Improper Ladies (43 page)

“But I need to see if ...” Violet began.

“Do not argue, young lady! Go and change your gown. Guests will be arriving soon.”

“Very well, Aunt Minnie.” Violet gave Michael one last harried smile, and hurried away.

Aunt Minnie laughed. “That girl needs to move in Society more!”

“She will make her bow next year. That will be soon enough.”

“Indeed. She ought to become accustomed to being a hostess sooner than that, though.”

“I am sure she will. She is learning a great many of the social arts at her school.”

“Ah, yes. With the excellent Mrs. Chase. I understand she will be here tonight.”

Here. She would be here, in only an hour or two. “Yes.”

“I look forward to meeting her. I have heard that she has been seen quite often in your company of late, my dear.” Aunt Minnie gave him a shrewd glance. “You know, Michael, I have attended many evenings such as this—more than I would care to count. But I have a strange feeling about tonight.”

Michael felt a chill in his fingertips, a tingle of some strange foreboding. “A feeling, Aunt Minnie?”

She laughed, and waved her hand in a careless, dismissive little gesture. “Oh, I am just a silly old woman! Still, I think something
will
happen tonight. Perhaps something good? We can only hope.”

 

Rosalind stared up at Bronston House as they stepped down from the carriage and climbed the shallow, stone front steps. It was certainly not a structure that could be called charming or fashionable. It was too dark, too foreboding, too—too
looming
. Even the golden light that glowed from its windows for the party failed to add much warmth to the chilly aspect. Rosalind shivered a bit as she took it all in.

After they handed their wraps to the footman in the foyer, Georgina took Rosalind’s arm as they made their way into the drawing room. “Such a musty old pile!” she whispered. “And just look at those draperies. Thirty years out of date at least. But I do think it has potential. The lines are good, and the carvings on that panel very fine. The right woman could really make something of it.”

The right woman? A woman such as Rosalind herself, mayhap? Rosalind almost laughed at such obvious machinations. If only Georgina would not say such things
here
, where anyone might overhear her! “Georgina ...” she said warningly.

“Oh, pish! I am not saying anything untoward, Rosie. I merely mentioned that a woman of taste, with the Bronston money, could really transform this place. Beginning with taking away that awful table. Elephant legs! How perfectly horrid.”

Rosalind had to agree about the table. That was certainly a horror of the first order. Yet she was not likely to be the one who cleared away the clutter, or did anything at all with this mausoleum of a house. Fortunately, there was no time to speak of this further. They had reached the drawing room, and Lady Violet was waiting to greet them.

“Mrs. Chase!” the girl said happily. “I am so glad you decided to attend our little gathering. What a beautiful gown.”

Rosalind was wearing borrowed plumes again, a dark blue silk trimmed with silver beadwork and ribbons that Georgina had insisted she had ordered and then hated, so of course the gown was beautiful. It was Lady Violet who truly appeared lovely, though, in a white muslin gown edged in purple satin ribbons and trimmed with artificial violets. “And you look most charming, Lady Violet. Such a grown-up young lady.”

Violet gave her a wide, pleased smile, then closed her eyes for an instant, as if steeling herself for a task. “You have not yet greeted my father, Mrs. Chase. Father, of course you remember Mrs. Chase. Mrs. Chase, the Earl of Athley.”

Rosalind turned to face the earl. She had indeed only met him briefly once or twice, but she knew very well that Violet held not much fondness for him, and Michael had dropped hints that all was not well in Bronston House. Now she could see why the free-spirited Michael and the gentle Violet might be less than cozy with their father.

The earl did not rise from his chair. Indeed, he hardly acknowledged them at all. His feet appeared so swollen with gout that to stand would have been a very difficult undertaking, and it was clear that he felt a mere schoolmistress did not warrant such effort. He gave her a small nod, and no smile of greeting pierced the gloom of his wrinkled, sour, yellow-tinged visage. “Yes. You own that Seminary for Young Ladies,” he said. He brightened a bit when he turned to Georgina, though. She, after all, was a duchess, even if she was also an artist.

As Georgina made her pleasantries to the earl, Rosalind stepped farther into the room and surveyed the gathered guests. It was not a large crowd; this was just a quiet evening of supper and cards for a young lady not yet out. But there were certainly a great many people, of a wide variety of ages, from the ancient Lady Day-Hamilton with her ear trumpet to the youthful Mr. Gilmore and Lord Carteret. When Rosalind saw them, lounging indolently over by the marble fireplace, she gave a prayer of thanksgiving that Allen was far away from them right now. It gave her one less thing to worry about.

