“Rosie,” it said. “Psst! Rosie!”
Rosalind shot up from her seat, glancing about frantically. “Michael! Where are you?”
“Up here.”
“Up—where?” She peered up into the sky, perplexed.
“Here. In the tree.”
She whirled around—and finally saw him. He sat on one of the thick, lower-hanging branches of a stout oak tree. His back was braced on the trunk, his legs dangling down.
“Good evening,” he said, grinning at her. Rosalind choked on a laugh. “You ridiculous man! Whatever are you doing up there?”
“Waiting for you, of course.” He leaned down and held his hand out to her, beckoning with his fingers. “Come up and join me?”
Climb a tree? Rosalind inched a step back. There was probably not a rule against it, per se, but it could not be proper. And her skirts were far too cumbersome.
It was impossible. Really. Truly.
Wasn’t it?
“Come on,” he coaxed, in a low, tempting voice. “It is very pleasant up here. Very—private.”
“My skirts ...”
“This isn’t up very high. You won’t even have to climb, I’ll help you up.”
Rosalind glanced back over her shoulder. There was no one in the garden. They were all alone in the dark.
“Come on, Rosie,” he said. “It is easy.”
Rosalind took one step closer, then another, and another. She reached up and clasped his hand.
“Didn’t Eve get into trouble in just such a garden?” she murmured.
“But I am so much better-looking than an old serpent,” he said with a laugh.
“And not a bit conceited about it, either,” she answered tartly.
“Of course not. I am modesty personified.”
“Certainly. Now, how do you propose I get myself up there?”
“Do you see that large knot in the wood there? Give me your other hand and then put your foot on it. On the count of three, push yourself up. One, two, three!”
Rosalind pushed up on her foot, and felt herself pulled upward like a sack of potatoes at market. It was not an elegant procedure, but she quickly found herself seated on the branch beside him.
She did not even have time to tuck her skirts beneath her before he took her into his arms and kissed her. She drew in her breath and caught him in her own arms, feeling his solid, reassuring warmth against her.
When his lips released hers, her head fell back and she laughed from sheer exhilaration and utter relief.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “I am so glad you are here. When you weren’t by the fountain, I feared you had gone to fight Lord Carteret after all.”
“I promised you I would not, though I must say it was a difficult promise to keep.”
He still held her in his arms, and Rosalind leaned her cheek against his shoulder. It felt so warm, so safe. “I know. I was so very angry with Carteret! I don’t think I have ever been so very angry in my life. But Violet is fine now. I was worried about you.”
“About me? Rosie, there is no need for you to worry about me at all. I am fine, too. More fine than I have ever been before.”
Rosalind tilted back her head to stare up at him in the moonlight. Indeed, he did look fine—better than fine. All the anger, the tight rage was gone. He looked young, and happy, and free.
“What has happened?” she asked suspiciously. “An hour ago you could have killed Carteret. Now here you are, happy, sitting in a tree as if you had no cares in the world. What could have happened in that hour?”
“Oh, something very important indeed,” he answered lightly. “You see, Rosie, I have learned to follow the rules.”
“The rules!” Rosalind was shocked. She did not know what she expected him to say, but that—never. “What do you mean? If you intend to become a proper rule-follower now, I am not sure this is the way to go about it. Climbing trees, luring ladies out into the garden alone ...”
Michael laughed. “Oh, very well, so I will never follow all the rules. But I see now why you wrote them.”
“Do you indeed?” Rosalind peered closely at him, seeking to see the truth in his eyes. Her rules had been misunderstood by so many people for so long. Never had she wanted someone to understand as much as she wanted him to. Yet she scarcely dared to hope. “Truly?”
“Yes. And I know one rule I can happily follow now.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a ring, a wondrously beautiful circlet of gold set with a pearl surrounded by small, glittering diamonds. “Mrs. Rosalind Chase, will you do me the great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”
“What ... ?” Rosalind gasped. She stared down at the ring in his hand. She feared her mouth was most inelegantly agape, but she could not quite close it. That pearl shone with the glow of the sea in the moonlight, an unearthly, beautiful thing. She had never seen anything like it before. This ring was too beautiful for someone like her.
The man who offered it was too beautiful for someone like her. Yet here he was, holding the ring out to her like some tempting talisman, his angel’s face full of hope. She reached one trembling finger out toward the pearl, but could not quite make herself touch it.
“What is that?” she whispered.
Michael laughed nervously. “A betrothal ring, of course. It belonged to my mother, and to my grandmother before her. She always said it would be mine one day, to give to my wife, and since she died it has been kept in the safe in the library here. I fetched it just now—to give it to you. I think you are the only woman in the world who should wear this ring.”
Rosalind still felt numb, dumb. She usually considered herself to be a woman of some intelligence, yet she could not string three words together. This was all so unreal, like a dream! Surely she would very soon awaken in her own bed at the Seminary, to find that she had never sat in a tree with a handsome viscount asking her to marry him.
She choked on an hysterical laugh, and pressed her hand to her lips.
