Improper Ladies (39 page)

“Are you sorry you came?” Morley whispered, leaning close to her. His cool breath stirred the loose curls at her temple.

Rosalind shivered at the sensations this evoked. Warm, unfamiliar,
tingling
sensations. “Of course not,” she answered stoutly.

He grinned at her. “Liar.”

Rosalind laughed. “I would
never
tell a falsehood. That would be most improper.”

“Against the rules, eh?”

Her lips tightened at the mention, the reminder, of the rules. How could she have forgotten them so quickly, when they were such a large part of her life? Whenever she was with him, everything else just fell away. “Quite right.”

They did not have time to say anything else. The doors opened, and the butler took their names. “The Duke and Duchess of Wayland,” he announced. “Mrs. Rosalind Chase. Viscount Morley.”

On legs that seemed turned to water, Rosalind stepped into the ballroom. Her hand tightened on his arm. She no longer held onto him just for appearance’s sake—she needed his strength to hold her up.

As she had expected, and feared, heads swiveled in their direction. She had a blurred impression of disappointed pouts on the faces of young ladies, the glint of raised quizzing glasses, waves of avid curiosity.

There was nothing for her to do but lift her chin, feign deepest disinterest, and keep moving into the crowd. At Lord Morley’s side.

She was very glad for Georgina and her steady stream of inconsequential talk. “Oh, look over there, Rosalind. Isn’t that Mrs. Strandling? We went to school with her, did we not? She should never wear that shade of green. Ah, champagne. Delightful. Do you care for a glass, Rosalind? Alex, darling?”

Rosalind stared intently at the pale, beckoning liquid, sparkling in crystal flutes on the footman’s tray. The delicious drink called to her, but she knew she should not indulge. Champagne tended to make her giddy. The last thing she wanted to be tonight was
giddy.

“Oh, no, not right now,” she said.

“Mrs. Chase has promised me a dance,” Morley told them. “I hear a waltz beginning, and she knows that is my favorite dance.”

Rosalind knew no such thing—she did not think she had ever spoken two words about dancing with him. But the promise of occupation, of movement, of having something to concentrate on besides people’s stares, was enticing indeed. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Morley. A waltz sounds very pleasant.”

He led her onto the polished dance floor, and they took their place amid the assembled couples. When he put his hand on her waist, pulling her close, but not so very close as to incite more talk, the gawking crowd seemed to melt away. Rosalind heard no whispers. The two of them were all alone in the teeming crush, just as it had seemed they were last night in the theater box. Nothing else mattered, not even the fact that she had only practiced the waltz a few times, in classes with the girls at her school.

She had no fears of making a fool of herself, of being the object of gossip. Not when he stood so close to her, smiling down at her.

“Are you quite all right?” he murmured. “You went very white all of a sudden.”

“All right?” she whispered back, thrown off balance by his question.

“I should have realized how very interested people would be when we appeared here together. I am so accustomed to being speculated over that I scarcely take note of it anymore. But you are not used to such scrutiny. I’m sorry.”

“It does not matter,” Rosalind answered, and realized, with some degree of shock, that it truly did not. She had lived all her life being careful, being always so painfully proper. She was suddenly so deeply tired of it all. She just wanted to dance, to forget, to have fun—like everyone else. Like people who had no school or wayward brother to worry over.

Tomorrow would be soon enough for her to worry again. Tonight, she would just dance.

“Good,” he said. “I am very glad to hear it.”

She tightened her clasp on his hand, and closed her eyes as the music reached its lively opening beats. They swayed together, and swung into the dance.

This was like no dance she had ever known before. Dancing classes with the girls, local assemblies with her husband—they were nothing like this. Rosalind’s feet, which she had always hated as being too big, seemed dainty and graceful as they glided across the floor. She hummed along with the lilting tune, and turned and twirled effortlessly in his arms. She felt—why, she felt
beautiful
! She felt desirable and flirtatious and merry, as if deciding she would leave her real life behind until tomorrow had freed her to be someone else.

“You are a wonderful dancer, Mrs. Chase,” he said, turning her in a spin that sent her skirts flaring in a graceful arc.

“I help the girls with their dancing lessons at the Seminary,” she answered. “So I have had a great deal of practice. Not in waltzing, though.”

His hand at her waist drew her closer, so close she could smell the faint, spicy scent of his soap, the starch from the folds of his dark blue cravat. He was so close she could lean her cheek against the curve of his jaw, feel the satin of his hair on her skin.

She leaned back a bit, trying to escape that intoxicating fragrance. But his heat reached after her, beckoning her back to him.

He did not loosen his clasp. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared down at her, dark, serious, intent.

“I hope they do not end up using their lessons in quite this way,” he said hoarsely. “At least not until they are a good deal older.”

“In what way?” she asked, mesmerized by his gaze. “This is all quite proper.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Quite proper.” They danced past half-open glass doors, and, before Rosalind could even blink, he twirled her out of them onto a night-shadowed terrace. They ended behind a tall, sheltering bank of potted plants.

“Proper—until now,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

Rosalind gasped against his lips, shocked at the feel of them, the softness, at the suddenness of the caress—at the feelings that crashed inside her heart. For a flash, her old, sensible self shrieked in horror, but that old Rosalind was quickly submerged beneath the sweetness, the heat of the kiss.

Her lips parted, and she twined her arms about his neck, leaning into him. She trembled as if in a windswept storm, and it was frightening. Almost as frightening as it was delicious. Part of her wanted to step away, to be in control again, but a larger part, that now
was
in control, knew that this was precisely where she wanted to be. Where she had to be. In truth, she had longed for his kiss, his touch, ever since he had come to her in her office at the Seminary and offered her a cup of tea.

