The Perfect Rose

by Diane Greenwood

  "Nay! It is merely a short mealtime cold. I believe by tomorrow, he will be right as rain. Justin is over-seeing his care."

  "I see.” Rhionne nodded knowingly. “I will have a tray sent up."

  It was at this propitious moment that Father Blandsford arrived, a trifle foxed as was to be expected, and his rough cassock, wine-stained and creased. One look at Torie and he expostulated, “Can it be an angel, or the devil's mistress? Lucky devil!” He cackled at the double-entendre of the prose.

  Jonathan Pickwick puffed up with resentment. “Sir! You speak of my affianced."

  The priest looked slightly less than contrite. “My apologies.” Though it was unclear if this was directed to Pickwick for the insult, or to Torie for her unenviable position of being promised to the parson.

  Torie had the flattering honor of being the singular object of two men. On one side stood Jonathan Pickwick doing his duty. Part of this seemed to be standing slightly in front of Torie, as if to shield her from view. This could be attributed to his puritanical belief that no man should look upon so much of his future wife.

  On her other side, in direct conflict with the parson's belief, was Rhionne McLairdin. As if to mock the clergyman in his efforts, his eyes strayed often to Torie and if it wasn't that his duty demanded he act as host he would not have left her side.

  Torie was finding all this a heady experience. The younger parson was fidgety in his discomfiture. Even Torie's smile did nothing to alleviate his unease. But rather, its dazzling whiteness only drew attention to the over-all package.

  In truth Mr. Pickwick was thinking his future wife needed a private sermon on conforming to the ideals of a churchman's obedient spouse. He imagined her officiating at the church teas that politely solicited donations for the parish and its needier burrows. In his mind's eye he could envision her in a demure dove-gray gown, high collar etched with delicate lace, hair sedately braided and pinned. The clang of the dinner bell brought him to the present and he glanced at Torie. It was a physical shock to look upon her now, after his mind's distortion. Good Gad! She had a look this eve that was positively unsaintly! He felt beads of perspiration gather on his temple. Imagine her at a religious function dressed as she was! He shuddered.

  Solicitously Torie asked, “Are you sickening, Jonathan? Perhaps a glass of cool water? It has been uncommonly stifling as of late."

  It was left to Rhionne to escort her in to dinner. “What ails our good parson?"

  "Which one?” Torie returned spiritedly.

  "My, my. You are in a mood tonight.” He watched her quizzically from beneath lowered lids. “I see you are wearing the dress Everett so graciously gifted you with."

  Torie looked innocent. “You disapprove?"

  "You know I do."

  "So the looks you have been bestowing on me this evening are of disapproval?"

  "My dear, I believe you are trifling with me. I see you have chosen not to heed my earlier warning. Let me remind you I am a flesh and blood man; tread warily.” Torie was about to be seated at the table and missed the cue as her chair was pulled for her. His lordship chuckled, “You see my dear, you are too easily thrown off guard. I would devour you before you could cry wolf."

  Torie gasped at his audacity. It would not do to ponder that his ‘flesh and blood’ reaction's were essential to her plan. She could not cry craven for he was her only hope. So it was with great resolve Torie boldly rose with the others after dinner and led the way to the salon, not giving Rhionne the chance to dismiss her.

  Rhionne thought it odd. After all, the salon was a mere formality where he could pass the donation monies to the recipients under the guise of amiable drinks and conversation. When the bishop and his retinue had been in attendance, the cozy room had not been large enough and the Long Drawing room had served. But with the reduced company, the diminutive chamber was adequate, making the task seem more a ritual than a duty. Torie was bound to find the exchange both verbally and socially dull, especially in her present mood. Perhaps the girl was lonely for older companionship. After all, the boys could scarcely be considered top-of-the-tree interlocutors. Rhionne shrugged. That must be it.

  With gracious stateliness he served each guest malmsey wine, discreetly presenting each, excluding Torie of course, with the expected packet of generosity. Torie sat composedly on a small settee next to Jonathan Pickwick. She smiled and whispered something into his ear. The parson colored, his skin turning an unbecoming blotchy crimson.

