Improper Ladies (31 page)

She had not imagined she would meet him like
this,
however. Alone, in the half-dark. She thought herself a self-possessed woman, a woman of social poise. Of good sense. All that sense had fled, though, and she did not know what to say.

She straightened her shoulders, and reached up to be sure her hair was smooth. “Good evening, Lord Morley. I did not see you standing there.”

“No. I can see that.” He moved closer to her still in the shadows. The gold threads embroidered on his cream-colored waistcoat glinted in the candlelight. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“Indeed? Then what are you doing here, Lord Morley, lurking in the shadows? I was under the impression that this was the direction to the ladies’ withdrawing room.” Or perhaps she had taken a wrong turn? There appeared to be no one about in this part of the house at all. Rosalind tried to draw in a deep breath, but her chest felt tight, constricted—and not from her light stays or silk chemise. It was from this man’s very presence. He made her feel unsure; he seemed to take up all the air in the narrow corridor.

It was just because she loathed him, she told herself sternly. Because he was a wastrel, who squandered his life in shallow, careless ways.

That was all it was. That was the only reason she felt her face burn, her fingertips and toes turn icy. She just wanted to be out of his presence.

“I believe the withdrawing room is the other way,” he answered lightly, with a shrug of his wide, velvet-covered shoulders. “Yet I could not believe my eyes when I saw you in the ballroom. You are one of the last people I would expect to see here. I had to assure myself that it was you, Mrs. Chase.”

He could not believe it because she was of such lowly station, perhaps? Rosalind frowned. She would have thought that men who flouted their position by writing poetry would not think of such things. But then, he
was
of the
ton
—she should not be amazed that he was like everyone else. She remembered the shifting of peoples’ gazes, the smirks, when they discovered she owned a school.

She was past caring about all that now. She had always done what she had to do, to take care of herself and her family. Why, then, did it sting so when
he
implied as much?

“Oh, Lord Morley?” she said, with a forced, careless little laugh. At least, she hoped it sounded careless. “And why is that? Because I am a mere schoolmistress?”

He gave her a smile, a knowing grin that made her cheeks burn hotter. “Not at all. Because it seems as if Town would be too wicked for you, Mrs. Chase. Too full of temptations. Sins.”

Temptations? Such as a pair of fathomless dark eyes that seemed to see into her very soul? A heady whiff of some citrus soap? Oh, yes. Apparently Town, or at least Lady Portman’s corridor, was full of those. She stepped back from him, until she felt the edge of a marble-topped table against her hips.

He just took another step toward her, so close she could see the faint blue-black shadow of whiskers along his jawline.

“It is not safe here, Mrs. Chase,” he said softly, tauntingly. “Not like it is behind the high walls of your school.”

Rosalind’s gaze flickered past him to the painting on the wall, but she still sensed him there. Sensed his warmth. She did not see the indifferent seascape at all. “Ah, but Town has become much more civilized of late, has it not? Since people have found a source of manners, of good behavior.”

“You mean
A Lady’s Rules
, do you not?” he said, with a rich chuckle. That sound seemed to vibrate deep inside of her. “Do you truly think of them as a simple guide to manners? A gentle suggestion of how to be—civilized?”

She looked back to him, unable to break her gaze away from the velvet of his eyes. He watched her intently, leaning toward her, as if he truly cared about her answer. “Of course. What else could they be?”

“Oh, now, I do not know. A way to keep people in line? To make them conform to someone else’s views of how things should be?” He leaned one hand against the wall, carelessly, as if he was not aware of his action. The soft fabric of his sleeve was near—so near—her neck, her bare shoulder.

“C-conform?” she choked out. She tried to edge away from his arm, but the table blocked her path. “Conform to what?”

“Society has always been constrictive in certain ways,” he said. “Yet there has also been room for a degree of freedom for people who, shall we say, have a different way of looking at things.”

“People such as you, perhaps?” she asked. “People who behave in wild ways, not caring what boundaries they cross, or who they hurt by it.”

