***
Times without number, Rosalinde chided herself for her anticipation of the assembly that evening. It was likely the last time she could enjoy Julian's company, since his healed knee ensured he would be leaving, and soon. She would not dwell on that, though, much as she dreaded it. Instead, she had every intention of enjoying herself to the hilt, laughing and dancing, hoarding the delightful memories for the bland days and weeks ahead, once he had returned to London.
Rosalinde prepared her toilette with extra care, certain her simple muslin gown would serve well for a country assembly, although she knew it was not anywhere near to what a fashionable London miss would wear. Her mirror reflected the sparkle in her eyes, heralding her excitement at the upcoming festivities. The delicate pink tint on her cheekbones told the same tale.
With trepidation, and a great deal of high hopes, she entered the small parlor where Julian and her father awaited her.
Julian's appreciative intake of breath, as well as his slow smile of pleasure, caused all of her fears to evaporate. She smiled with more confidence than she had felt in ages, and her heart only skipped twice when Julian crossed the room to take her hand in his. Of course, her heart beat in double-time when he pressed a kiss to her gloved fingers, lingering over her upraised hand while he gazed into her eyes.
"Miss Hewitt, I own you have the bearing of a duchess this evening. And a most beautiful duchess at that."
Rosalinde smiled at his flattery, but she was perplexed by the strange tone to his voice. Was he truly as caught up in the emotion as she was? Or was she being fanciful in supposing his feelings were genuine rather than the Spanish coin of a man well-versed in flirtation?
Before she could fashion a practical answer, her father commented, "Yes, my daughter is as beautiful as a duchess. And it is no wonder, as she is the very image of her mother." He ceremoniously placed Rosalinde's wrap about her shoulders. "I suspect there will be little opportunity if I do not speak now, but—" He faltered before continuing, "I wonder if there might be an opening on that dance card this evening for your father."
Rosalinde turned to see the wistfulness in her father's eyes. She realized he was trying his utmost to apologize for his neglect of her the past few years, so obviously afraid she would withhold her forgiveness by denying the simple favor of a dance.
"Father, I have already reserved the very first dance for you."
She leaned forward and placed a heartfelt kiss to his worn cheek. He clasped her to him, holding her silently for some moments.
"I know this is not your calling," he whispered. "You have tried valiantly to make it so, but your place is elsewhere. I have been selfish, leaning on you much too long, but you must promise me that you will follow your heart when the time comes. Your mother and I both want that for you."
He finally released her, smiling so beatifically. She had felt such guilt for wanting something more than the sanctuary this quiet village provided, but his words had instantly absolved her. He was giving her his blessing. He wanted her happiness even if it meant he might never see her again.
"Now come," he said, holding out his arm. "We'd best get to the assembly so I can claim that dance."
She nodded, dabbing at her eyes before the tears could spill over. "Should you desire another dance, you most certainly will be able to preempt any whose name is on my card."
"Except mine, sir," Julian teased. "I could not forego such a pleasure, even for Miss Hewitt's own father."
Her father smiled. "I suspect we shall both be fending off her admirers this evening. What say we avoid the assembly and keep this beauty to ourselves here instead?"
Julian appeared to give great weight to the impish request. "I agree there is some merit to your plan, sir." At Rosalinde's mock warning glare, he continued apologetically, "But I have made promises to Mrs. Pettibone and Mrs. Baird, and I fear I would suffer bodily harm should I not make my appearance this evening."
Her father grimaced. "I daresay they would make haste here to fetch us."
"And only Mrs. Hales appears able to restrain them once they get such a notion," Rosalinde added.
The trio made their way towards Julian's carriage, still laughing at the havoc Julian's widowed admirers would wreak should he dare not to attend. Rosalinde halted when she saw Frederick in his elegant coachman's livery.
"Frederick, how grand you are this evening."
Julian pointedly raised his eyebrows, but Frederick ignored the gesture. Instead, he whisked a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and gallantly presented them to Rosalinde.
"Miss Hewitt, I'm hoping you won't mind that I took these from your own garden."
