by Candice Hern
"I am not pregnant." Her voice sounded thin and strangled.
"No?" He regarded her thoughtfully and a hint of sadness flickered in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."
Her brows rose at the note of sincerity in his voice.
"I would not have minded, Rosalind. In fact... in fact, I think I should have been very pleased." He looked as if the idea took him by surprise. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But there will be many other opportunities, my minx, when we are married. If you will have me, that is. Will you marry me, Rosalind?"
He still did not understand. He thought nothing had changed. "No, Max."
He flinched as though she'd slapped him. "No?"
"No. I'm sorry, Max."
"Rosalind." He reached out for her hand. She pulled away, but he grabbed her and held her in a tight grip. "I thought you loved me. You know that I love you. I told you so, over and over as I recall."
"In the heat of passion."
"Passion, desire, love. It all became one."
"You told me once that you often fell in love in the heat of passion, but that it always passed."
"Not this time. That's one of the reasons I know it is real. I haven't held you in my arms in three weeks and I'm still hopelessly in love with you."
"With someone else, not me."
"What?"
"The woman you fell in love with does not exist She was a role and I was the actress. It was all a pretense, a part I played for a brief time. But it was not real. It was not me. This is me." She swept her free hand over the drab brown dress and apron. "I am not Rosalind. I never was. I've always been just plain Rosie."
He loosened his grip and entwined his fingers with hers. "My dear girl, you may have thought you were playing a part, but you cannot have been acting the whole time. I daresay some of your actions may have been pretense; after all, you had nothing to lose by being as outrageous as you pleased. But the vibrant, radiant core driving all those actions came from you."
"Max, I—"
"You may have had to reach deep inside just plain Rosie to find it, but the spark was there. It had to be, my dear. You could not have done it otherwise."
She jerked her hand free. "You're wrong, Max. You have no idea how easy it is to don a mask when you think you are dying. When one has no future to answer to, it is remarkable how flexible one's character becomes. I suppose it is akin to someone unaccustomed to spirits becoming thoroughly inebriated, with total loss of inhibition and judgment. But inebriation is temporary. Death is not. There was nothing to stop me from being anyone I wanted, so I became the dashing Rosalind."
He offered an indulgent, almost patronizing smile, as though he did not believe her. "It pains me, Max, to know you fell in love with Rosalind. I am more sorry than you'll ever know. But she is gone."
"She is not. I am looking at her."
"At Rosie."
"What's in a name? Rosie, Rosalind, Ross—I'll call you by any name you want. You're still the woman I love, no matter what you may think."
"No, I—"
"Yes! Yes, you are, Rosie. Do you know how special you are to me? Do you know that I never once in all my life told a woman I loved her? Until you. And you know my history. You know how many women have been in my life. Doesn't it mean anything to you that you are the first, the first and only?"
"It only makes it harder, knowing that. I'm sorry, Max."
"There has always been something eternal about the whole concept of love that frightened me. I never allowed any relationship with a woman to endure for fear it would change my life, my selfish, pleasure-seeking existence. Well, by Jove, it has changed my life. You have changed my life, and I am forever grateful to you for it. Did you know I was ready to end my life before I met you?"
"What?"
"I had become tired and bored beyond measure, and planned to put a bullet in my head at the end of the Season. But then you came into my life and made me want to live again."
The blackguard. He was being overly dramatic, hoping to play on her sympathy. Well, she wasn't buying. Max commit suicide? Never.
"And you think life with me, with Rosie, would relieve your boredom, your fatal ennui? I am a country person, Max, with country notions. Shall I tell you what life here is like? I get up early because there is so much to do, and go to bed early because there is nothing to do—no parties, routs, balls, operas. We fall asleep after dinner out of sheer tedium. It is quiet and uneventful, thoroughly humdrum. The highlight of the week is meeting the neighbors after church on Sunday to critique the vicar's sermon, compare crop yields, and exchange recipes. There hasn't been a scandal in the neighborhood since the time of Charles II. This is my milieu, Max, my real life. I am a product of this world and a part of it. I belong here, not in the glittering world of London."