  Rhionne's brows drew together in a frown. He did not care for this new familiarity, engaged or not! Torie's hand covered the parson's. The flustered clergyman jumped to his feet. Stupid oaf! Rhionne thought. He did not know what to do with a woman.

  He did not see Torie take the charity envelope from the middle of the settee, where the parson had dropped it in his haste, and tuck it behind her. As a matter of point he did not notice many things, such as Father Blandsford's chalice woefully empty and his face thrice as woeful. His lordship was not normally a parsimonious man, but tonight he was prone to distraction. So much so, it took Father Blandsford to remind him of his duty. The gold rimmed chalice, handed down from generation to generation of McLairdin's of Lairdscroft, was dropped onto a thick Venetian rug that absorbed the shock and saved the ancient vessel.

  Rhionne blinked as if in a daze and hastened to restore the chalice and replenish its contents. With an apology that was too blustery to be sincere, Father Blandsford accepted the fresh malmsey with exuberant relish, draining the goblet before Rhionne could retreat. His lordship, reminded of his duty, patiently refilled the vessel, leaving the remainder of the bottle within the priest's grasp.

  After a respectable duration Rhionne brought the evening to a close and ushered out the guests. He noted there was no lingering between his governess and the parson. Only a simple "Adieu.” The girl certainly blew hot and cold from one moment to the next. He found the trait curiously enticing.

  Torie had not followed him as he performed his final duty and showed the churchmen out. When he returned he found her still seated on the settee, it's white damask covering a perfect backdrop for the blaze of color she presented in the red velvet gown. Rhionne stood in the doorway admiring the sheer beauty before him.

  Torie had been staring into the embers of the fading fire. Suddenly aware she was no longer alone she looked up. The shadowed figure in the doorway was silhouetted. She knew the outline as she knew the back of her hand. The dark brown hair, tied back, was burnished sable, thick and lustrous. Torie could imagine touching, nay running her hand through it wantonly. He'd discarded the fitted jacket, leaving it draped over one arm, his once fastidiously tied cravat now slightly askew in an attempt to loosen the tight shirt points around his neck. Indeed this intimate portrait embarrassed Torie almost as much as if she'd seen him 'in naturalibus'. The usually assured form was slightly stilted in movement as he came towards her. Torie attributed this to the recent sword injury and did not think twice as to any other cause.

  In truth Rhionne was finding the room unbearably warm and the closer he got to Torie the hotter it became. With greater equanimity than he felt, he held his hand out to her. “May I escort you to your room?” Torie smiled so sweetly something in his chest ached as he pulled her to her feet.

  Without ceremony she fell into his arms. Torie could detect no stiffness now as both his arms wrapped about her so tightly she thought she would break in two. His lips brushed against hers almost desperately, searching with a question as old as time. In answer Torie did as she'd envisioned earlier. She reached high up. Her fingertips loosened the knot that held his hair in sleek order. It's thickness fell forward and wrapped about her face, tickling her eyes and cheeks. She reached to lift it, letting it slide through her finger tips, till her empty fingers rested on his cheek, stroking the well-defined contours, as her lips opened pliantly beneath his and she tasted the sweetness of malmsey wine.

  There was nothing that could have prepared her for this! Not all her plannin
g and consideration had taken into account this delicious, melting feeling, that made her want to lean in and let Rhionne take whatever he desired, while at the same time she felt wild and free; lost and found in the same instant!

  She must have communicated some of this to Rhionne. His lips lifted from hers and his dark blue eyes searched, as his lips had before, deep into Torie's soul. She smiled a bold smile that said it all and his lips fell to her shoulder, moving aside her gown, baring skin that no man had ever touched. Torie tilted her head back in abandonment, opening her lips to a sigh of pure bliss.

  One of Rhionne's hands came up and moved aside strands of her hair that impeded his progress. Then, as if forgetting his original intent, he wrapped the hair around his finger and pulled her face around to his. Torie had never felt pain and pleasure in the same moment before. It was both startling and exquisite and she could not help the moan that was pried from her throat. Rhionne seized her lips with his own. His hand on the small of her back pressed her to him. Torie wrapped her arms about his neck as if to never let go and she forgot all else, caught up as she was in the sensations of the moment.

