Rosalind turned to Emmeline, who was a tall, dark girl, not yet revealing any beauty she might have inherited. “I am so glad you have enjoyed your time here, Emmeline. You have certainly been a fine addition to the school.”
Emmeline murmured something and dropped a quick curtsy before hurrying off to join some of her friends.
“Your daughter is very talented musically, Lady Clarke,” Rosalind told Emmeline’s mother. “Her performances at the pianoforte are very pleasing.”
“Oh, yes? How—very nice,” Lady Clarke answered, without much interest. She still stared across the room, and reached up to finger the stiff lace trim of her pelisse. “I see that Lord Morley is here. Imagine encountering him at a girls’ school.”
Her words were almost exactly what Lady Stone-Smythe’s had been, and Rosalind gave her the same answer. Lord Morley was here to fetch his sister.
“Indeed?” Lady Clarke said. Her touch moved from the lace to the ruby drop in her earlobe. “I—that is, we see him quite often in Town. We do try to support literature and music, and he is such a fine—poet. Have you read his work, Mrs. Chase?”
“No,” Rosalind answered. “I have not had the privilege.”
“Oh, you really should. A lady with a school should always be au courant, don’t you agree? Well-versed in poetry and such.”
“Indeed yes, Lady Clarke,” Rosalind answered stiffly. “A girl cannot truly call herself a lady until she has attained accomplishments such as music, languages, and proper demeanor.” Chapter One, A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior.
Lady Clarke gave her one final, dismissive nod, and moved on to find her daughter. Before she reached Emmeline, though, she took a small detour to Lord Morley’s side. As Rosalind watched, Lady Clarke laid an elegant hand on his sleeve, and said something quietly into his ear. He grinned at her, and she gave his arm a tiny, nearly imperceptible squeeze before moving away.
Oh, really, Rosalind thought wryly. Her school was not a place of assignation for Lord Morley! It was not a harem.
She turned away to place her empty cup back on the table. As she did so, she remembered that she had a small gift for Lady Violet in her office, and she should fetch it before the Bronstons left. She excused herself to the parents and teachers around her and left the drawing room.
Her office was quiet and peaceful after the milling throng of people, the early afternoon light a pale gold where it fell from the high windows. Rosalind fetched the little package from her desk drawer, but then, rather than return immediately to the drawing room, she sat down in her chair. Her earlier headache was still there, lurking behind her eyes, and she rubbed at her temples and closed her eyes.
She loved the girls who went to school here; she loved teaching. But she was also so glad when they all left for their holidays, and she had days and nights of perfect quiet all for herself. It was—peaceful.
Peaceful, except for worrying about Allen.
She groaned at the reminder of Allen and his debt, and a new pain stabbed above her left eye.
“Mrs. Chase?” someone said. A masculine someone.
Rosalind pressed hard one more time at her temples, before she dropped her hands and opened her eyes, a polite smile automatically forming on her lips.
The smile died before it had even truly been born when she saw the man that voice belonged to. Lord Morley stood in the doorway, watching her with a concerned frown.
“Lord Morley,” she said, lacing her fingers together atop the desk.
“Mrs. Chase, are you quite all right?” he asked, moving farther into the room. He stopped in the middle of her lavender and cream carpet, and glanced about almost as if he was surprised to find himself there. He totally ignored the mess of dried mud Allen had left behind. “You look pale.”
Rosalind stared at him, her voice frozen in her throat. He seemed a mirage here in her frilly, feminine sanctuary. He was tall and dark, overpowering the dainty gilded furniture, his deep blue greatcoat spreading like the wings of some bird of prey.
He was handsome, she had to admit, even if he was a blackguard. Worthy of the stares and simpers of Lady Clarke and Lady Stone-Smythe—worthy in a physical sense, anyway. He was tall, slim but not emaciated. Lean, in the way horsemen and swimmers were. His black, curling hair, overlong in the poetical tradition, was brushed back from his forehead and tumbled over the collar of his coat. His nose was a bit crooked, as if it had once been broken, but his jaw was firm, and his eyes—his eyes were dark as a starless night, dark as sin.