"I grew up in the country, too," he said. "I even own a little farm in Suffolk and a hunting box in the shires. But a country upbringing never kept me from enjoying London or any other place."
"I have had my adventure in London, and it brought me nothing but shame and guilt. I can never belong to your world, Max."
He took her hand once again. "But you did once. And you can do it again."
"No. I'm sorry. I cannot be the woman you want me to be. I cannot marry you, Max."
"Will you think about it a bit longer? My visit has surprised you, caught you off guard. You do not need to give me an answer right now. I have a room at the King's Head and will stay as long as you want. We can spend time together, get to know one another again." He brought her hand to his lips. "Give me a chance, Rosie."
Chapter 15
"You confound me, sir." Rosalind's father was near to wearing a path in the Turkey carpet as he paced back and forth in front of the library windows. "All I knew of you before today was that you were a rake of the first order who'd taken my daughter's virtue." He stopped and looked at Max. "Or is it more accurate to say she gave it away?"
"Despite her belief that there would be no consequences to her actions," Max said, "Rosalind was no wanton, Sir Edmund. She engaged in one or two playful flirtations, but she did not discard all judgment, regardless of what she may now believe. She came to my bed willingly, but I do not think she made the decision lightly."
"My sister, who takes a lot of the blame for what happened upon herself, believes losing her virginity was just another thing Rosie wanted to do before she died."
Max could not suppress a smile. "It's quite possible. She did have a list."
Sir Edmund chucked softly. "That's my Rosie. Efficient and organized to a fault. She's kept this place running smoothly for years with her lists. So she wants to experience physical love before she dies, and has the good fortune to have an accommodating rake at hand. An easy conquest for you, I daresay."
"No, sir," Max said. "It was in fact the most difficult decision of my life."
Sir Edmund lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Because she was a virgin?"
"No. Because I loved her. I would not have made love to your daughter. Sir Edmund, without believing I was making a commitment to her by doing so."
"Persuasive words. They must come easy to a practiced seducer."
Max looked at the man earnestly, willing him to believe what he said. "I am sure it must seem that way, knowing the sort of life I've led. I've made a career of seducing women. But I tell you quite frankly, sir, your daughter complicated that career by turning my world upside down. It is the first time in all my long years of pleasure-seeking that I have fallen in love. I want to marry her, Sir Edmund, but she won't have me."
Sir Edmund gave a little start of surprise. "Why?"
"Says she is not the girl I knew in London. Says it was all play-acting, not real. The woman I fell in love with, she tells me, does not exist. That is why I have come to you, sir. I need your help to make her see how wrong she is."
"Damnation." Sir Edmund started to pace again, his hands behind his back. After a long pensive moment, he said, "She's running scared."
"I beg
your pardon?"
"Let us have a glass of claret, Davenant, while I tell you about my daughter."
Sir Edmund summoned the butler to bring a decanter and two glasses. He continued pacing in silence until it was delivered. He poured each of them a glass, then sat down behind his desk and gestured for Max to be seated in a chair across from him.
"Before my wife died," he began without preamble, "we were a large, boisterous family. Our eldest child, Rosie, was the liveliest of the lot. Her little face always wreathed in smiles, constantly into some kind of mischief. I confess that when Louisa died, I became so wrapped up in my own grief that I did not notice the change in Rosie. I daresay it was harder on her than anyone, because she was the oldest, just fourteen, and had to take charge of the rest of her brothers and sisters. A huge responsibility, especially when I did nothing to help her."
He paused and seemed lost in some distant memory, his glass poised halfway to his mouth and his gaze somewhere beyond Max's shoulder. Max waited in silence, and a moment later Sir Edmund continued his narrative.
"It became easy to let Rosie take care of this and take care of that, until finally she had complete charge of the house, all the duties once performed by her mother. We took all of her time away so that she had no life of her own." A note of profound regret crept into his voice. "I have only just realized all this, since she went away to London. I allowed the fire to die in that lively young girl."
