Fran Baker

by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

  “Do you lead me to hope, Miss Lawrence, that you will accept my suit?”

  “I—I wish to know if you still desire to make me your wife.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then, sir,” she said, taking a deep breath, “I am grateful to accept the honor you are bestowing upon me.”

  A solemn, yet pleased, smile spread over his face. “It’s I who am grateful, Miss Lawrence. And though we do not start this match based on the more sentimental feelings considered natural to the married state, I am certain those feelings will not be long in forthcoming. I respect and admire you greatly and shall endeavor to make you a worthy husband.”

  “I—I am sure you shall, Mr. Baldwin,” Rose responded, slightly overcome with this sober speech. “Do you wish for us to be . . . married soon?”

  “There is little reason to suffer a long engagement,” he replied, stretching his smile into a grim line. “What say you do a double wedding with your sister and Stratford?”

  Rose’s face paled, but she assented readily with a nod. The September date having been agreed upon, it only remained for the families to be notified. Miss Lawrence seemed strangely reluctant in this regard, but Mr. Baldwin won out in the decision to announce their betrothal without delay. The interview was concluded soon after and Rose was left to contemplate in solitude the result of her decision to marry a man she did not love in order to avoid living with one she did.

  Seeking to escape the turmoil of her thoughts, Rose stepped briskly out from the double glassed doors leading to the terrace which overlooked the Keep’s meticulously groomed grounds. She wandered through an exquisite arbor, trying not to think of anything beyond the fragrant beauty of the blossoming flowers, at last sinking to the ground. As she argued with herself over the step she had impulsively taken, her long fingers plucked blades of grass, playing absently with a handful before discarding it upon the lap of her gown to take up another.

  She was thus employed when she caught sight of a commanding figure striding toward her. Stratford was still dressed for riding and as the wind caught at his long coattails, emphasis was given to the slim hips and long legs encased in the doeskin breeches and dark topboots. Her first wild thought was to hide somewhere, but it was obvious he had seen her, so Rose resigned herself to the meeting and came to her feet.

  “The last time I saw you wear that frock,” his lordship said in greeting, “it was covered, I believe, with straw. I see you have switched to the more seasonable grass.”

  Rose flushed deeply, though whether it was from the embarrassment of discovering her brown dress to be flecked with bits of green, or from the warmth of the teasing note in the viscount’s voice, it could not have been said. “You must think me quite a hoyden, Lord Stratford,” she said as she vigorously brushed the blades from her gown.

  “I believe you know what I think of you, Rose,” he rejoined on a husky note.

  She looked up from her task, startled to hear him speak so. “What you think of me, my lord, is quite immaterial,” she stated, striving for a neutral tone.

  “I do wish, my dear, that you would bring yourself to use my name instead of my title. Try it. Say Colin. I long to know the sound of it upon your lips.”

  “Do not be absurd, Lord Stratford,” she said, returning her attention to her gown.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  Her head whipped up again at that. “Do not say so! Indeed, how can you?”

  “I can because . . .” He stopped abruptly, seeing the distress in her eyes. It pained him to know he caused her pain and he labored to keep his voice level as he went on to ask, “Has Helen spoken to you about coming to live with us?”

  “Yes, but you must realize that it would be impossible for me to take up residence with you,” she replied.

  “I—we—Helen and I both wish for it. Helen fears the running of a large establishment and relies upon having your help. And if you would but only consider the advantages, my dear, I’m persuaded you’d agree that it’s for the best. There would be no more drudgery, no stinting, no old-fashioned woolen gowns. You could have a life of fashion and leisure, such as you deserve.”

  “Such an arrangement would be a disaster!”

  “I know what you are thinking,” he said quickly. “You are thinking I should importune upon you, but my love, I swear it shall not be so. I shall treat you only as the beloved sister you shall be—”

  “Oh, my lord, my lord,” Rose interrupted with a shaky laugh. “You would only remember I was your sister until it suited you to forget it!”