Rosalind almost groaned, and she closed her eyes again. What was wrong with her? She had drunk no spirits today at all, yet she was staring like a wide-eyed, moonstruck schoolgirl. Staring at the man who was leading her brother to perdition! Was there a rule against this? She was too tired to recall for certain, but if there was not there should be. A lady will not stare at the rogue who is intent on ruining the prospects of silly young men.
She opened her eyes and stared down at her hands.
She realized she had not said anything for too long when he took another step toward her and said, with mounting alarm in his voice, “Mrs. Chase! Do you feel faint?”
“I am quite well, thank you, Lord Morley,” she managed to say. She reached up to make certain her cap was firmly in place.
“Nonsense! You are as white as milk. I will be right back.”
Rosalind opened her mouth to protest, but Lord Morley had already spun around on his heel and left the room.
Oh, now where had he gone? Rosalind stood up, bewildered and even a bit frightened. This situation was spinning beyond her control, and she did not even know how it had happened.
And if there was one thing Rosalind hated, it was not being in control of every situation. Before she could stumble to the door, though, Lord Morley returned, a cup of tea in his hand. The fragile, pink-flowered china looked tiny and absurd in his long, elegant fingers.
“Here,” he said. “You should sit down, and drink this.” With his free hand, he clasped her arm and led her to the nearest settee.
“It is nothing, Lord Morley,” she protested, and tried to draw away from his strangely disturbing touch. He was too strong for her, though, and did not let go until she was safely seated. “A mere headache.”
“It is no wonder your head aches,” he said. “Listening to those clucking women all morning is enough to give anyone the megrims!” He handed her the cup of tea, and went on in a perfect imitation of Lady Stone-Smythe’s fluting tones. “ ‘Oh, Mrs. Chase, my dear Harriet is so fond of playing the harp! You must allow her more time with the music master, she is so fond of him—I mean, fond of music.’ ”
Rosalind nearly choked on the sip of tea she had just taken. She knew she should not laugh at him, not find him funny in the least—it would only encourage his outrageous behavior, and it was surely rude to poor Lady Stone-Smythe. Yet she could not seem to help herself. She pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in the inelegant giggles.
“You see? Your color is better already, Mrs. Chase,” he said, and knelt down beside her. He grinned in an infuriatingly satisfied manner.
“None of Lady Stone-Smythe’s daughters is named Harriet,” was all Rosalind could think to say.
“Ah, but you knew it was meant to be Lady Stone-Smythe. It must have been a worthy effort on my part.”
“Yes, indeed, Lord Morley,” Rosalind said tartly. Her dizziness was subsiding, and she felt a bit more like herself. Not like a woman who stared at rakes, thinking how handsome they were. “You ought to be treading the boards.”
“So I think, but my family would simply not hear of it. I must content myself with poetry.”
“Yes, your poetry.” Rosalind swallowed the last of her tea, grateful for the strength of the smoky brew even if it was a bit cold by now. “Did Lady Stone-Smythe manage to lure you to her little literary evening?”
“She has been trying to for at least a month.” As he shook his head in exasperation, his black raven’s wing of hair fell
over his brow, and he impatiently pushed it back.
Rosalind stared down at him, kneeling there on one knee beside her. “It is most improper for you to be there on the floor, Lord Morley,” she said, yet there was not as much heat in the words as she would usually have put there. For once, she did not feel like scolding on a point of etiquette. She did want to touch that wave of hair, to see if it was as satiny as it appeared.
She curled her fingers tightly around the cup, and said, “It is not proper for you to be in here at all.”
“You were ill, Mrs. Chase. Would it have been proper for me to leave you alone with your pain?”
“You could have fetched one of the teachers.”
“They were all conversing with the parents of your pupils. I thought it best not to interrupt them.”