Something flickered in the sherry brown depths of his eyes, a flash of anger or maybe even pain. But it was gone in an instant, and he glanced away from her with a laugh. “I would never knowingly hurt anyone, Mrs. Chase. I only try to enjoy my life; it is far too short to do otherwise. How can that harm people?”

Rosalind didn’t know what he was saying, what he meant. Her head was spinning, her ears ringing. She wanted to move away from him, to run away, but she was frozen to the spot. “How have the rules hurt anyone?” she cried, more passionately than she intended. Her voice echoed along the corridor.

He seemed startled by her vehemence, and studied her closer. His hand, as of its own volition, moved to her hair, to the long curl that lay along her neck. It twined like a twist of red silk around his finger.

Rosalind forgot to breathe. She could not move away, she could not do anything but stare at her hair twined about his long, elegant finger.

“Oh, Mrs. Chase,” he whispered. “They hurt people in ways far too complicated for me to explain. They are hurting
you,
if you could only see it.”

Hurting her?
No!
They were the only thing that was saving her—the only thing that could begin to help her brother.
Morley
was the one who was hurting her. She had left the safety of her school to come here and stop him.

But it was hard, indeed almost impossible, to remember that now. She reached up to grasp his wrist, to push him away, but she could not seem to. Her fingers curled around his velvet cuff, and she leaned closer to him . . .

“Well, well,” a voice said. “What is all this?”

Rosalind jerked away, as if she was burned, and almost tripped over the table. As she righted herself, clinging to the cold marble, a hot, red rush of shame flooded through her. What was she doing, standing here in the dark, practically
embracing
Lord Morley? Morley, of all people! She had broken at least six—no, seven—of her own rules in just those few seconds.

Moon madness. That was the only explanation. Or perhaps the spell of the city, the unfamiliar social whirl, that made her lose her head. Made her forget what was truly important.

She peered down the corridor to see Georgina standing there, her famous sapphires glittering like a blue fire in the candlelight. Georgina watched her with no hint of condemnation—that would never be Georgina’s way. There was speculation in her eyes, and a hint of amusement.

That amusement was almost worse than condemnation. It was like a splash of icy water, bringing her back into reality. Rosalind slipped past Lord Morley and hurried down the corridor toward her friend.

“Georgina,” she said, and was dismayed to hear the breathlessness of her voice. “I was just—just coming to find you.”

“Oh, yes? I trust your headache is better.” Georgina’s gaze shifted past Rosalind to Lord Morley, who had moved away from the wall and stood in a flickering beam of candlelight. “Viscount Morley, is it not?”

“Indeed it is, Duchess.” Aside from a faint thickness in his tone, there was absolutely no change in his demeanor. It was as if he was completely unaffected by their brief, strange, unsettling scene. He pushed the waves of his dark hair back from his brow, and came forward to bow over Georgina’s hand.

“I was not aware you knew my friend Mrs. Chase,” she said, tilting her head as she looked up at him speculatively.

“My sister attends her excellent Seminary,” he answered, and glanced over at Rosalind. There was a plea in his eyes—perhaps an apology?

But Rosalind could not bring herself to look directly at him just yet. She could scarcely even think.

“Lady Violet, yes,” said Georgina. “I have met her. She is a lovely girl. My friend’s school obviously agrees with her. No doubt you were chatting about her education just now?”

“Among other things,” Lord Morley murmured.

“Fascinating
things, I am sure,” Georgina said. “I would love to stay here and chat with the two of you, but I fear we have no time for that at the moment. Rosalind, I came to find you to tell you there is something in the ballroom you
must
see.”

Something in the ballroom she had to see? Rosalind could not imagine what it could possibly be. More dancers? More gossiping dowagers? But she found she longed for the crowded ballroom, for the noise and distraction of it. At least there Georgina could not question her about this scene, as Rosalind could see her friend longed to do. There, she could not think about all this nonsense.

That could wait for tonight, when she was alone in the quiet opulence of Georgina’s finest guest bedchamber.

“Of course,” she said. “I will come at once.”

