by Regan Walker
They all strolled toward the dining room where Rose knew an elaborate dinner awaited.
* * *
Morgan escorted Rose to her seat, pleased he was on her right. Alvanley took his seat on her left. Across the table, Sir Alex was ensconced between the countess and Lady Picton. Gilded china and crystal arrayed on the table reflected the light of two tall candelabras giving the room a soft glow. Above the table, a crystal chandelier was decorated with red velvet bows.
The countess explained that since they were so few, she’d decided to use the smaller dining room. Morgan could only imagine the size of the larger one.
He smiled across the table at Lady Picton, a lovely woman with blue-violet eyes wearing a becoming gown to match, but it remained the fetching Miss Collingwood sitting next to him who drew his imagination. The long brown hair she donned while acting the part of Portia was gone, shimmering blonde locks drawn up into curls at the crown of her head, the light of the many candles reflected in their sheen. He wished she had worn it down like Portia. He longed to reach out and touch those golden strands.
Her crimson gown set off her ivory skin, and the white lace edging on the low bodice enticed him to admire the rounded mounds of her breasts. For a moment he wished she was still merely the actress he’d first thought her to be, there for his taking. She wore a strand of pearls tight against her slim neck. Was it a gift from a favored admirer? At the possibility, he felt an unwanted pang of jealousy. With men of the ton like Alvanley and Sir Alex falling over themselves to win her, and the rest of London panting after the actress Lily Underwood, she had plenty of Englishmen to choose from. Why would she consider an Irishman?
“Why the bows in the chandelier, Countess?” asked Sir Alex.
“Don’t you know it’s St. Valentine’s Day?”
“’Tis the day for lovers to send notes bearing sweet verse,” added Alvanley.
“I understand that Hatchards,” said the smiling Lady Picton, “has nearly sold out of writing paper, with half the ton flocking to buy what is needed for those love notes you speak of.”
“I’d quite forgotten,” said Sir Alex. “I’ve lately had matters of the House of Commons on my mind.”
Morgan turned to see Alvanley staring at Miss Collingwood. The man said, “I suspect I shall have to compose some verse myself if I’m to gain the reward I seek.”
Miss Collingwood did not look at the British lord, but a blush crept into her cheeks, making Morgan certain she knew the comment was directed at her. What did she think of all the attention? Was she vain? It seemed not, for she appeared more embarrassed than flattered.
“I promise my love notes, when I get around to them, will exceed others in blandishments,” chimed in Sir Alex, darting a look at Miss Collingwood and then at Lady Picton. To Morgan, the two men’s verbal dueling was quite humorous. He decided Miss Collingwood must agree, for it appeared she was fighting a smile. Neither of her suitors lacked for pride.
As the footman served turtle soup, Miss Collingwood turned to Morgan to ask, “I don’t suppose you would ever compose a valentine, Mr. O’Connell.”
“I might,” he teased. “Given the right inspiration.”
She blushed and changed the subject. “Have you been in London long?”
It was difficult to concentrate on her words when she turned those green eyes on him. They were the color of an Irish glen in early spring, full of promise for the sweet pleasures of summer to follow. When his eyes fell to her rosebud lips, he felt his groin tighten and he stammered, “I-I’m sorry. What did you say?”
She laughed under her hand. “London. How long have you been here?”
“Oh, sorry. I was often in London while I attended Cambridge. Then I returned home to Ireland for several years. When I decided to seek a career in law, my cousin Daniel suggested it would be well for me to attend one of the Inns of Court as he did, and I agreed. I’ve been here this time for two years.”
“Do you like living in Town?” she asked, taking a spoonful of her soup. “What I mean is, do you feel at home here?”
He considered her question. “I like having much to do, and London affords many…entertainments. As a barrister in training, the lectures here are more to my liking, as there are many learned members of the profession to share knowledge. But in truth I will always see my home in Ireland.”
“Do you have a large family there?”