Rosalind suspected that perhaps he had just not wanted all the ladies in his harem snatching at his sleeves again.
Her lips tightened at the thought.
Lord Morley moved up off the floor, but only to sit beside her on the settee. Rosalind, shocked by the sudden movement, slid back as far as she could against the arm of the settee. His heat still reached out to her, curling around her, beckoning her closer.
She turned away from it, away from him, pulling her skirts to the side so they would not brush against his boots. This was the man who was encouraging Allen in his wild ways, she reminded herself. This was not a man to be friends with, to sit close to. “Why were you in my office in the first place, Lord Morley? Was there something you wanted?”
His gaze slanted toward her, dark, surprisingly intense. “Wanted, Mrs. Chase? I suppose you could say that.”
He said it as if—as if—She had not meant it in that way! Really, this man was maddening, twisting a simple word about until she hardly knew what she had been thinking. “Was it something concerning Lady Violet?”
The mention of his sister seemed to recall Lord Morley back to himself. He looked away from her. “Violet. Yes. She seems to like it here very much.”
“I hope she does. We like her very much. She is one of our best students.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chase. I wanted to see you before I left today, to tell you how much I appreciate your kindness to Violet. I brought this for you, as a small gesture of thanks.”
From inside his greatcoat, Lord Morley withdrew a small, tissue-wrapped package.
“A—a gift, Lord Morley?” Rosalind said, eyeing the harmless-looking package almost as if it could reach out and bite her. “I am not sure I should accept it.”
“Really?” He raised his brow at her inquiringly, turning the tissue invitingly in his hand. “It is not a great deal, Mrs. Chase, surely not improper. It is for your library here.”
Rosalind’s curiosity got the better of her. She took the package from him, careful not to touch his fingers as she did so, and folded the tissue back. It was a book, bound in brown leather, decorated with gold gilt designs and lettering. She opened the cover to read the title page.
Songs to Athene, by Michael Bronston.
“Your—your poems, Lord Morley,” she said. She did not know what she had been expecting. Rubies? Silken scarves? Though this was almost as disconcerting as those would have been.
“Violet tells me that you enjoy poetry,” he said. He sounded a bit uncertain at her reaction.
“Yes, of course.” She did enjoy poetry—Shakespeare, Donne, Spenser. The newfangled romantic, wild poetry of the sort Lord Morley wrote, it—well, it disturbed her.
But it was kind of him to bring it for their library, even if it was not the sort of thing the girls ought to be reading. She should give him something in return.
And there was only one thing she could think of that he needed. Needed in a most dire way.
She stood up and crossed the office to one of her bookcases, and extracted a volume from the shelf. Lord Morley had also stood, and followed her.
She held out the book. “Thank you for your gift, Lord Morley,” she said. “I would like to give you this in return.”
“A gift, Mrs. Chase? I am shocked.” He smiled at her, with that quirk at the corner of his lips. Then he looked down at the book—and the smile faded. “A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior.”
“Oh, yes,” Rosalind answered firmly. She did feel more like herself, more like sensible, practical, proper Rosalind Lucas Chase. The strange spell Lord Morley had cast over her had obviously been a fleeting thing, brought about by their solitude in the office and her headache. “It is the one book that no one should be without. I believe that you in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley.”
Chapter Four
“The only proper gifts between unmarried ladies and gentlemen are flowers, sweets, or small books.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Seven
A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior. She had given him a blasted book of etiquette!
Michael still could not cease thinking of it, even as he drove the phaeton out the Seminary gates and turned down the road toward London. Fortunately, Violet, on the seat beside him, was too preoccupied in studying the small silver locket Mrs. Chase had given her to notice his silence.
It was not so much that Mrs. Chase had given him the book, Michael thought. After all, she was a schoolmistress and would naturally advocate proper behavior, even of the extreme sort promulgated in that book. It was that she implied he was so greatly in need of it. What was it she had said? Oh, yes. “I believe that you in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley.”