  With one step forward, Stratford swept her into his arms. Their heartbeats met in a fierce pounding as his lips pressed warmly against her temple. He strung a trail of heated kisses to the ruffled edge of her cap where he moaned hoarsely into her ear. “Rose, my love, my life—we’ll explain to Helen, tell her of our love—”

  He got no further for Rose tensed within his hold, her eyes widening at something beyond his shoulder. The viscount turned his head to see his cousin bearing grimly down upon them. His soft curse was severed by Daniel’s harsh words as he approached.

  “You will kindly unhand my fiancée, Stratford,” Daniel bit out.

  He did not loose his hold upon Rose, but stared at his cousin as if seeing a headless ghost. “Your fiancée?” he repeated, stunned.

  “Miss Lawrence just this very morning honored me with an acceptance.”

  His lordship’s hands tightened about her arms, causing her to wince. “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, refusing to meet his angry eyes.

  Stratford released her so abruptly, she staggered and might have fallen had not Daniel reached out to support her. Baldwin pulled her back a step, as if out of further harm, and said furiously, “I realize, of course, it is a habit of yours to make love to other men’s wives, but I trust you will refrain from the custom within the family.”

  To Rose’s great surprise, the viscount made no reply to this insult, but asked Daniel coldly, “What prompted you to this?”

  “Thank you!” Rose cut in with a choke.

  “Rose—Miss Lawrence—do not be a fool. I didn’t mean anything of that sort!” Stratford snapped. His visage was so thunderous that Rose at once subsided, but Daniel seemed ripe for hostilities and inquired icily precisely what my lord had meant.

  “What the devil do you think I’d meant?” he returned fiercely. “Be grateful, cousin, that the earl does not tolerate brawling on the estate—whatever the provocation.”

  On that threatening note, Stratford pivoted and swiftly left them.

  Chapter 15

  The announcement of the betrothal of Daniel Baldwin and Rose Lawrence was not without effect. Although the audience receiving the news was small, the reactions were many and ranged from delight to disgust.

  Shocked indignation and utter anguish fought to be uppermost on Amy’s face as she stared accusingly at her cousin, Rose. In the emotional upheaval following her interview with Helen, Rose had forgotten Amy, forgotten her promise, forgotten everything except her need to escape her future. Now she realized with sudden dismay the enormity of what had done in stealing Amy’s beau. Anger won out as Miss Thacker flounced from the room in what can only be termed high dudgeon.

  Her mother watched her go, but did nothing to restrain her. Elizabeth’s warm pleasure for her niece’s happiness was tempered by a wave of consternation for her daughter, but knowing Amy was young enough to have plenty more opportunities for falling in love, the smile she directed at the happy couple was sincere.

  Sitting beside Mrs. Thacker, her mouth open but for once soundless, Lady Minerva was clearly displeased. She had been perfectly willing, and indeed happy, to accept the daughter of her closest friend as the wife for her won, but the niece was another matter altogether. In her view, Daniel could do far better than to waste himself on this virtual nobody who had been sitting on the shelf for years!

  The bright blue eyes of Helen Lawrence shimmered with surprise, joy
and doubt as they intently searched her sister’s face. Helen noted, too, the taut line of Stratford’s lips and the heat of his dark eyes before he turned to stand staring into the cold cavern of the unlit fireplace, one booted foot upon the grate, one hand gripping the mantel. She began to wonder why he should be so extremely vexed, but had no chance to examine this notion as the earl raised a toast to the couple.

  Hallbrook was as delighted as his daughter was not. He clapped Daniel on the back and embraced Rose as he presented her with a dry kiss on her cheek. As a servant bestowed a glass of his lordship’s finest sherry to each of those present, the earl called out in a voice crackling with cheer, “To the health, to the happiness of the betrothed couple!”

  Stratford’s head snapped up at this. Though his hand held the wineglass, he did not raise it to his lips. His eyes seemed to bore through Rose until she felt she could not bear it any longer. She turned away to accept the felicitations with a wan smile, her face ghostly pale against the dark brown of her gown.