"Frederick, how can I mind? I am certain the garden won't miss these, since there seems so many more blooms than last year. I confess I am at a loss as to why," she added with a smile.
He stammered and shuffled his feet, and it made Rosalinde's heart swell once more with emotion. She had grown fond of Frederick, and would miss his company once he returned to London with Julian. She would not allow it to dampen her enjoyment of this evening, however.
"We had best be on our way," Julian said with a wry smile, "else Frederick's courtship will force me to challenge my own coachman to a duel over you."
Rosalinde laughed as Frederick helped her into the carriage, followed by her father and Julian. Once everyone was comfortably seated, Frederick took his place atop the carriage and they headed to the assembly.
Julian turned towards her father. "The press of attention has commenced already, sir. I shudder at the thought of what we will encounter once we arrive at the assembly rooms."
He chuckled. "At least I have the first dance reserved for me. You, young man, have your work cut out for you."
"That I do, sir," Julian agreed with a laugh. "But I feel exceptionally confident this night."
He glanced at Rosalinde, and her heart began a nervous flutter at the unexpected expression of determination in his eyes. She quickly turned away, uncertain why she had imagined something so silly.
He was speaking of dances, and she was thinking something else entirely.
***
Predictably, Julian's entry at the assembly did not go unnoticed, but to Rosalinde's eye he appeared unaware, or at least unaffected, by the stir he was causing amongst the local citizenry. Reverend Hewitt excused himself to speak to one of his parishioners, informing Rosalinde with a smile he would return when the orchestra struck up the first dance.
Julian pretended to scowl and pointedly steered Rosalinde towards a quiet spot at the edge of the gathering. The proprietary way he clasped her arm was utterly delicious, so much so, in fact, that it was easy to imagine him doing so all the time.
Rosalinde veered away from such fruitless musings, reminding herself she would enjoy the evening as if it were her very last. In many ways, it was, for she knew any future assemblies were bound to be colorless without Julian's vibrant company.
"Rosalinde," Julian whispered, nodding his head ever so slightly towards a sour-looking spinster seated across the room. "From your unerring description, there can be no doubt in my mind that yonder is the notorious flirt Miss Milney."
Rosalinde nearly choked on the punch she had been sipping, but Julian continued his absorbing task of pretending to match the local personages with the descriptions she had provided to amuse him during his convalescent days.
He flicked his eyes toward their town's version of a dandy, a gentleman whose appearance doubtlessly occupied more than a few of his waking hours. "And I've already pegged him as the scholarly Mr. Nickerson, sought out far and wide for his erudite opinions on all learned subjects."
This time Rosalinde did not even attempt to suppress her mirth. She laughed joyously, eliciting another appreciative smile from her companion. His eyes narrowed as he studied another one of the guests.
"She resembles the scullery maid at the inn," he commented.
Rosalinde turned to see a beautiful woman in the sheerest of muslin dresse
s, adorned with a jeweled headband and a strand of exquisite pearls around her elegant neck.
"She is certainly a visitor from a more fashionable area than ours. But a scullery maid? You have been reading too many French folk tales," she teased. "Or perhaps something extra has been added to the punch this evening."
He grinned. "I wonder, do they play the waltz at these country assemblies?" He glanced at Rosalinde as if envisioning the rare delight of twirling her in his arms.
Despite her blush at her wayward imagination, Rosalinde managed a credible imitation of the stern Mrs. Baird. "That shocking display which the younger generation attempts to pass off as a respectable dance? Why, we have been struggling against its pernicious influence for nearly a year now."
"Then permit me to shock the widows further," he whispered devilishly. "Save every waltz for me."
Rosalinde could not prevent the small gasp of surprise from escaping. There was nothing more she wanted than to twirl about the floor in Julian's arms.
"I could not bear to watch you in the arms of another," he said. "Truly, it would rend my heart."
He held a hand to his chest as if to stave off the potential pain, yet he could not hold back a smile.