“Aye, the O’Connell clan has been blessed with many children. I myself have two younger brothers and a sister as well as a multitude of cousins and uncles.” Leaning close he smiled and added, “My family has held lands in county Kerry for centuries, and we are rich—at least in sheep, goats and goodwill.”
Her laughter at his attempted humor was hypnotic, her smile like the sun rising over an Irish meadow. His mind conjured a picture of her standing in a sea of grass with that sun behind, her long golden hair blowing free. He would like to kiss her in that meadow. Aye, she was beautiful. But he was perplexed as to who she really was. Not an actress of low moral character to be trifled with, yet somehow she was also unlike the usual London debutante who would have suitors like Alvanley and Sir Alex.
“Where do you originate, Miss Collingwood?”
“The far north of England near Newcastle.”
“You’ve come a long way for your…current stay.” He could not say in the presence of others that she had come so far to play the part of Portia.
“Yes, I suppose so, but it fulfills a dream I’ve long had.”
“To be another woman?” he whispered.
“Yes, but a particular one,” she said softly in return.
“How is that?”
She glanced at Alvanley as if to reassure herself he was engaged in conversation and said, “Wouldn’t you want to step out of a humdrum life to be the one whose strategy saved a worthy hero?” In another whisper she added, “I felt a kinship with Portia. I would be such a heroine, if I could, forging my own path even if I have to don a disguise to do so.”
So the English actress was more like her character than he first imagined. The name Rose suited her better than Lily. The latter was too frail a flower to describe the strength he sensed in the woman sitting beside him.
Wondering if the rose had thorns, he decided to have a bit of fun with her. “Why would a gently bred woman have to ‘forge her own path’?”
As he expected, she rose to the bait. Visibly stiffening she said, “We are not all destined for the sitting room, good sir. Some women have minds that demand more.”
Pleased by her answer, he laughed at her ire so easily raised. That mirth produced a frown on her pretty face. Ah, yes, a thorn or two! You would think she was Irish! And even in her anger, she was beautiful.
The footmen took away the soup dishes and served the main course of venison pasties, baked ham and roast beef, accompanied by roasted root vegetables, greens and small potatoes seasoned with herbs. Soon Morgan was feeling like a stuffed goose. He noted that Miss Collingwood ate sparingly though she tasted all. What long, graceful fingers she has.
Alvanley left off his conversation with the countess to speak to Morgan. “O’Connell, are you here in London playing the bear hiding in the Orange den?”
“Not a bear, Alvanley, and certainly not hiding. I am merely seeking my living at the bar, trying to find my place in the world.”
“An Orangeman all the same, I think.”
“Because of my family, I doubt the Irish Orange would claim me as one of their own.”
“Ah well,” said Alvanley. “You seek a living at the bar? A wonderful place to drown your sorrows. My father, the first Baron Alvanley, was the Chief Justice of Common Pleas and spent many years there.”
“I dare say the bar you speak of,” interjected Sir Alex from across the table, “is not the one to which the barrister aspires, if I have the right of it.”
“You have caught my meaning, Sir Alex. I allude to the bar where refreshment is sought after too many hours on the bench.”
Recognizing the comment as in the spirit of good fun, Morgan took no offence. “The Irish have long had an appreciation for that bar,” he agreed. “And after several hours of dull legal exposition, I find myself eager to wet my throat.”
“I’m very fond of Irish whiskey myself,” said the countess, surprising everyone if the looks on the faces of her guests were any indication. “A strong spirit on a cold night warms the heart as well as the body.”
“You’ll find no argument from me, Countess,” said Morgan. Alvanley and Sir Alex murmured their agreement, and Miss Collingwood and Lady Picton exchanged knowing smiles, their affection for their hostess apparent.
As the footman reclaimed the dishes the countess declared, “I ordered an apricot tart among our desserts tonight just for you, Alvanley.”
“’Tis so well known I rarely dine without the pastry following?” the lord asked somewhat sheepishly. The countess merely raised a brow. “Well,” he continued, “I thank you for your kindness.”