  “You sly thing!” Helen chided, gently hugging her. “You never said a word this morning! But when is the happy day to be?”

  “W-we rather thought—that is, if you do not mind—” Rose stumbled, for once visibly disconcerted.

  “We thought a double wedding with you and Stratford would be charming,” Baldwin finished.

  The viscount’s glass came down onto the mantel with a thump, freely baptizing the ledge with sherry as he said curtly, “If you will excuse me.”

  His abrupt departure spurred the dispersion of the company. They did not all meet again until gathering around the dining table that night.

  If talk the evening before had been desultory, tonight it was dismal. Little was said beyond the commonplace and more than one member of the small party showed an alarming tendency toward silence altogether. Miss Thacker was among the latter, having been induced to come down for dinner only by her mother’s tart observation that if she wished to remain in her room and appear the jilt then by all means she must do so. Beyond casting one venomous glare at Rose, Amy had not removed her eyes from her plate, though little of the offerings she saw there appealed and course after course was taken away untouched.

  Her lack of appetite was shared by the object of her animosity, and when the earl demanded to know why Miss Lawrence was not eating, she lamely offered the excitement of the day as an excuse. This earned her a fulminating stare from her future mother-in-law. Having her eldest son refuse to answer her demands for an explanation to his incredible behavior had only served to exacerbate Lady Minerva’s already foul temper. Helen and Elizabeth strove vainly to stimulate conversation, but when they found themselves remarking for the fifth time how lovely the weather had been today, they, too, fell silent.

  At last the seemingly endless meal wound mutely to a close.

  When the ladies stood to leave, Lord Stratford moved quickly to the door. “I find I am obliged to return to London in the morning. I therefore bid you all goodnight.” With a brusque bow and without waiting for his grandfather’s response, he retired.

  Stratford let the Keep long before breakfast was served on the following day, and though he had not said goodbye, he left a note for Helen telling her crisply that he would see her on her return to town. His early departure saw him in London long before noon. After a brief visit to his lodgings in Half Moon Street, where he changed into fresh morning wear and flipped through the number of invitations, notes and other correspondence awaiting him, he paid a call at Maret’s. There, however, he was informed by Dobbs that Mr. Maret had not returned from his journey, though he was expected later that day or the next.

  *****

  In Hampshire, Maret had just entered his mother’s boudoir to bid her farewell.

  They stood in a room as delicate and airy as the woman who occupied it. Silk-covered chairs were daintily arranged over a fringed, willow-green carpet and matched the straw-colored draperies ornamenting the fanlight windows. A quartet of gilt angels carried the flaxen silk hangings as they guarded the enormous poster bed lining one wall, while a fifth angel hovered coyly over the carved mirror of the vanity opposite the bed.

  It was beneath this angel that Simone Maret had positioned herself, occasionally running a tortoise comb through the hair that had once been likened to a sunbeam reflected on still water. As she conversed with her son, she thought he looked superbly handsome in his tight, dark riding coat, though she wished he were not so very pale. Her full lower lip pushed forward, a sign of her determination to discover the cause of Jacques’s somber spirits before he left her this day. Her delicate heart-shaped face was filled with unaccustomed gravity as Simone dropped the comb onto the table and turned to interrupt her son’s amusing description of Lord Antioch’s refusal to use a light snuffbox in an east wind for fear of catching a cold.

  “Vraiment! I do not wish to hear of this Antioch. I wish to hear of you, Jacques. Will you not tell me what brings the sadness to your eyes, mon petit?”

  There was a perceptible pause. “I rather fear, my dear maman, that you would laugh to hear it,” he drawled as he leaned his shoulders against the white marble mantelpiece.

  “But, non!” she denied with a vivid flutter of her hand. Simone gazed shrewdly at her son. “It is une femme, non?”

  His rare, blinding smile rewarded her percipience. “How very like you, Maman, to be so perceptive.”

  “But, tell me! Is she pretty, this one?”

  “Like an exquisite porcelain figurine come to life.”