Michael appeared so very puzzled and bewildered, as if he was not sure what to make of her reaction or what to say next. He peered down at the ring in his hand. “If you do not care for it, I’m sure I could find something else. A sapphire, or a ruby ...”
“No!” Rosalind cried. She reached out and folded her hand over his, holding the ring between them. The stones pressed through her thin kid glove into her skin. “It is a beautiful ring, Michael. The most beautiful ring I have ever seen.”
“Then it is the suitor you object to?”
“No, of course not.”
His face brightened, like dawn breaking over the London grayness, and a smile spread slowly across his lips. “You will marry me, Rosie?”
Her head was spinning. She could not think straight, and that was a terrible thing at this moment, when she was faced with the greatest decision of her life. “Oh, Michael, I just do not know.”
“Is it because of that wager? Because of my behavior in the past? I promise you, Rosie, that it is all behind me now.” His other hand came up to clasp hers beseechingly and he leaned closer to her. “I am perfectly respectable now. A changed man, I vow!”
Rosalind smiled, and laid her palm against his cheek. The faint prickliness of his evening whiskers tickled through her glove. “Michael, I do not want you to be a changed man. You are perfect just as you are. You know that I—care about you.”
“Do you care enough to accept me as your husband?”
Oh, yes. If he was a farmer and she was a milkmaid, she would accept him in an instant. But things were so much more complicated than that. “I just do not know, Michael. Everything is so uncertain.”
“My feelings for you are not uncertain. I love you, Rosie. You are like no other woman I have ever known.”
He loved her? Rosalind’s vision blurred with tears, forcing her to look away from him, to release his hand and brush away the moisture with her fingertips. When had someone last said they loved her? Never. No one had ever said those wonderful words. Not eve
n Charles, or Allen, or her parents. And she had never said it to them. It was as if they were dangerous words, frightening words. Yet they did not scare Michael. He declared his feelings so very openly, to all the world.
It made her dare to be brave, too. Dare to be brave—even though she was shaking in her slippers. “You I-love me?” Her tongue twisted at the word.
“Of course I do. How could I not? You are so beautiful, so very courageous. How many people could run a school as well as you do, and write books, and look after your brother? And you have done it all by yourself. But I do not want you to be by yourself any longer. I want to be with you, helping you. Please, Rosie, please let me.”
Oh, that was so very tempting. To not be all alone, to have someone to walk with her, to make her laugh. To make life into a marvelous adventure, as he always did.
“I just do not know,” she said. “I am so confused!”
“Here,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Wear the ring for a few days, a week. Look at it, wear it on your finger and think about what I have said.” He slid her glove from her arm, her hand, and placed the ring carefully on her finger. The gold band fit perfectly, as if made to go just there. “We can be so happy together, Rosie. Just give me a chance to show you that.”
Michael bent his head to press a kiss to her bare fingers. Rosie laid her other hand lightly on his dark curls, felt the silk of them twine over her kid glove.
She knew so very well that he could make her happy. He filled her with such an unimaginable joy just by being near. But could she make him happy? She knew she was not an exciting woman. She had lived a quiet life, she enjoyed home and hearth and family. He loved her now, but could his poet’s heart love her in five, ten years? And his family and circle would judge their match to be a terrible misalliance. He did not care for such things now, yet he very well might later.
It would devastate her to know the warmth of his love, only to lose it later in the chill of regret and contempt.
But still she yearned for him, for that sweet life they could have! A life she had never dared to dream of before.
He raised his head, peering hopefully at her from his beautiful dark eyes. “Will you think about what I have said, Rosie?”
The sensible side of her shouted at her to say no, to turn him away now, to retreat back into her old life. Yet the ring glowed at her, calling to her, whispering that it belonged to her. “Yes,” she murmured. “I will think about what you have said, and I will give you my answer very soon.”
He gave her an exuberant smile, and swooped down to kiss her hand again. And again. “That is all I can ask—for now.”
“I should be going back to the party. I want to look in on Lady Violet again before I leave, and I am sure Georgina will be watching for me.”
“Of course. You are right.” He slowly, reluctantly let go of her hand, and climbed down from the tree branch. After he had swung to the ground, he reached up to lift her to his side, his clasp warm and secure on her waist. “I doubt anyone will have missed us, though. It has certainly turned into quite an unusual party in there.”
Oh, yes, Rosalind thought fervently. A most unusual party indeed.
And one she would never forget.
“Well. That was certainly not what one expects when one dines out,” Georgina exclaimed, as their carriage made its way through the quiet streets back to Wayland House.
Her husband smiled at her, and raised her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. “I would have thought that such raucous goings-on were exactly your cup of tea, Georgie.”
Georgina laughed. “Yes, but whoever would have looked for them at Bronston House, of all places!”
“I thought it was terribly amusing,” said Lady Emily. “Did you see Lady Islington singing that opera aria? Appalling!” She giggled at the memory.
“If one did not know better, one would suspect Lord Morley of playing a joke on his father,” said Georgina. “Those wild young men at his club ...”
Rosalind, pulled at last from her reverie in the darkened carriage corner, sat straight up and said, “Of course that was not the doing of Mi—Lord Morley! He would never do such a thing.”
