Improper Ladies

by Amanda McCabe

  Morley himself seemed oblivious to the attention. No doubt he was accustomed to it, since it appeared to follow him wherever he went. Lady Violet, too, paid no heed, since she was too busy staring around with wide, amazed eyes.

  “I believe I see a table over there by the wall,” Lord Morley said. “Shall we?”

  Rosalind glanced over at the table indicated. It was just big enough for three, in a relatively quiet corner. “It seems fine,” Rosalind answered. “But do you not want to sit with one of your friends?”

  A tiny, puzzled crease appeared between his velvety dark eyes. “My friends, Mrs. Chase?”

  “Yes. Obviously many people here know you. I just saw Lady Clarke wave at you.”

  He laughed, a rich, merry sound that caused yet another wave of attention to crest in their direction. “No, Mrs. Chase. This afternoon I want only to be with my sister—and with you.” His gaze lingered on hers, almost like a—a caress.

  Rosalind felt her cheeks smolder again. Fortunately, Violet tugged at his arm then. “Michael,” she said excitedly. “May I have one of those strawberry ices now?”

  Lord Morley laughed again, and led them to the vacant table. “Vi, you may have as many ices as you like, and cakes, too.”

  “Truly?” Violet sighed, an utterly rapturous sound, and turned her attention to the small menu set before her.

  “Anything you like.” Michael turned to smile again at Rosalind. She couldn’t help but think that he was well-named-Michael, the archangel. “And what would you care for, Mrs. Chase?”

  What would she care for? Rosalind could scarcely consider cakes and pastries when he looked at her. Indeed, she could scarcely think at all. She aimed her full attention on her gloves, tugging them slowly off her hands. She folded the pale blue kid and laid them atop the table.

  “I think I shall just have some tea,” she answered. She never removed her stare from the gloves.

  “Just tea? Oh, no, no, Mrs. Chase,” Morley chided teasingly. He reached out and touched her gloves, running one long, dark finger over the leather before laying his hand flat atop them. “You are at Gunter’s. They are renowned for their decadent pastries. You cannot go back to the country without at least trying one.”

  Rosalind slowly raised her gaze to his. Much to her surprise, he was not smiling now. He was intent as he watched her, questioning—pleading? “Must I?” she murmured. The rich cakes seemed so very—decadent.

  “I insist.” His voice was husky.

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Chase! You cannot come to Gunter’s and simply have a cup of tea. Try some marzipan,” Violet piped up. Her young voice burst whatever spell of enchantment Rosalind had fallen under, and she was able to turn away from him at last.

  She still felt him watching her, though, and even as he laughed with Violet she heard the darkness, the pull of him.

  She needed something cold to drink. Cold, and very strong.

  Michael watched as Mrs. Chase turned away from him, turned all her attention to Violet’s prattlings. She even reached out and gently slid her gloves from beneath his hand and off the table, careful not to touch his skin.

  He felt her, though, felt the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin. She had the fairness of a redhead, with a few pale golden freckles sprinkled over the translucent back of her hand.

  In his mind, he saw himself catch up that hand, pressing kisses to each of those tiny freckles, to the faint blue of the veins in her slim wrist, her delicate fingers. He could almost feel her pulse throbbing beneath his lips ...

  Michael sat back in his chair, sucking in a deep breath of the sweet air. Even then he could not entirely escape those strange feelings, for he could smell her fresh, green-spring perfume.

  He could not escape them whenever he was in her presence, for these sensations drew him in, drowned him, just as they had in her office, in the dark corridor at the Portman ball. There was just something about Mrs. Chase, something mysterious and alluring and deep. He wanted to discover what that was—he needed to know.

  But he could not discover anything here. He would have to find a way to see her again, someplace more quiet. Yet how to persuade her to see him? She was as skittish as a new colt; she did not even want him touching her gloves. He would just have to find a way, that was all.

  “Morley!” someone called out.

  Michael looked back to see Sir William Beene, a fellow poet who had helped to found the Thoth Club. Will was one of his best cronies; they had spent many hours discussing literature, music, and the damnable fickleness of the muse.