She graciously nodded her head, ceding to his wishes. "After all, a broken heart is something which even the estimable Dr. Bentley cannot repair."
"Quite true. Only you have that ability."
Her heart lurched momentarily. But then she realized how unused she was to the sort of flirtatious language that was coin of the realm to a London gentleman like Julian. She had little opportunity to practice what was as natural as breathing to Julian.
Rosalinde quickly turned her eyes away, unwilling to show Julian how unsettling he was to her equilibrium. Instead, she lifted her punch cup lightly in the direction of the local squire, who was expounding on the grisly details of the most recent fox hunt.
"Did I tell you of Squire Hollister's noble efforts to establish a society for the preservation of foxes?" she asked innocently.
"What a delicious gossip you are!" Julian laughed outright and Rosalinde joined in. He opened his mouth to say something further, but he halted, for the musicians' first notes brought Reverend Hewitt to Rosalinde's side to claim their dance.
Julian continued his brokenhearted swain routine, pretending to turn her over to her father with reluctance. Rosalinde smiled, enjoying immensely the role Julian played to perfection. As her father led her towards the dance floor, it was almost possible to believe that Julian's ill-disguised dismay was not feigned.
***
Julian sighed as he watched Rosalinde and Reverend Hewitt take their places in the set just forming. He knew it was churlish to want to keep Rosalinde completely to himself, but her luminous mien and lighthearted banter were too delicious. It made his heart swell with optimism, for he felt he was but a heartbeat away from winning his duchess's hand.
His regret at Rosalinde's absence was extremely short-lived, for he was instantly surrounded by his clan of adoring widows. He bit back a grin as they nearly trampled him in their efforts to claim the first dance.
Julian held up his hands. "I have fashioned a method to ensure I am able to dance with each and every one of you as many times as propriety will permit."
At their hopeful glances, he continued, "I knew if I were to attempt to choose the prettiest for the first dance, then the night would be turning to dawn before I could ever make that delightful choice." He grinned as they predictably preened and simpered. "So, I propose we proceed alphabetically."
Mrs. Baird's face lit up with triumph, while Mrs. Hales and Mrs. Pettibone conceded defeat as gracefully as possible.
Julian gallantly offered his arm to Mrs. Baird to lead her towards the other dancers. However, as he passed Mrs. Pettibone, he whispered, "I thought to save the best for last." He tossed her a little wink, hoping from her fluttering eyelids that her vinaigrette was near at hand. He also suppressed a wince as Mrs. Baird tugged on his arm, obviously desperate to remove Mr. Selby from her friends' influence.
Julian dutifully partnered each of the widows, as well as several hopeful young misses nearly consigned to wallflower status. None of the grateful females were even remotely aware how his thoughts centered on the very popular Miss Hewitt. It was as if she blossomed before his very eyes, and apparently the rest of the town had had the blinders removed as well, for Rosalinde had suddenly garnered more attention in one evening than she had her entire life.
It pleased him to no end that she received the regard he felt was long overdue. Hadn't he puzzled over her lack of suitors from the day he met her? Still, the lack of admirers was now his utmost goal. It was only his impeccable manners and life-long civility which kept him dancing attendance on the women hanging on his every word when all he wanted was to wrest Rosalinde away from the numerous moon-faced lads and lascivious gents paying heed to her every word.
The long-overdue strains of a waltz stirred Julian's heart as it never had in London, nearly displacing the jealousy currently residing there. With an apologetic smile, Julian excused himself from his rapt admirers and walked with a lively step to claim Rosalinde at last. His heart quickened at the thought of finally having Rosalinde in his arms.
"Miss Hewitt," he said formally, his hand outstretched.
"Mr. Selby," she whispered, smiling as if he had presented her with the keys to the city of London.
She gracefully moved into his arms as if she had only left them moments previously. Julian marveled at how naturally they fit together, and how easily the movements of the dance suited his wild emotions. Rosalinde's face beamed up at him, and Julian knew heaven had nothing to compare to holding Rosalinde securely in his arms while they moved in time to the lilting music.