The thought of someone even thinking such a thing, after their tender scene in the garden, sent shooting pains across her brow. She fell back against the leather cushions, her hands pressed to her head.
“Of course he did not, Rosie dear,” Georgina said soothingly, worry layered beneath her soft tones. “I was only teasing a bit.”
“No one who saw his care for his sister would ever think he would do anything to mar her evening,” Emily added gently. “He is a fine gentleman.”
“Indeed he is,” said Georgina. She leaned forward to touch Rosalind’s hand. “Do you have another headache, Rosie? We will be home soon, and my maid can make you one of her tisanes. That always helps me.”
“Thank you, Georgie,” Rosalind answered weakly. “It is just too many late nights.” She could scarcely tell Georgina the true reason for her preoccupation. Not yet.
But Georgina might very well discover it for herself. She paused as her thumb brushed over the ring on Rosalind’s finger, hidden beneath the glove.
“Rosie, what is ... ?” she began. The carriage jolted to a halt in front of Wayland House, and Georgina’s husband clasped her arm as the door opened.
“Come, my dear,” he said. “You must leave off haranguing poor Mrs. Chase now. We are home.”
“Haranguing?” Georgina protested loudly, as she stepped out into the night. “I was not haranguing anyone, I was merely asking ...”
Her voice faded as she went up the stairs and disappeared through the front door, her husband and sister-in-law behind her.
Rosalind sat by herself for a moment in the abandoned carriage, filling her lungs with air and silence. This was the first time she had been truly alone all evening—but it did not help to clear her head. She was just as confused as ever.
“Ma’am?” the footman said softly, as he offered his white-gloved hand to help her alight.
There was nothing to do now but go upstairs and go to bed. Surely she would feel better in the morning.
She stepped down from the carriage and followed the others into the house. In the foyer, she found that, blessedly, Georgina had already retired. Only a maid waited to take Rosalind’s wrap, and the butler with a letter on his silver tray.
“This came for you while you were out, Mrs. Chase,” he said, holding out the tray. “I thought it might be of some urgency.”
“Thank you,” Rosalind said. She picked up the missive with a pang of trepidation. Letters waiting at night could not be good. Was this from that banker again? The handwriting was not familiar, the stationery plain white vellum.
She broke the wax wafer and read quickly.
“Not bad news, I trust, Mrs. Chase,” the butler said.
Rosalind looked up at him with a smile. “Not at all. It is from my publisher. He wishes to see me tomorrow morning.”
The butler appeared a bit puzzled at the mention of a publisher, but he was so well-trained that his expression quickly cleared to blandness. “Very good, ma’am. Shall I order the carriage to be brought around for you in the morning?”
“Yes, thank you. About ten o’clock, I think. Good night.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
Rosalind went upstairs, her letter folded in her ring-bedecked hand. Well, at least one thing was looking more positive now. Her headache had even eased. Tomorrow, all would be made clear.
Chapter Nineteen
“The home and family are the lady’s sphere—she must protect them at all costs.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter One
Rosalind stepped out the door of her publisher’s office into the late morning sunshine, her step lighter than it had been in days, if not months. She even hummed a lilting little waltz tune under her breath as she took the footman’s hand and stepped into Georgina’s waiting carriage.
This
was truly a lovely day, she thought, as she watched the scenery roll past outside the open landau. The air was warm, the light bright, and London really far more interesting than she had once thought it. The shop windows held an infinite array of enticing goods—fabrics in vibrant colors and gentle pastels, books in rich leather bindings, slippers, parasols, bonnets. And the people—the people all appeared so very agreeable. Rosalind sat back against the carriage cushions with a happy sigh.
Of course, what made this day so very fine was the news that her publisher wanted a new volume from her as quickly as possible. A guidebook specifically for young ladies about to make their come-outs. It was precisely the sort of thing she truly wanted to write. Perhaps it would prevent any other unsuspecting girls from facing what poor Violet had last night.
Rosalind shifted her reticule in her palm, listening to the clink of coins inside. She had even managed to talk the publisher into giving her an advance on the new volume’s profits—enough to pay off most of Allen’s loan.
But the coins were not even the best part of the day, as lovely as they were. The very best part resided on her finger, hidden beneath her glove.
Under the cover of a fold of her dark green pelisse, Rosalind drew off the glove and stared down at that ring. Last night, in the moonlight, it had glowed with a mellow promise. Today, the diamonds encircling the pearl caught the sun and reflected it back to her radiantly. Just like the sparkle of Michael’s own personality.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “What am I to do? What should I do?”
The ring glinted in mute answer. Rosalind had stayed awake almost all the night, thinking, thinking. Every fiber of her sensible self told her that such a match could never work. Her mind urged her to go back to her school, and forget about such a life, forget about him. Especially since she had this new book to work on.
But her heart—ah, her heart cried out something very different. It told her to grab this man and run with him to Gretna Green immediately! It wanted more poetry, more nighttime tree climbing, more waltzes, more kisses, more—more everything. She had always been able to silence her heart in the past, to bury it beneath prudence and good sense. Now, it would not quiet.
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