  Michael stood up to shake hands with Will—and then saw his friend’s gaze land on Mrs. Chase and kindle with avid interest.

  “Morley, old man,” Will purred. “Won’t you introduce me to this lovely lady? It would be a great sin for you to keep her to yourself.”

  And, even as he made the introductions and watched Mrs. Chase smile at Will, he had the strongest urge to plant his good friend a facer.

  It was rather late when Michael returned to his own lodgings. He had gone for a drive in the park with Violet and Mrs. Chase after Gunter’s, had stayed with his sister until she went off to the theater with Aunt Minnie. So the steps leading to his rooms were dimly lit in the gloaming, and he did not see the figure seated on the top step until he very nearly tripped over him. Michael nearly went sprawling, his foot landing on soft flesh.

  “What the devil . . .” He automatically lifted his walking stick to defend himself, though the light, carved wood would actually be less than useless in a brawl.

  “Oh, no, Morley, don’t hit me! It’s Allen Lucas.”

  “Lucas?” Michael slowly lowered the stick, and peered through the gloom to see that it was indeed Mrs. Chase’s brother. “Why are you skulking about here outside my rooms?”

  “I was just waiting for you,” Lucas said, scrambling to his feet. His coat and cravat were rumpled, as if he had been wearing them for too long, but he looked much better than he had after his escapade at the Portman ball. His eyes were clear, his face not so pale. He seemed as if he had grown up in only a few days. “I am going back to Cambridge, but I wanted to talk with you before I left.”

  “Why couldn’t you just leave a card? There was no need for you to take up residence on the staircase.” Michael pushed his door open, and ushered the young man into his rooms. The draperies were drawn back at the windows, letting in the last dying rays of sunlight, and he went about lighting the lamps.

  Lucas sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, twisting his hat in his hands. When Michael finished his task, he sat down across from Lucas, and waited for the young man to state his errand.

  “I wanted to talk to you about m’sister,” Lucas said, in a great rush as if to corral his courage, though Michael could not imagine why it took courage to speak of her. “She is not at all happy with me, you see.”

  “Well, your behavior at the Portman ball was rather foolish. I imagine she was quite embarrassed.”

  Lucas shook his head. “No, it is more than that. I have not seen our true circumstances, though heaven knows she has tried to tell me enough times. She has always been more like a mother to me than a sister, you see. Our parents died when I was very young, and she’s always worked so hard to take care of me. I never realized how hard until recently. I got into some money trouble, you see, and then I stupidly went to a bank for a loan, and—well, that didn’t work out very well.”

  Michael was not exactly certain why Lucas was telling him this, but he did not want the young man to stop. Michael was fascinated to hear more of Mrs. Chase, more of what she was like when she was not wearing her armor of rules and propriety. What she worked for—what she loved. What her troubles were. He nodded encouragingly at Lucas.

  “So I have to go back to Cambridge and study so one day I can take care of her. But I need your help.”

  “How can I possibly help? She thinks I have led you into wrong thinking and bad behavior by dismissing the rules.”

 
Lucas frowned, looking so deeply young and very confused. “I have told her that is not so, that I misunderstood you! That it was all my own doing. And I will tell her that again. But I think something is wrong with Rosie, something besides me and my stupidity, and I cannot discover what it is. She always has to pretend to be so strong.”

  “Wrong? Is Mrs. Chase ill?” Michael said, alarmed.

  “I don’t think so, but she is tired. How could she not be, with me, and all those girls at her school to contend with? I think—no, I know that there are some financial troubles, and they are mostly my own fault. Since I cannot be here with her, someone has to keep an eye on Rosie, make sure she doesn’t worry herself to death. Could you do it, Morley? Just for a while, until she goes back to the country.”

  “Me?” Michael sat back in his chair. Of course it would be no great hardship to watch Mrs. Chase; quite the opposite. The more he saw her, the more he was fascinated by her. Yet he could not imagine that she would welcome such attentions from him. Not yet, anyway. Not until he could persuade her of his finer qualities. “I doubt Mrs. Chase would allow me to, er, keep an eye on her.”