Her arms tightened around his neck, her fingers seeking the waves of his hair that fell over his velvet collar. The locks clung to her silk gloves, warm and living through the thin fabric. He pulled back, as if surprised, and stared down at her, breathing fast.

Rosalind blinked open her eyes. Everything was blurred around the edges, soft and hot. He was so close she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the way his hair, disarranged by her fingers, tumbled over his brow.

“Rosalind,” he murmured. “Rosie. You are so beautiful.” One of his magical fingers trailed down her cheek, traced her lips.

She? Beautiful? She had never thought so before; she was too tall, too redheaded, too freckled. In his arms, at this moment, she was beautiful. He made it so.

“Not as beautiful as you, Lord Morley.”

He smiled, and his hands slid up to cradle her face. “My name is Michael.”

“Michael,” she whispered. The name was dark and sweet, like a cup of chocolate, a sip of brandy, in her mouth. “Michael.”

He groaned, and bent his head to kiss her again. She fell back against the wall of the house. The stone was cold and sharp through the thin silk of her gown, but she scarcely noticed it when Lord Morley—
Michael
—leaned in close to her. His lips slid from hers along the line of her throat, down to her bare shoulder.

“So sweet,” he whispered, the words reverberating against her skin. She felt his hand on the sleeve of her gown, drawing it down . . .

A ripple of loud laughter pierced the haze of her passion. Suddenly, the wall at her back was hard and cold again, the hand on her shoulder shocking. With a sharp intake of breath, she drew away, hitting her head with an audible thud on the wall. Her hands fumbled against his chest, pushing him back.

Michael stumbled away, the expression on his face as dazed as she herself felt. His hands slowly fell away from her, and he raked his fingers through his hair. He was dark and tousled.

Rosalind closed her eyes tightly, shutting out the dangerously attractive sight of him. Never in all her life had she done something as shocking as kiss a man on a public terrace. Anyone could have seen them! And, if she was truly honest with herself, they had been doing rather more than kissing there.

She had spent so very long condemning her brother’s foolish behavior. But she was far more imprudent than he had been. She had broken so many rules tonight, she could never be redeemed. How could she ever look at her students again, ever teach them proper behavior, without knowing herself for the hypocrite she was?

Yet, somehow, she could not be truly, deeply sorry. She could not regret kissing Michael. For those few, precious moments, she had felt more
alive
than she ever had before.

Had the rules ever made her feel like that? She had to admit that they had not.

She moaned in confusion, and reached up to press her hands against the threatening headache. In the midst of all this turmoil, she felt a soft touch on her arm. Michael drew her sleeve back up to her shoulder, gently, tenderly.

Rosalind opened her eyes to peek up at him. He also seemed confused, bewildered, pained—but he smiled at her, a wry, rueful grin. “Oh, Rosalind. Mrs. Chase. I am so sorry. I never meant . . .”

He never meant—what? To kiss a tall, awkward schoolmistress on a terrace? To almost be caught? A sour pang of disappointment added to Rosalind’s chill, to her disillusionment. She turned away, patting and pulling at her hair. She wished ardently for one of her caps.

“It is quite all right,” she said tightly. “There was no harm done. Perhaps we should go inside? I am sure Georgina will be looking for me.”

Actually, Georgina was probably hoping that something very like this—or rather, like their kiss—was happening, and she would not be looking for Rosalind for quite a while. But for Rosalind the thought of a crowded ballroom was a haven for once. There, she would have no time to think of all this, whatever
this
was.

“If that is what you wish, of course,” Michael said softly. She heard the sinuous rustle of cloth as he straightened his coat. “But I want to tell you . . .”

“Later. Please.” Rosalind simply could not hear him right now, not while she was so confused. Not while the voices of the new arrivals on the terrace were coming ever closer. “We will speak later, yes?”

“Of course,” he said. “But I will hold you to that—Rosalind.”

He stepped to her side, and offered her his arm. Rosalind slid her hand onto his sleeve, careful not to cling too tightly, to feel the warm strength of his muscles and bone.

As they walked past the group of people, she heard a woman say, “Is that not Lord Morley? But who is that with him? I heard he was at the theater last night with some unknown redhead. Is that she?”

One of the men with her answered, “Perhaps so, m‘dear. But doesn’t
A Lady’s Rules
say ‘A lady will never walk alone with a gentleman after dark, or risk great harm to her reputation’?”

The entire group laughed tipsily, and Rosalind cringed. That was just one of the many rules she had broken this evening.

And she had the distinct feeling that it was not the last she would break before all of this was finished.

Michael moved through the crowd with Mrs. Chase on his arm, stopping to speak to friends, to bow to matrons, and smile and laugh. Yet it was as if he watched the entire scene from very far away, not participating at all. He had been through routs like this dozens, hundreds of times before, and could make all the correct postures, but he was not aware of them at all. He only felt the light pressure of her hand on his arm, the warmth of her at his side.

She also did everything that was proper, making all the correct responses and gestures. No one could possibly see the distraction in her eyes, the solemn downturn at the corners of her rose pink lips. No one except him.

He watched her as they traversed the edge of the ballroom. Mrs. Chase—
Rosalind.
Despite her solemnity, her stillness, she was quite the most beautiful woman in the room. The most beautiful woman in all of London. Her hair shone like the red and gold fire of dawn, caught up with coral-tipped combs and falling along the white column of her neck. She seemed serene, assured, as she took in the room with her sky blue eyes, but there, in their depths, he saw her uncertainty, her shyness.