The tart was served with dishes of honeyed almonds and a pink marchpane, for Morgan the perfect ending to a wonderful meal, all the more so because he saw the pleasure on Miss Collingwood’s face as she pursed her lips and savored the nuts, obviously a favorite treat. Watching her eat gave him ideas of what he’d like to do with those lips.
Sometime later, after taking their port, the men rejoined the women and Morgan was happy to see Miss Collingwood’s eyes search the room and light when she saw him. So, the actress was not indifferent. But she was not just an actress, he reminded himself, or he would seduce her. She was a lady, and a gentleman married a lady. But she was English and a baron’s daughter. Surely Irish gentry would not be on the countess’s list of acceptable suitors for her ward. Nor would his family embrace the very English Rose.
The evening at an end and the other guests departed, Morgan lingered at the door, seeking a moment alone with the object of his fascination. There could be no more delay. Handing her the note from his coat pocket he said, “This was my purpose in coming, the reason the countess invited me.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Connell,” Miss Collingwood said, accepting the envelope and brushing her fingers against his as she did. The small touch set off a fire within him. Damn. The attraction was a strong one.
“Knowing the countess,” she said, “I am certain her intent was not merely to see you deliver the note. I believe she is already fond of you.”
He could not resist asking: “And what about you, Miss Collingwood?”
She blushed and looked down. “Even if it were true, surely you could not expect me to admit to such a thing.”
“Still angry at me for my question about a woman stepping out of her role?”
She looked up. “Not angry, exactly. More frustrated at my sex being held to such a low standard. It’s the reason the part of Portia appealed to me. She prevails by her wits. She sets a much higher standard.”
Against his own reservations he said, “Perhaps you should show me more of that. Though I came to give you this note, Miss Collingwood, if you are willing I would like to call upon you again. Might you have time for a ride in the park tomorrow?” Seeing her draw back he added, “My uncle, with whom I reside much of the time, has a fine cabriolet, one that would be quite warm with heated bricks.”
She looked at him a moment as if pondering the invitation. Then: “Yes, a ride seems a most pleasant thing to do. I will ask the countess.”
Happy with her answer, Morgan took his leave. “Assuming the countess approves, I will call here on the morrow.”
* * *
“Did Mr. O’Connell give you the note?” asked the countess, standing in front of the crackling fire after the Irishman had gone.
“Yes,” said Rose, holding it up.
“And was it, as we suspected, from the same man?”
Rose nodded. “The handwriting is the same and, like the others, it is unsigned.” She decided to reveal her deep concern to the countess. “His words grow ever more ardent. And whether coincidence or no, he speaks of me as ‘a fair rose.’”
“Indeed,” said the countess with a look of concern. “That is most worrisome, my dear. You’d best have a footman standing close by when you come and go from the theatre.”
“I will, though I keep hoping the author is harmless. I’ve received other notes from those taking a fancy to the imaginary Portia and hoping to win her hand.”
“A possibility,” the countess allowed. “A most definite possibility. But keep that footman close by. Speaking of winning your hand, what did you think of Alvanley and Sir Alex?”
Rose lowered herself onto the sofa. “I quite enjoyed the evening and the conversation. About the two of them, I’m not certain. You know I’m not seeking to marry. Why, I’ve only just arrived in London! Besides, Alvanley is a dandy who likes his own wit too well. If he ever marries, it will just be to gain another audience member.”
“As I thought, which is why he didn’t appeal to my friend Emily either. Still, he is a good friend to have, as Brummell discovered.”
“Sir Alex was a perfect gentleman,” Rose noted, “if a bit riled by Alvanley. That whole discussion about valentines!”
“All men are competitive, my dear, particularly in the presence of two beautiful young women.”
“I could not say,” Rose admitted.
“Sir Alex kept Emily and me entertained enough. He told stories from his days as an officer and from his new position in Parliament. I must say, the two places he’s served are not so different. Battles rage in each.”