  Lucas laughed ruefully. “She is dashed stubborn, it’s true. Yet I’m sure you could do it without her knowing. You like her, do you not?” There was an eagerness in Lucas’s eyes, in his entire manner.

  Like? That was such a tepid word for what Michael was coming to feel for her. “I admire Mrs. Chase, yes.”

  “I do not see how anyone could not admire Rosie! She’s a brick. If you could just look in on her while she’s in Town, take her about to museums and such. She likes dusty old places such as that. Perhaps you could even discover what is bedeviling her? There must be something besides money.”

  “I could do that, if Mrs. Chase would allow me to. I confess to a liking for dusty places myself.”

  Lucas gave him a relieved smile. “That is all I can ask. You are a good man, Morley, and I am sure my sister will come to see that, too. All this misunderstanding about rules and such will be as nothing once she gets to know you.”

  Lucas took his leave soon after that, but Michael sat in his chair long after it was full dark, and the glow of the lamps was his only light.

  Keep an eye on Mrs. Chase. Oh, yes, he could certainly do that, and keep men like his so-called friend Will Beene away from her while he did it. And he would start by inviting her to the theater tomorrow evening.

  Chapter fourteen

  “True friendship is one of life’s greatest treasures.”

  A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Three

  Rosalind was deep in delicious sleep, just clinging to the edges of a half-remembered dream, when she became aware that someone was sitting at her bedside, watching her intently.

  She suddenly remembered that strange man she had seen watching the house, and she sat up with a terrified gasp—only to find Georgina perched on the edge of the bed, like a morning bluebird in her sky-colored dressing gown.

  “Georgie!” she screamed. “You scared me out of my wits. What are you doing here so early? You never rise before ten at the least. Is something amiss?”

  “Not a thing, as far as I know. I’m sorry I woke you,” Georgina said, looking not in the least repentant. “But I thought you might want to see these, and you were sleeping ever so late. Late for you, anyway.”

  Rosalind, finally able to catch her breath, noticed what Georgina held on her lap. A bouquet of white roses and a small, ribbon-tied box. “Flowers? You had to wake me especially for that?” Rosalind wondered if she was still dreaming.

  “Not just any flowers. They are from Lord Morley, as is the box. And I have not even peeped inside, though I am aching to know what is there!” She deposited the offerings on the counterpane next to Rosalind.

  Rosalind stared down at the flowers. Now she knew she was still dreaming, if she was receiving gifts from Lord Morley before the household was even awake. She slowly reached out with one fingertip to touch the blossoms, half expecting to feel the warmth of his skin there. She felt only the cool lushness of a petal.

  Georgina stretched out beside her, and for one moment Rosalind felt like a schoolgirl again. She and Georgina and Elizabeth Everdean had often stayed up late to talk and giggle, mostly over young men and imagined romances. But she had never known anyone like Lord Morley when she was fifteen. She had not even dreamed there could be someone like him.

  “Well?” Georgina prompted impatiently. “Aren’t you going to open the box?”

  Rosalind slowly pulled at the end of the satin ribbon and drew it off the box. She lifted the lid—and laughed.

  “What?” Georgina cried. “What is it?”

  “Cakes,” answered Rosalind.

  Georgina scowled in disappointment. “Just cakes? No emeralds or anything like that?”

  “Certainly not. Even Lord Morley is not so wildly improper as to send me emeralds. And cakes are fine enough, when they are marzipan-frosted cakes from Gunter’s.”

  “So they are from Morley, then?”

  “I believe so. No one else would be sending me flowers and cakes.” Rosalind was amazed that Lord Morley would send gifts. She was hardly his usual sort, she thought, remembering Lady Clarke and her daring, close-fitting gowns. But it was nice to receive them all the same.

  She took one of the tiny, luscious cakes and popped it into her mouth. As she did this, she saw the neatly folded note tucked among the sweets.

