by Sandra Heath
Her gloved hands trembled a little as she rested them on the stone balustrade. She felt she had to say something. Anything. ‘It – it must be a little dull for you to be here instead of enjoying the London Season.’
‘Not really. I happen to find Washington very much to my liking.’
‘But surely it’s a little rustic here after the sophistication of London?’
‘Rustic?’ He smiled, glancing up at the mansion rising against the sky behind them. ‘I’d hardly call this rustic, Miss Carberry.’
His smiles played havoc with her already unsettled composure, and she strove to appear quite calm and unconcerned as she continued the conversation. ‘Maybe this particular house is grand enough, sir, but Washington as a whole is somewhat unfinished, you have to admit. The houses are scattered, the public buildings incomplete, and the roads and sidewalks tend to peter out here and there. And listen to the insects. We’re in the middle of a virtual swamp.’
‘I cannot argue with what you say, but I can see what Washington will be like in the future, and I like what I see.’
He gazed toward the city, and as he did so, his right hand moved slightly on the balustrade. A flash of gold on his finger caught her eye. Had he transferred his wedding ring from his other hand? No, it wasn’t a wedding ring, it was a signet ring. By the light of the lanterns she could make out the design that was cut into the ring; it was a griffin, the mythical beast that was the emblem of the de Grey family.
He glanced at her again. ‘As to the second part of your question….’
‘My question?’
‘Whether or not I miss the London Season. I have to confess that socializing hasn’t been very much to my taste this past year; indeed, this is the first time I’ve indulged in such diversions since my wife died.’
She felt dreadful. ‘Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean to—’
‘I know you didn’t, Miss Carberry, and I promise that I haven’t taken offense.’ His eyes were very blue as he studied her. ‘Can you similarly promise me that you haven’t taken offense because of my intrusion here tonight?’
‘Yes, Lord Southvale, I can promise you that.’ It was true, for although he’d angered her at first, that was most certainly no longer the case.
‘I’m relieved to hear you say so, for the last thing I wished to do was tread upon any sensitive toes.’
She was curious. ‘Why did you come? This is a Fouth of July ball, Britain isn’t exactly popular here at the moment, and quite a number of my parents’ guests happen to believe that war is the only way to settle the differences between our two countries. Your envoy, Mr Foster, has prudently stayed at the legation tonight, but you’ve taken it upon yourself to come here. Why?’
‘For a very selfish and personal reason, if the truth be known,’ he murmured.
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what such a reason might be, sir.’
‘No, I’m sure you can’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re a remarkably beautiful and engaging young lady?’ he asked suddenly.
The apparent change of tack caught her off-guard. ‘I – I beg your pardon?’
‘Come now, surely the American male hasn’t been so remiss as to neglect to pay you the compliments you’re due?’
Color rushed into her cheeks again. ‘You flatter me, I think,’ she replied in embarrassment, thoroughly disconcerted by her continuing susceptibility to everything about him.
‘No, Miss Carberry,’ he said softly, ‘I’m not flattering you at all. I’m being very direct and honest. You are the reason I’ve come here tonight.’
She stared at him.
He held her gaze. ‘This morning I happened to look out of the legation in Seven Buildings, and saw an open landau drive from Nineteenth Street into Pennsylvania Avenue. There was a young lady seated inside, wearing a lime-green muslin pelisse and matching gown. She had golden hair and she twirled a frilled white parasol above her head. I thought her the most delightful creature I’d ever seen, and I made it my business to find out who she was. The Carberrys are very well-known in Washington, and it didn’t take long to learn your name.’
She didn’t know what to say. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire, and her pulse had quickened almost unbearably. She looked quickly around the terrace and saw that many glances were still being directed surreptitiously toward her and her noteworthy companion.
He smiled a little. ‘If I’m embarrassing you, you must forgive me, Miss Carberry, but you did ask me why I came here tonight.’ His blue eyes moved slowly over her flushed face. ‘By pure chance I was told that your brother was to be found at a certain gaming house, and so I took myself there in order to make his acquaintance.’
‘Does – does John know why you wished to come here tonight?’
‘No. He invited me because it’s his belief war is only encouraged if the protagonists refuse to associate.’
She looked away. ‘I’ll warrant the cognac had something to do with it.’
‘Possibly. Whatever his reason, I didn’t argue, but took him up immediately on his invitation. The rest you know.’
For a long moment she was silent, but then she looked at him again. ‘Are you always this direct, Lord Southvale?’
‘It isn’t something I make a habit of, Miss Carberry,’ he said softly, ‘but I tell you this, I’ve never before so desired an introduction that I’d resort to any means to acquire it. I saw you, and I had to know you, it’s as simple as that.’
She stared at him, her heart pounding wildly in her breast. None of this was really happening, it couldn’t be happening … But it was happening, and spellbinding emotions were arousing thoughts and feelings she’d never known before.
His hand moved to briefly touch hers. ‘Have you nothing to say?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whispered, a shiver of pleasure trembling through her just at the fleeting contact.