  “Ah . . . you love this woman, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Love?” he echoed. “How can I say? I am not . . . well acquainted with love. Indeed, I had begun to accept that such emotions were not for me.” He left his stance by the unlit fireplace and wandered to stand looking out one window. “I only know that when Helen is in the room, I am . . . satisfied. And when she is gone, I miss her.”

  Madame Maret drew in her breath. Keenly watching him, she demanded, “But what then is wrong? Dos she not return your regard? Tiens! That is stupide!”

  “I believe—indeed, I am nearly certain—that she does . . . care . . . for me. But as she is betrothed to the Viscount Stratford, it does not much matter what she or I feel.” The indifferent tone, the bare shrug as he turned to face her, did not deceive Simone.

  Adroitly, she drew the tale from her reluctant son. He made light of the water and of his own loss of heart and at the end of it, returned to stand before the fireplace while his mother stared thoughtfully into her mirror.

  “Ah, mon fils, it is not right that you should be unhappy. Non!” she said on a sigh when at last she twirled to face him with a swirl of her lacy peignoir.

  “I dare say, Maman, that I shall live through it,” he answered with a rueful smile.

  “But you love this girl, non? Eh bien! You should have her. You tell me she is not yet married, et bien plus, that you do not think she loves her fiancé. It is very plain to me, mon cheri, that you must marry this Hélène—mais oui!—even if she is not at all what I should like,” she finished in a burst of sacrificial generosity. She rose and floated to her son’s side.

  “I cannot marry another man’s fiancée, Maman! Most especially not Stratford’s.”

  “Vraiment!” she exclaimed, nearly stamping one petite foot. “That is the anglais way! But me, I am not anglaise, and you, too Jacques, should remember that you are not also. Listen to me, mon fils, if you wait until she is married, it will be too late and everyone will be unhappy, especially your Hélène and that boy remarquable, Colin, who is sometimes more le francais than you.” She gently ran her hand along his cheek as she spoke.

  Maret took her hand in his own and kissed it. “You are, as always, ma chere maman, the wisest and loveliest of women,” he whispered softly before releasing her hand. In the doorway he turned to add, “It is perhaps a pity, my dear, that Helen is indeed everything you should like.”

  Simone watched her son disappear, then heaved a sigh. She earnest
ly hoped she would like this Hélène Lawrence for, bien entendu, Jacques must marry her. Her son was another such as her husband—there would be no other love for him. Jacques gave his affection sparingly, she knew. To herself, to that wild, charmant Colin and now, it seemed, to this Hélène, whom she hoped would be tolerable. But whether she was or not did not matter to Simone, for she knew she must somehow erase the unhappiness from Jacques’s eyes.

  She began to pace the room with feathery steps, forming her plans.

  *****

  Blissfully ignorant of his mother’s schemings, Maret journeyed back to London, arriving late in the day to learn that the Viscount Stratford had called earlier. By the time Maret ran his friend down in the wee hours of the morning, mingling with all manner of people and drinking vast quantities of Blue Ruin in the back room of a dingy shop in the slums of Tothill Fields, Stratford was well on his way to scandalizing the ton with a week of unmitigated dissipation.

  Old men shook their heads and women whispered behind their fans wherever Stratford appeared, as the haunt monde fairly hissed with the daily doings of the hell-bent viscount. It was generally agreed that poor Miss Helen Lawrence did not know what a rakehell she was getting for a husband, though some more charitable souls felt it was a pity she had returned to Willowley with her sister, for it was plain to see that her presence was needed to keep his lordship in line.

  For once, not even Maret could tame his friend and when at last Stratford was seen in the Lovedays’ private box at the Covent Garden theater taking snuff from the wrist of the passionate Thalia, Jacques gave up hope of discovering what had gone awry at Hallbrook. With the slightest lift of one thin brow, he gave the viscount to understand he disapproved. It was not to be wondered at that within a short period of time Stratford was seen leaving the box with Mrs. Loveday on his arm. The hum of gossip arose like a wave crashing on rocks to die away and swell again as Maret was noted turning his back when the viscount and his companion passed by.