  “My dear Mrs. Chase,” it read. “I hope that you enjoy these—they are Gunter’s finest. And I hope they recall to you our pleasant afternoon yesterday. Dare I hope you will allow me to escort you to the theater this evening? I have procured tickets to The Merchant of Venice, as my sister tells me you are very fond of Shakespeare. I will have my man call at Wayland House this afternoon for your answer.”

  Rosalind heard herself giggle—actually giggle!—and she pushed the paper back into the box.

  But Georgina’s eyes were sharp, and she saw the note before it disappeared amid the cakes. “What was that? A billet-doux?”

  “Certainly not. It was merely a message stating that he—Lord Morley—hopes I enjoy the cakes, and asks if he might escort me to the theater this evening.”

  “The theater!” Georgina bounced up onto her knees in excitement. “Oh, how perfectly splendid. How delicious!”

  “Delicious? It is Shakespeare. Most edifying and uplifting.”

  “Edifying and uplifting? Aren’t you just Miss Butter Wouldn’t Melt? You are such a sly puss, Rosie. Morley is sought after by every lady in the city, probably every lady in the nation, and here he is dangling after you. Of course it is delicious. It is marvelous!”

  “It makes me feel queasy,” Rosalind murmured.

  Georgina dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Naturally it would. There are no men like Morley in your quiet corner of the country, where you choose to bury yourself. You are one of the best people I know, Rosie—you always think of everyone but yourself, and you never see how lovely you truly are. You deserve a man like Morley. You deserve excitement, and love.”

  Love? Rosalind’s bewildered gaze shot to the gloating Georgina, then fell back to the box of cakes. Was this terrible ache, this complete oversetting of her sensible, careful life—love? She did not know. She could not know. Perhaps it was just a surfeit of sugar in the morning. “How does a person know when it’s really love, Georgie?”

  Georgina gave her a smug, satisfied smile. “Oh, one just knows, Rosie. One just knows. I knew right away that Alex was the man for me, from the first moment I saw him. It just took him a little longer, the stubborn darling.”

  This bewildering conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A maid came into the room, and dropped a quick curtsy. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace, Mrs. Chase, but Mr. Allen Lucas is in the drawing room for Mrs. Chase.”

  Allen was here? Rosalind set aside the box and the flowers, and slid down out of the high bed. Practical family concerns had to push aside silly ro
mantic flutterings for the moment. Allen had promised her he would go back to Cambridge—she prayed he was not in more trouble now. She deeply hoped she would not have to meet yet again with that reptilian banker.

  “Tell Mr. Lucas I will be down in a few moments,” she told the maid. The girl curtsied again, and hurried away.

  Georgina watched from her perch at the foot of the bed as Rosalind pulled a morning gown and a pair of slippers from the wardrobe. “Do not think you have escaped me, Rosie,” she sang out. “We will talk of this further. I want to know everything about you and Lord Morley. You are livening up my dull life.”

  Rosalind doubted very much that Georgina’s life was ever dull, but she wished she herself could know everything about this situation, she thought as she sat down to pull on her stockings. But she feared she knew nothing at all. And she so hated that feeling.

  Michael paused before raising the brass knocker of the Waylands’s front door—and glanced up at one of the upper windows, sensing a gaze on him. Lady Elizabeth Anne stood there watching him, her long red ringlets falling over the bodice of her small velvet dressing gown. She waved to him and gave him a merry smile. He just had time to wave in return before a nursemaid came and fetched her away.

  He laughed, and thought that a daughter of Mrs. Chase’s would also appear very much like that, with red curls and china-doll skin. Would she also be dangerously precocious, like Elizabeth Anne, or proper and rule-following? Either way, it would be a very fortunate man indeed who fathered such a child.

  And then it hit him, like a lightning strike from the gods. He wanted to be that father. He wanted to be the man who took Mrs. Chase—Rosalind, Rosie—into his arms and his bed every night; who came home to find a tiny, redheaded imp running down the stairs crying “Papa!” He wanted to buy his Rosie gowns of silk and satin and glittering jewels, to take his family to Italy and Greece and watch them playing in the sun and the sea. He wanted to write odes to red hair and blue eyes like the sky, to pink lips that pursed in an adorably proper way.