"It did not die," Max said. "It was merely smoldering beneath the surface. It flared to life again in London, I assure you."
"So I have been told." He took a deep swallow of wine and then continued. "But once she realized her foolish mistake about dying, she doused that fire with a vengeance. She won't speak of what happened in London—though her siblings are pressing hard to know all the scandalous details. She is pretending it never happened. Or, as she told you, is pretending it happened to someone else, someone who doesn't exist."
"She is afraid to admit that she is that person, the spirited Miss Lacey who set London on its ears."
"Yes, I believe you've got it right. It is much easier for her to be plain old Rosie, to slip back into the life of convention and responsibility. That other person—"
"Rosalind."
"—frightens her. To think that she might be capable of losing control, of flying in the face of propriety, of shirking her responsibilities, scares her. Dammit all, I wish it hadn't taken all this drama to make me see what was happening to Rosie. I tell you what, Davenant."
"Yes?"
"I will help you."
Max threw back his head and allowed a wave of relief to wash over him. If Sir Edmund would only talk to her, make her understand some of the things he had just said to Max, perhaps she would reconsider his offer.
"Frankly, I cannot believe I am saying this," Sir Edmund said, "considering your reputation. But I have a suspicion you are precisely the sort of man Rosie needs. I want her to be happy. I owe her nothing less. And I want my lively little girl back. And something tells me you could do it."
"I certainly want to try," Max said. "I am convinced the woman I knew in London is real, is lurking beneath the prim, country mouse, just waiting to be set free again."
"I believe you have the right of it, Davenant. Now, if only I can convince Rosie. I daresay she is not quite ready to see you again just yet, after your unsuccessful meeting earlier."
"No, I do not believe that would do any good. She heard all my arguments. I think she needs to hear them from you now. I will return to the King's Head. You can send word to me there after you've had a chance to speak with her. And Sir Edmund, please tell her that I do love her."
* * *
"Are you certain, my dear?"
"Quite certain, Papa. I cannot marry him." Lord, how she wished this day would end, that Max would go away, and everyone would leave her alone. None of them understood. She could never be the woman Max wanted, and would grow miserable in the trying. In the end, he would learn to hate her for disappointing him. She could not bear that. She would rather not have him at all, even if it meant her heart would be forever broken.
"He's a good man, Rosie, even if his reputation is a bit fast and loose. Can you believe I am saying such a thing?"
He was trying to coax a smile out of her, but she had none to give just now.
"Who would ever have guessed that I would recommend a renowned libertine to my own daughter? But I like him. Have you never heard that old saw about reformed rakes making the best husbands? He loves you, Rosie. I do not believe he would ever hurt you."
Not deliberately, perhaps, but the scorn in his eyes would be pain enough. "We live in different worlds, Papa. It would not be a comfortable match."
"It is important to you to be comfortable, is it not? You would rather remain with the familiar than strike out in new directions."
"It is my decision, Papa. And I think it excessively unfair of you to expect me, after all this time, to become something other than what you have always wanted me to be, depended on me to be. I do not deserve your mockery for preferring to be comfortable. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do."
Rosie left the library with as much calm dignity as she could muster. When she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door and locked it, then threw herself upon the bed and wept for her broken heart.
* * *
"This is as sorry a business as I've ever seen," Fanny said. "How on earth did things manage to turn out so badly?"
Fanny sat on her favorite settee in the drawing room, clasping the hand of Lord Eldridge, who was doing his best to comfort her. But Fanny was as distraught as she could be, after receiving another disturbing letter from Edmund and a difficult visit from Max.
"How is he taking it?" Lord Eldridge asked.
"Max? Not well, as you can imagine. He really did love the girl. But like all men—forgive me, me dear, but it's true—he takes solace in anger. He paced and growled like a caged bear, spitting out horrid venom about her stubbornness, her groundless fears and anxieties, her lack of backbone."