  So, she did not hear the tortured gasp at the doorway. Neither did Rhionne as the couple was lost in their own world of touch, taste and feel. If there could be any doubt as to what he was witnessing it was erased as he watched the couple before him writhe in an ungodly embrace that compelled Jonathan Pickwick to cross himself. He would have backed from the room unnoticed if it hadn't been for the envelope he could plainly see on the settee. The parish money was his life's blood! He rushed for it and had it in his grasp when Rhionne came to his senses and realized he and Torie were not alone. Almost protectively he put Torie from him and behind him as if to shield her from view. As if there was any mistaking that form and that hair!

  Jonathan Pickwick bowed stiffly. He could not very well challenge Lord Lairdscroft to a duel. It wouldn't fadge as any insult could endanger the parish's financial support. “Sorry to intrude. I seem to have forgotten my packet.” Awkwardly he held up the envelope while backing from the room. “Father is waiting.” He turned tail and ran.

  Torie had forgotten her purpose, and still her thoughts were of Rhionne's caresses and not the fact her plan had been a success in every way! “Well, that's that.” she murmured, not thinking.

  Rhionne's head swiveled to look at her. No slow top, he perceived the situation quite well. With long, tapered fingers he reached out and taking the delicately structured chin in hand he turned Torie's face to the remainder of the firelight. “You played your part well, as did I. I make an admirable dupe and you ... you are the quintessential Delilah."

  Torie thought he would kiss her but the contempt in his voice confused her. Indeed his fingers pressed into the soft flesh of her cheekbones, leaving bruises that would heal. His next words cut deeper.

  "Get out of my sight before I treat you as you deserve."

  "Rhionne ... I did not mean..."

  With a flick of his wrist he had hold of the front of her gown and jerked it violently. The delicate material ripped, leaving her exposed to his view. “Now that I can see your charms more clearly, I no longer desire them. Get out!"

  With a cry of sheer horror and shame, Torie dashed from the room, holding the shards of her ruined gown about her as best she could.

  Chapter Eleven

  After a sleepless night Torie's heavy lids popped open as a small figure hurled itself towards her in the morning light. A wailing Brodie threw himself in her arms. “Torie, don't go! Please!"

  Torie's lack of sleep made her senses dull. She held the sobbing boy to her as a more sedate Justin entered, slightly embarrassed at seeing Torie in her bedclothes. “Sorry for the intrusion, Torie. I couldn't stop him. As soon as Father gave the news, he became uncontrollable."

  Torie expected the worst.

  Justin cleared his throat. “Father says you are to leave; I'm to go away to school and Brodie will have a tutor."

  Torie could see tears in the older boy's eyes. She held out a hand. He took it tremulously and Torie pulled him to her.

  "I don't want a stupid tutor! I want Torie!” Brodie wailed. “Don't leave me!"

  "It's hard on him, you see. He misses his mother so,” Justin spoke confidingly.

  Torie wasn't sure it was only Brodie he was speaking of.

  Justin continued. “Talk to Father, Torie. He won't send you away if you tell him you don't want to go."

  "Oh, Justin, I don't think your father would listen."

  "You could try.” Justin's hopeful tone wrenched at Torie's heart.

  "No, not anymore.” Torie sighed, choking back her own tears.

  Brodie raised a tear-stained face. “You won't even try! You don't want to stay! I hate you, I hate Father!” He tried to pull away.

  Torie held fast. “You don't mean that."

  He fell against her. “No, I love you! Take me with you. If you don't, I'll run away, I swear I will!"

  "Oh, Brodie, no.” Torie was crying now and Justin was sniffling. “This is hard enough for all of us. I couldn't love you both more if you were my own and my heart breaks when I think of leaving you. But it's what your father wants and I have no choice.” She ruffled Brodie's cowlick. “I'll write and you both can write me back. I'll think of you wherever I am and whatever I'm doing."