“Good. Though I fear you will not be at all happy when you see it.” Georgina took Rosalind’s hand and started to turn away, back to the staircase to the ballroom. Then she glanced back at Morley. “Lord Morley, we would be happy to have you call at our house at any time that is convenient. My husband and I so enjoyed your last volume of poems.”

Lord Morley bowed. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Georgina nodded, and drew Rosalind along with her up the stairs.

“Why did you invite that man to your house, Georgina?” Rosalind whispered.

Georgina turned to her, auburn brows arched in surprise. “I thought you liked him, Rosie! Why else would you be standing there alone with him? He is very handsome.”

Rosalind just shook her head. She had no words, not right now. The usually unflappable Mrs. Chase was—flapped. She felt like an unsure young girl, not like the thirty-year-old widow she was.

“We must speak more of this later,” Georgina said, as they reached the closed ballroom doors. There was a strange rumbling noise from behind those inlaid panels, a crash, a roar. “But for now, my dear—you must brace yourself.”

 

Blast!
What was he thinking of?

Michael turned away as Mrs. Chase and the duchess hurried off, and closed his eyes to suck in a large breath of air. It did no good, though—the corridor was still filled with the fresh, green scent of her perfume.

He braced his fists against the wall, and restrained the fierce impulse to drive them through the painted silk paper.

He knew what he had been thinking of. He had been thinking of Mrs. Chase’s bright curls, her white skin above the silken line of her bodice. The look in her blue eyes as she watched him. Once he had thought of them as ice. But tonight, they glowed as brilliant as starlight.

Brilliant with dislike, mayhap? Or a deep, hidden desire? The same desire that sparked inside him when her hair curled about his finger. As he looked at that one red curl, he had envisioned the wealth of her hair spread over her shoulders, over his chest and arms, the whiteness of linen pillows . . .

He pounded against the wall, until a painting hanging above him rattled perilously. He had been having those lustful thoughts about Mrs. Chase!
Mrs. Chase,
of all people. The woman who wore ugly caps, and trumpeted the rules to all and sundry. She would not know a free moment, a spontaneous act, if they reached up and snatched one of those caps off her head.

And yet she was beautiful tonight, in her fashionable gown, her chic coiffure. She almost appeared like a normal female. Yet what he had forgotten was that beneath that pale green satin beat the heart of a true rule-follower.

But she had not been thinking of the rules when they stood there, so close together in the near darkness. And neither had he, despite their words to each other about manners and etiquette. He had thought only of tasting her kiss, breathing in the scent of her.

Her lips were surprisingly lush and pink when not pinched together disapprovingly. Her eyes were wide and wondering, so young for just that moment.

There was more to her than what she showed the world. She went to great pains to appear cool, prim, proper, always so very in control. And she was quite successful—even he had seen only that facade. Now he suspected there was something else, something hidden there. Perhaps so hidden that not even she herself could see it.

And
that
was what drew him to her, he realized. He wanted to discover her hidden heart, the free soul she buried beneath her manners and her ugly gowns. He had glimpsed her for the merest instant tonight, he had even held her, felt the trembling inside of her.

Then she was snatched away, and he had watched the veil of her propriety fall over her again. There was a hectic red flush on her fair cheeks, the freckles she tried to hide standing out in golden relief. She would not even look at him, and seemed appalled at her friend’s invitation to him to call.

It was deeply saddening to see. He wanted to go after her, to catch her in his arms and
demand
that she give him back the woman he had seen so fleetingly. But he had not, of course. That would only have driven Mrs. Chase further away, made her retreat deeper beneath her careful facade.

Now that he had glimpsed her inner secrets, he wanted to know more of her. He
had
to know.

He would accept the Duchess of Wayland’s invitation to call. Very soon, before Mrs. Chase had time to scurry back behind the high walls of her school.

Perhaps he would even go tomorrow.

Michael pushed himself away from the wall, and straightened his coat and his cravat (not pink tonight, but sky blue—much like Mrs. Chase’s eyes). As he turned away, he glimpsed a flash of something pale against the dark carpet runner. He bent down and picked up a fan. A pale green satin fan, edged in white lace and scattered with tiny, glittering beads.