‘Haven’t you felt anything since our meeting?’ he asked. ‘Are you immune to me?’
‘No woman could ever be immune to you, Lord Southvale.’
A faint smile played on his lips. ‘I’m not concerned about other women, just about you. Look at me.’
Slowly she obeyed, and was conscious of a powerful current that seemed to almost leap between their eyes.
‘Are you going to marry George Whitby?’ he asked quietly, holding her gaze.
‘I don’t know….’ Nothing was certain anymore. What had been clear at the commencement of the evening was all in question now. How could she marry George now that she’d experienced such soaring emotion from just being with this Englishman? The feelings she’d had for George were as nothing when set beside the shivering delight of merely receiving one of Philip de Grey’s devastating smiles.
‘Has he asked you to marry him?’ he pressed.
‘Yes.’
‘But you haven’t accepted?’
‘No.’
His hand moved over hers again, but not fleetingly this time. The caress destroyed her resistance, and her gloved fingers involuntarily curled to meet his. She felt the hardness of his signet ring as he held her hand tightly, but then she remembered everyone else on the terrace and hurriedly drew away.
‘No, we mustn’t….’
‘It’s too late now, Rosalind, for I’ve seen into your heart,’ he said softly.
She swallowed, her tongue passing nervously over her lower lip. ‘But we hardly know each other, Lord Southvale.’
‘I know all I need to about you.’
‘But I know very little about you.’
‘That’s easily corrected. Meet me tomorrow.’
‘I can’t do that,’ she gasped. This was all happening far too quickly, and she felt as if all control was being taken from her.
‘Why not?’ His tone was softly persuasive and his eyes teased her to defy her heart.
‘Why not? Because it isn’t done for a lady to make assignations with a gentleman she’s only just been introduced to.’
‘Nor is it done for said lady to clasp said gentleman’s hand so intimately, or to let him see in her eyes that she desires him as much as he desires her.’
Her breath caught, and confusion beset her. ‘Please, stop….’ she whispered.
‘Stop? And see the prize slip from my fingers? No, Rosalind, I don’t intend to let that happen. I want you more than anything else in this world, and time isn’t on my side if I wish to win you.’
‘Time?’ She could barely collect her scattered thoughts. She could hear his voice, but her own heartbeats threatened to drown his words.
‘I may not be in Washington for very long. My task here is to be the messenger boy, should there be any significant developments in the talks between the British envoy and the American government. I’m due to go to St Petersburg at the beginning of next year, and was only sent here at the last minute because the diplomat who was to have come was hurt in a riding accident. If I’m sent back to London because of the talks, someone else will return to Washington in my place, and I am still going to Russia in the new year. It’s because time may be very short that I’ve pressed you so tonight, for if I’d allowed convention to take its course, I could have found myself on my way home to London without progressing beyond a formal introduction.’ Shaking his head a little, he gave a short, rather incredulous laugh. ‘Dear God, I’d never have dreamed it possible to have been so struck by lightning that I’d behave like this.’
‘That’s how I feel too,’ she said quietly, for it was true.
‘Then you know we have to meet again?’
‘Yes.’ What point was there in pretending otherwise? She wanted to see him, to be with him….
‘Tomorrow?’
She nodded.
‘Or should I say today, for I believe it’s now the Fifth of July.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘John told me that you and he often ride in the woods east of here.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘He mentioned a fallen tree on a hill, from where there’s a particularly spectacular view.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there at midday.’
‘I’ll come to you,’ she whispered.
‘And now I think perhaps it’s time I left, don’t you?’
She glanced around the terrace and saw that interest in them hadn’t diminished. ‘Maybe it would be best,’ she agreed reluctantly, for she didn’t want him to go.
‘Would you apologize to your parents on my behalf? I really didn’t intend to cause such a stir.’
‘I’ll tell them.’
He looked deep into her eyes. ‘Good night, Rosalind,’ he said softly.
‘Good night, Philip.’ It seemed the most natural thing in the world to call him by his first name, because suddenly he was everything in the world to her.
He left, walking quickly away across the terrace and into the ballroom. The inevitable whispers accompanied his every step, but he gave no indication of noticing anything. As he made his exit from the ballroom a minute or so later, a positive babble of conversation broke out, and Mrs Carberry again felt compelled to order the orchestra to play a lively dance.
Rosalind remained on the terrace, gazing out over the rose garden. More fireworks exploded in the night sky above the capital, bursting in colorful brilliance in the darkness.
She felt rather than heard George’s light step behind her, then he was by her shoulder. ‘Rosalind, I trust you know what you may be getting yourself into,’ he said quietly.
‘I don’t understand….’ she began, intending to feign innocence, but then he put his hand gently to her elbow.
‘Don’t pretend with me, for there isn’t any need.’
She looked quickly away.
He smiled. ‘We’ve never been in love with each other, Rosalind, but we’re close enough for me to know that something very important has happened to you tonight. I’m man enough to take my disappointment on the chin, and I’m friend enough to want to warn you to take care. There are many obstacles between you and a man like Philip de Grey, and not the least of those obstacles is his love for his wife.’