  A voice at the doorway startled all three occupants. Torie had no idea how long Rhionne had been standing there. “You boys come out of there and leave Miss Beauclaire to her morning ablutions. I would have a word with you in the study when you are finished Tor ... Miss Beauclaire.” He watched her dispassionately from beneath hooded lids.

  Brodie pulled away from her and rushed at him. “I hate you for sending Torie away! I hate you!"

  His lordship tried to catch the boy to him, but like a will-o-the-wisp, Brodie pulled away and in a flash ran past.

  "I'll get him,” Justin volunteered.

  "Leave him be.” His father's curt order cut through the air. “He'll get over it. We all will."

  Startled, Torie's eyes flew to his own. But the cold, blue orbs that scanned over her in her thin nightdress were frozen crystals.

  "Come Justin.” Rhionne turned away. Justin, with a sad glance at Torie, followed his father.

  Torie rose slowly and prepared for her last interview with Rhionne in the study. She chose to wear a somber, wren brown dress she'd refurbished with a bit of lace around the collar. The gown fit her mood, drab and colorless. She could not have mustered much dignity in a gown he had furnished so she'd chosen one of her old ones. As for her hair, she wet it liberally and pinned it snugly. For once, as if sensing the serious nature of its possessor it stayed in place. The thick mass appeared lack-luster, wet as it was, and gave Torie a matron's dourness.

  The study door was closed but Torie resolutely knocked, knowing whatever business Rhionne was conducting, this was one piece he would want to get out of the way as soon as possible. But there was only one person within and no paperwork before the occupant. Rather, he seemed to be doing nothing but waiting for her to arrive.

  Torie took a seat. It was no longer her seat—just a seat. And Rhionne was no longer a judge passing sentence over her in one of her fanciful notions. He was simply her employer dismissing her from her post. Rhionne looked at her disdainfully, as if she was no longer worth a second glance. He passed his eyes over her briefly and waited, seeming to have trouble drawing the breath necessary for the discourse before him.

  Rhionne felt tired beyond his years. The boys carried on as if they were losing their mother all over again. Only this time they held it against him for sending the girl away. But what choice was there? She'd played him for the fool more than once and had caused him considerable trouble. Perhaps her feeling for the boys was false also. But no, even a beautiful, calculating woman like Torie could not be that heartless.

  There was no choice for it then; she had to go. And the farther away the better. Let someone else try to keep her out of larks. Let
someone else fight over her. Imagine himself in a duel at his age! He was no schoolboy to be struck jealous over a spring daisy debutante! She was a rose to be sure, but that was neither here nor there. Let someone else kiss those petal soft lips. Bah! This line of thought he did not like to dwell on. He tried to put it from his mind.

  He surveyed her dress. He hated her hair fashioned like a tabby spinster, plastered down and confined. He disliked her gown, plain and staid. Where were his gowns? He caught himself; nothing about her was his. He cleared his throat and drew himself up in soldier fashion. “You of course know the nature of this interview."

  It was not a question only a statement and Torie waited, trying to push her lips into a smile, but not quite succeeding. She would never let him know how her heart was breaking over leaving the boys’ and ... yes ... him.

  He continued. “It is to bring to a close Lairdscroft's association ... with you as its governess. You may keep what has been provided for you and I've advanced your wages till the end of next month. That should provide well enough for you until you've attained a new post."

  He held out a document. “Here is the letter of reference you so richly craved on your earlier evaluation. I have not alluded to any of your escapades here. He could not help the slight smile that turned the corner of his lips. “I only praised you in your teaching methods, as the boys benefited immensely from the time you spent in residence here. Feel free to use my name in the event of its need to acquire an exemplary position."

  Torie took the proffered paper. She did not bother to read it. She knew Rhionne's word was as good as his honor. It was one and the same.

  He dismissed her. “The mail coach will make a drop tomorrow afternoon. I apologize for the lack of notice, but I trust you will be on it. That will be all."

  Torie never spoke a word in defense. Never thanked him for letting her have charge of his two most precious possessions. Not a word as she rose stiffly and inclined her head slightly, before walking from the room. She congratulated herself on her poise under the circumstances. After all, that was the last time that she would see Rhionne McLairdin, Lord of Lairdscroft.