start, Rose jumped to her feet, her unread volume dropping unnoticed to the floor. Stratford’s black eyes swept hungrily over her, driving all color from her cheeks. In two swift strides he was before her.

  “Miss Lawrence—Rose—” he began.

  “Helen is gone out,” she said quickly.

  One impatient shake of the head denied his desire to see Helen. “I’ve not slept for thinking of you, longing for you—”

  “Don’t! Please!” she cried, her hand raised as if to deflect a blow.

  “I must speak with you.” He drew closer still.

  She stood silent, gazing with pleading eyes. Stratford reached quickly forward and pulled the ribbon of her mobcap loose. “Why the devil do you wear that damned thing?” he demanded. “To be acting as if you are old and dowdy instead of young and beautiful and desirable—”

  “My lord, I cannot let you say these things,” Rose protested in a flustered voice. She tried to straighten her cap and only succeeded in setting it
more askew. She retreated two steps as the viscount’s brows snapped together.

  He began to pace in front of her, his expression dangerously set. Suddenly he stopped to face her. “Rose—what happened last night, can you deny you felt it, too?”

  Her veridical nature would not allow her to speak the lie which sprang to her lips. “I must deny it,” she said instead, her voice breaking a little.

  “I think—my God, I think I’ve loved you from the first,” Stratford whispered in a tone of wonderment.

  “Don’t! Please don’t torment me this way. It was hard enough to accept your betrothal when I thought you held me in dislike, but now . . .” Anguish rang clear in her fading voice.

  Stratford took a quick step toward her. “Oh, my love—”

  “Kindly remember that you are betrothed to my sister,” she said shakily.

  “Remember?” he echoed with a savage laugh. “How in God’s name can I forget it?”

  They stood speechless, their unspoken passion burning between them.

  “Please, please go,” she begged at last.

  “Let me—just this once—declare my love, before I must set it aside. I love you, Rose Lawrence. Everything else is meaningless.”

  She knew she must force him to leave before she threw all propriety to the winds and surrendered to the love surging within her. “Lord Stratford, I must ask you to go at once. Or I will call for a servant.”

  His lordship remained a moment more, his eyes baring his love for her greedy inspection, before pivoting sharply on his heel and vanishing.

  Two days later, withstanding all protestations to the contrary, Miss Rose Lawrence returned to her home in Willowley.

  Chapter 13

  As the month of May ran its course, the beau monde buzzed with tales of the Right Honorable the Viscount Stratford. Half the ton believed it must be the love of his fiancée that brought about the startling change, while the other half wondered what fresh trick the devil’s son could be at now. For Stratford no longer passed the nights away at the tables of the gaming halls, nor roistered time in bacchanal fervor, while the only woman he was seen to danger after was Miss Helen Lawrence. Lady Minerva Baldwin began to be hopeful that the miracle had happened and Stratford had indeed fallen in love with his fiancée.