As if he was an ape of some sort! A bumbling monkey with no idea of how to behave in a proper home.
It was true, he grudgingly admitted, that on his first visit to the Seminary he had not been all he should have been. He had needled Mrs. Chase and her deep propriety. He had spent his entire adult life striving against just such rigid mores, such shallow emphasis on conduct. And her stiff attitude had near driven him mad.
But he was sorry for his previous behavior, his boorishness. Had he not apologized to her, tried to make up for it? It was Mrs. Chase’s home, and her guests had a duty to behave according to her—he winced to think the word—her rules. And he had mended his ways today, striving to behave within proper gentlemanly boundaries. Aside from his exuberant greeting of Violet, he had been everything that was proper. Even the Anonymous Lady who wrote A Lady’s Rules would have approved of him. He had even given Mrs. Chase a book of his poetry!
What more could the woman want of him? What could ever erase the pinch of disapproval from her pretty—too pretty—lips?
And why was he thinking of her as pretty, anyway? Her caps were an absolute fright, and her eyes were frozen. There was nothing behind that ice blue façade—nothing but manners.
“Michael, why on earth are you driving so fast?” Violet cried, her voice edged with alarm.
Only then did Michael realize the great speed he had urged his horses to. They practically barreled along the road, dashing past the other now-gawking travelers into Town. The wheels clacked and whirred as if he was in a race.
He immediately drew back on the reins, slowing to a more moderate pace. “Sorry, Vi,” he said, and threw his sister an apologetic smile.
She stared at him with wide, wary eyes. “Whatever were you thinking of? You looked a million miles away.”
He sought quickly for a believable answer—anything but the truth. He could hardly tell her that he was thinking her teacher was a priss. “I was wondering which waistcoat I should wear to Lady Clarke’s rout on Friday.”
“Hmph.” Violet folded her hands daintily in her lap, her mouth pursed. Michael saw that she had fastened the locket about her neck, the silver oval lying against the lace frill of her collar. He wondered if the gift from Mrs. Chase had somehow magically imparted some of that lady’s qualities into his sister. “I think you should keep your thoughts on the road when you are driving.”
Michael just laughed at her prim attitude, and reached out to tweak one of her curls again.
He had often done that when she was a child, and it had always made her giggle.
Now she pushed him away, and said, “I also think you should keep both hands on the reins. Your horses look most unpredictable.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Michael answered, in a mock-obsequious tone, and returned his gaze again to the road. When had his giggling sister turned into an elderly duchess? “But I would have you know that Nicodemus and Beelzebub are perfectly well-trained, and as gentle as lambs.”
“Of course they are, with names like that.” Violet turned her head away to study the passing landscape, so that all he could see of her was the brim of her white straw bonnet.
Silenced, he too watched their surroundings. The green expanses of the countryside were giving way to the edges of London. The grass was sparse, turning to pavement and gravel, the trees more stunted, the air heavier. The peace of the Seminary’s grounds seemed a different world than that of the shouts and calls of the people—farmers going to market with their carts, racing aristocrats, workers on foot. On the road, they had been a trickle—now they became a flood. Michael had to slow the horses even further as they turned toward the rarefied air of Mayfair.
“I wish it did not take such a short time to get here,” Violet murmured, so softly that Michael almost could not hear her. “I wish it took days and days. I wish the Seminary was in Scotland, or—or America.”
She looked at Michael, and he saw that her eyes were misty with unshed tears. The prim duchess was again just a scared young girl.
“I know,” he said, hating the damnable helpless feeling in his heart. “But it will not be so bad, I promise. You will be back at school next month, and in the meantime there are many things we can do.”
She swiped her gloved hand over her eyes. “Gunter’s, and the theater?”
“Of course. And I am sure Aunt Minnie will give a musicale or a Venetian breakfast or some such for you. You will probably just be at Bronston House to sleep.”
Amanda McCabe Page 3