"You know, Fanny, this may be for the best in the long run. If that's how Max sees her, then she may have been right to refuse him."
"I cannot agree with you, Jonathan. She is making a terrible mistake. How she can toss away the love of a man like that is beyond me. Especially when I know she loves him, too. Did you not see it every time she looked at him?"
"I did, indeed. I confess I thought they seemed well suited."
"So did I!" Fanny's voice rose on a note of desperation. "Oh, Jonathan, I cannot simply sit by and watch two lives be ruined. What should I do?"
"Not much you can do with Max here and Rosalind in Devon. They must meet again if they are ever to solve their difficulties."
"And Max is unlikely ever to want to show his face at Wycombe again any time soon. If ever."
"So, Rosalind must come to London."
Fanny gave Lord Eldridge an incredulous look. "Nothing will persuade that girl to come back here. According to both Edmund and Max, she is so mortified she has crawled into a sort of shell, trying to pretend none of it ever happened."
"Know what I think?" Loid Eldridge said. "I think all this mortification we keep hearing about has nothing to do with any stunt she pulled while in town. I'll wager she's more embarrassed that she believed she was going to die, that people will ridicule her foolishness."
Fanny's eyes widened at the man's unexpected perspicacity. "You may be right, Jonathan. But outside of you and Max, I've told no one. She would not have to be afraid of any sort of public humiliation, if only we could contrive to get her back in town. I cannot, though, imagine what would convince her to come."
"What if you fell ill?"
"Don't be silly, darling," she said while patting his hand, "you know I am fit as a draft horse."
"But what if Rosalind believed you to be ill?" She developed quite a deep affection for you, my dear. Do you not think she would feel obliged to rush to your side if yo
u asked her?"
"Jonathan, you clever man, I think you've hit on just the thing." She reached over and kissed his cheek.
* * *
"I do not believe Fanny would joke about something like this," Sir Edmund said.
"She really is ill?" Rosie asked.
"Here, read her letter and judge for yourself." Sir Edmund passed the parchment to Rosie and hoped she would be convinced by Fanny's words. She wrote that she had grown terribly ill, had seen Sir Nigel Leighton, and been told to remain in bed indefinitely. She wondered if Edmund would be so obliging as to send Rosie to Berkeley Square to lend her companionship until Fanny had recovered her strength.
Sir Edmund would not reveal to Rosie that a second sheet had been enclosed, one for his eyes only, in which Fanny spelled out her plan to get Max and Rosalind back together. For once in his life, Sir Edmund was in total agreement with his sister.
"She is a bit vague about the nature of her illness," Rosie said. "What do you suppose is wrong?"
"I do not know for sure, of course, but Fanny has occasionally been troubled by a weak heart."
"Fanny?"
Sir Edmund realized how unlikely a notion that was the moment he said it. "Yes, but it could be something else." He stood before Rosie and took both her hands in his. "My dear, you know I was not thrilled to have you stay with my infamous sister when you went to London, but I had no proper reason to deny you the visit. Fanny wrote to me several times while you were in town, praising you to the moon, thanking me for allowing you to visit, and so on. She became quite fond of you, Rosie."
"And I of her," Rosie said. "She is the most remarkable woman. Papa. Getting to know Fanny is the one part of my trip I do not regret. I hope you are not offended, Papa, but I absolutely adore her."
"Then you should go to her, my dear." He squeezed her hands and his eyes told her that he was not offended by her admiration for Fanny. "She is not a young woman, you know. She realizes you might be uneasy returning to London after all that has happened, but you can see that she says she will have to keep you quietly to herself since she is confined to bed. No one need know you've come back to London. And even if they do, no one but Fanny and Lord Eldridge—and Davenant—know why you returned home. As for Davenant," he said, and Rosie braced herself for another attempt to change her mind about Max, "he mentioned something about an estate in Suffolk. In fact, most of the ton has returned to their various country homes. London will be very thin of company. There should be no embarrassment of any kind, if that is what concerns you."