“That is not surprising,” Rose said. “Both are governed by men.”
The countess laughed. “Still, Alvanley or Sir Alex. I think your father would have approved either’s suit.”
Rose shook her head, truly not looking to wed. “They seem more consumed by their affairs and not interested a partner, except perhaps to add to the collection of possessions they can parade before other men. I rather agree with Emily. It is best to stay as I am.”
“Make no mistake,” said the countess, “Emily will not escape marriage forever—and neither will you, my dear. No, I have plans for her. I’m just looking for the right man. So do not think to remain unwed yourself!”
Hoping to change the subject Rose offered, “I found the discussion about the Irish issue most interesting, didn’t you?’
“That is one matter that will, I fear, consume England for some time. And in the middle of it is the O’Connell family.”
“I learned a bit about Mr. O’Connell,” Rose admitted. Such as, he’d been the most handsome man in the room. Recalling that his family was rich in sheep, goats and goodwill, she added, “He has a wry sense of humor and that rare quality of being able to laugh at himself. Unlike Alvanley, who likes to be laughed with. He might have made a great actor, Alvanley.”
“No doubt he would. He is known for his active mind and large presence.”
“Oh.” Rose wondered what the countess would think of the invitation from the Irishman. “By the by, Mr. O’Connell has asked to take me for a ride in the park tomorrow.”
The countess’s eyes found hers. “I doubt it not. His gaze was fixed upon you all evening.”
Rose’s heart gave a little leap at those words, at yet another thought of the barrister with the head of dark curls and the rakish smile.
“Do you propose to accept his invitation, my dear?”
“I would like to,” she confessed.
“Perhaps it would be fine for an hour, no more. Just a jaunt around Hyde Park. You’re years past a come-out.”
“He did make me laugh several times this evening.”
“He has the Irish charm, and wrapped in a fine form.”
“Countess!”
“I may be old, my dear, but I have wonderful memories of my late husband the Earl of Claremont. He was another charmer, and we had many happy years together.”
Rose had to agree the Irishman was handsome and charming. With wonderfully br
oad shoulders. And a disarming smile. He almost made her want to wed. But even Portia married a man who didn’t truly appreciate her for what she was. Rose was not looking to make the same mistake.
* * *
The next day dawned clear and sunny though very cold. There was still frost on the ground when she awakened.
Rose dressed warmly with an azure blue day gown and a cloak of a darker shade. She carried a small, round muff of beaver fur to warm her hands, but for all that she was still chilled as Mr. O’Connell arrived and they set off in the cabriolet drawn by a fine black thoroughbred. The Irishman had remembered the bricks for her feet, which gave her some comfort.
“You are an experienced driver,” she said as they dodged an oncoming group of riders.
“In Ireland, one grows up with horses, at least in my family. Many a time I’ve raced with my cousins over the hills of Kerry. Do you ride, Miss Collingwood?”
“Yes, though not as often as I’d like. Northern England has beautiful hills where one can see the view or enjoy a picnic.”
He turned and smiled. “I’d enjoy a picnic with you.”
Rose felt her cheeks warm. She could just see them sitting on a blanket by a stream sharing a picnic luncheon. In fact, the idea of having a picnic with him was terribly intriguing.
“So tell me, Mr. O’Connell, what do you intend to do when your training is complete?”
“I have an offer to begin my practice with a barrister from whom I’ve received training. Or, I could return to Ireland to join Daniel. He’s become very successful and could use another hand.” Looking at her: “For a while at least, I think I shall remain in London. I might even consider making it my home.”
She wondered aloud, “Is that what your cousin had in mind when he suggested you come here?”
“Possibly. It might help the cause if there were a few more of us Irish here. One day he will be a Member of Parliament. It is inevitable. The Irish will demand it, as he speaks for us.” Mr. O’Connell shrugged and shook his head. “What of you, Miss Collingwood? What will you do when the play is concluded?”