Were it not for the multitude of dancers surrounding them, he would have kissed her, claiming her as his. The primitive notion surprised him, but no more so than when Rosalinde ducked her head as though she had divined his outrageous musings.
Julian pulled her closer, and with great daring, he pressed a quick kiss against her golden-blonde hair. Truly he was a cad of the worst order, for he relished the fleeting sensation as much as her quickly hissed, "Julian!"
"Have I shocked you?" he asked innocently.
Her lips twitched, but she replied in a prim voice, "I only fear what a fracas you shall cause amongst your admirers should they witness this scandalous display. I know I would not wish to be the cause for a riot in these assembly rooms, nor would I wish to be trampled underfoot."
Julian groaned at the image. "I shall heed your warning, then. I would detest seeing your broken remains joining those of your grossly abused bonnets."
Rosalinde laughed, and Julian found himself wishing the night were already over, so that he could declare his love to her, and hear her delighted assent to being his wife.
Regrettably, the music stopped, so there was no longer a legitimate reason to keep his arms about Rosalinde. He wondered how long it would be until the next waltz, but before he could suggest, only half in jest, that she remain by his side until then, he found himself captivated by a most amazing sight.
"I wonder which personage has caught your attention now," Rosalinde chuckled, turning slowly. "Oh dear heavens. It's Mr. Moulton!"
Chapter 10
Rosalinde remained relatively calm as she introduced Julian and Mr. Moulton to each other. While the two men shook hands, Julian gazed incredulously at Rosalinde. There was no mistaking Julian's unspoken, "This is Mr. Moulton?"
Granted, Mr. Moulton embodied every notion of what she envisioned a London dandy to be, with a garish saffron waistcoat and impossibly high shirt points. Had he recently acquired those traits, or had she merely overlooked his grievous faults more than she had realized?
Even more important, what was he doing here?
"Mr. Moulton—" she began.
"Oh, Miss Hewitt, you can have no idea of the trials I have endured on your behalf." He went on at great length about the p
etty inconveniences he had recently experienced, making Rosalinde mentally compare them to her own disastrous day while awaiting his arrival.
Julian clucked sympathetically each time Mr. Moulton paused for breath, eliciting an even longer, more detailed recital of Mr. Moulton's misfortunes. Rosalinde stifled a groan, fearing the whining she had little noticed until this day would never cease, but for once the Fates were on her side.
"I say," Mr. Moulton said, real awe in his voice, "that is a dashed fine specimen of watch you have there. May I?" Before Julian could respond, Mr. Moulton whipped out his quizzing glass and began an intimately detailed perusal of the pocket watch, still attached to Julian's waistcoat.
Mr. Moulton finally stood up, much to Julian's visible relief. "I am quite enthralled with watches and clocks of all sorts," he said with unbridled enthusiasm. "I could tell you the most interesting stories about their origin and their history. In fact, if I might be so bold, I fancy myself a bit of an expert on the topic."
"You don't say," Julian drawled, clearly fascinated by the man's unselfconscious preening.
"Which makes my current predicament that much more embarrassing," Mr. Moulton confided in a conspiratorial voice. "You see, I was to meet Miss Hewitt for a rendezvous of the utmost importance."
Julian raised his eyebrows, signaling Mr. Moulton that he was avid to hear the details.
"This is most mortifying." Mr. Moulton looked from side to side, as if to assure himself that no one would be able to overhear his humiliating confession. "My watch quite stopped on me. I was late for my own elopement!"
"You don't say!" Julian repeated, apparently unable to summon forth any other response.
"Yes," Mr. Moulton answered with a wince. "So I quite missed our rendezvous! Can you imagine? Me, an aficionado of clocks and I am late for my own elopement." He chuckled heartily at the notion, obviously thinking it the choicest morsel he had heard in weeks.
Julian gazed at her impishly, as if expecting her to explain her unwise choice of husbands. Rosalinde had no answer. Two minutes in Mr. Moulton's company and she was more than eager to embrace spinsterhood.
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