She stared at him.
‘He wore his wedding ring only yesterday, Rosalind. Just remember that.’ He hesitated, and then kissed her cheek gently before turning and walking away.
3
Very little was said at the Carberry breakfast table the following morning. Rosalind’s father was in a dark mood as he read his newspaper, and her mother was on edge, waiting for the mood to spill over into an angry confrontation with John. No one mentioned the ball, and the laughter and conversation that usually followed the Fourth of July was noticeably absent.
John was suffering the after-effects of his overindulgence in cognac, and his face was gray as he poured himself his third cup of black coffee. His blond hair was tousled and his green eyes lackluster, and his brocade dressing gown was of a shade of mauve that did absolutely nothing to enhance his appearance. He looked exactly how he felt, dreadful, and his headache didn’t benefit at all from the bright sunshine streaming in through the window.
Rosalind sipped only coffee, too, but her lack of appetite had nothing to do with feeling unwell. She hadn’t slept at all after the ball, because she couldn’t stop thinking about Philip, and thoughts of him filled her head now. She ran her fingertip around the lip of her cup, gazing at the bowl of yellow pansies in the middle of the table. Her hair was pinned up loosely into a knot on the top of her head, and she wore a pink-and-white seersucker gown, short-sleeved, with a demure neckline. A light shawl rested over her arms, slipping slightly as she bent to stroke the head of her father’s favorite hound, which had somehow managed to slip into the room to hide beneath the table ready for any tidbits either she or John selected for it.
Her mother looked, perplexedly at her. ‘Rosalind, my dear, are you feeling quite well this morning?’
‘Yes, quite well, thank you.’
‘You haven’t eaten anything.’
‘I’m not very hungry, that’s all.’ Rosalind flushed a little guiltily, for she knew that she’d soon have to tell them that there wouldn’t be a match with George Whitby, and why.
Mr Carberry rustled his newspaper and then abruptly folded it, placing it on the table as he eyed his son. ‘It’s no wonder your sister has no appetite this morning, sir; she’s still recovering from having to receive that damned Englishman!’
John drew a long breath, but didn’t reply. He studied his cup of coffee as if it were of immense interest.
The refusal to respond antagonized Mr Carberry into the long-awaited outburst. ‘I’ve had enough of you recently, sir, for you’ve been more trouble than you’re worth,’ he snapped.
Mrs Carberry sat quickly forward in a whisper of dove-gray taffeta, her eyes anxious. ‘Please, William, there’s no need….’
‘On the contrary, my dear, there’s every need. We’ve tried sweet reason, and we’ve tried endless patience, but it’s all to no avail.’ He fixed his gaze upon John again. ‘You’ve been wallowing in self-pity for more than a year now, and it’s got to stop. Your wild ways brought about the death of the woman you loved, and nothing can change that.’
John’s green eyes flashed toward him. ‘I’m well aware of that fact, sir,’ he replied stiffly.
‘Are you also aware that behaving the way you do isn’t going to bring her back?’
‘I won’t dignify that question with an answer,’ answered John shortly, his eyes no longer lackluster, but very bright and angry.
‘And what would you know of dignity, sir?’ demanded Mr Carberry relentlessly. ‘What dignity is there in staggering home night after night in your cups? What dignity is there in losing heavily at the gaming tables? And what dignity is there in foisting your damned Englishman upon us all at a Fourth of July ball? Your little prank ruined the evening, and I find that unforgivable!’
‘Philip’s presence hardly constituted the ruining of the evening,’ retorted John.
‘Not in your eyes, maybe, but then your standards have slipped somewhat of late, haven’t they? Well, I’m not about to put up with your base conduct any longer. It’s time you came to terms with Elizabeth’s death, and unless you do, you can look elsewhere for a roof over your head. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do, sir,’ John replied in a clipped tone.
‘I expect to see an improvement straightaway, sir. Straightaway.’
Without another word, John tossed his napkin on the table and strode out. The hound slipped from its hiding place beneath the table to follow him. Its paws pattered on the polished floorboards and then the door closed.
Mrs Carberry looked reproachfully at her husband. ‘Was there any need to be quite so unkind, William?’ she asked.
‘He needed a plain talking-to, my dear, it was long overdue.’ He picked up his newspaper again, rustling it noisily as he made much of selecting a certain page.
Mrs Carberry exchanged a glance with Rosalind, and then said nothing more.
Rosalind wanted to go to John, for she knew how desperately keen his grief over Elizabeth still was, but rushing after him now would only make matters worse as far as her father was concerned.
Her mother looked at her. ‘What do you intend to do this morning, my dear? Is George calling on you?’
‘No, he isn’t. Actually, I thought I’d go for a ride.’
‘A ride? Rosalind, when are you going to give George an answer?’
Rosalind hesitated. ‘I already have, Mother.’
Mrs Carberry gasped. ‘You have? Oh, my dear….’
‘I’ve declined him, Mother,’ Rosalind went on quietly. Her mother stared at her, and Mr Carberry put down his newspaper for a second time.