Her main worry was walking toward her right now. And he looked more dangerously handsome than ever, with a claret-colored velvet coat fit perfectly over his strong shoulders and a pale pink cravat wrapped about his tanned throat. One ink-dark curl fell carelessly over his brow, and Rosalind’s fingers almost itched to push it back, to feel that rough satin.

She was reminded all too clearly of their kiss on that moonlit terrace. Her gaze flickered involuntarily to the drawing room windows, but she saw no terrace beyond. Only night.

“Mrs. Chase,” he said, and raised her hand to his lips for a salute that lingered just a bit longer than the rules specified. “How delightful to see you again. It has been far too long.”

Rosalind couldn’t help but smile. He almost always had that effect on her—if she did not fight against it. Fighting against his charm was futile, anyway, as she always found when she was in his presence. She was being drawn in by it now. Everything, everyone else in the drawing room faded away.

Oh
,
I am in trouble
, she thought as she took her hand back. “Too long, Lord Morley? We were in the park just yesterday afternoon.”

“An eternity ago. I am happy you came here this evening; I fear this soiree would be too dull without you.”

“Dull?” She glanced about, searching for something positive to comment on. It was a quiet gathering, despite the varied guests, and the room did not much improve on closer acquaintance. The furniture was old, dark, and heavy, barely disguised by candleglow and copious arrangements of pink and white flowers. A carved stone family crest of spectacular ugliness hung above the fireplace.

“Your home is—very cozy,” she managed to say. “Most singular.”

“A moldy cave, you mean,” he answered cheerfully. “Thankfully, it is not yet
my
house. I only have to visit it on occasion. But come, Mrs. Chase, let me introduce you to my aunt, Lady Minerva Fielding. She is most eager to greet you.”

“Is she, indeed?” Rosalind wondered why Lady Minerva would be eager to greet
her
, and she felt a quick bolt of panic. But she had already realized that she would have to give up her usual iron control this evening. “Then I would be very pleased to meet her.”

Michael held his arm out to her, and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. It was all very proper, yet somehow
felt
thrilling and dangerous. That was part of his power, she realized. He could make the everyday seem extraordinary.

“And I hope you will allow me to escort you in to supper later?” he asked.

“Supper?” She drew back to peer up at him. “Surely there are ladies here of far higher rank to whom you should give that honor.”

He leaned closer and murmured warmly into her ear,
“You
are the most important lady I see, Rosalind. Here, or anywhere else. Please—come in to supper with me.”

Rosalind could only nod; no words could press their way past the knot in her throat. No one had ever said such things to her before, and she had always thought herself immune to sweet words and flattery. She was too old, too sensible for such things.

Apparently, she had been wrong, very wrong indeed, for she felt flushed from head to toe with a strange, charmed pleasure. Her blushes probably clashed horribly with her hair, but she could not seem to care.

“Very well,” she whispered. “I would be happy to go in to supper with you—Michael.”

 

Michael. Michael.
He still heard his name spoken in her soft, rough whisper, even as they sat down to supper. The conversation that swirled around him had no meaning, no coherence. The food that was placed before him seemed tasteless, bland, even though Aunt Minnie had brought in a fine caterer for the evening. Rosalind had spoken his name, had looked at him with a wide-eyed surprise that made her seem so very young and vulnerable, so very dear.

How had he not seen this the very first time he ever laid eyes on her? How had he ever thought her a humorless, rule-following matron? She might have written the rules, but now she was surely coming to see things his way. She had already gone so far as to kiss him. She just needed one small push—right into his arms.

There were such fires beneath her chill façade. He could see even now that she was struggling between following her old, safe path, and letting herself fly free. She kept giving him quick, darting glances from the corner of her eye. Her fingers were tight on the heavy silver handle of her fork, and she lifted her wineglass to her lips more often than she was surely accustomed to. She laughed freely at the admittedly weak jokes of the man at her other side. These were all very good signs that she was beginning to enjoy her life anew.

Then he noticed, tucked into the vibrant red curls that were swept atop her head, one scarlet rosebud fastened with a sapphire clip. A rosebud from the bouquet he sent her after their drive.

Yes, he thought, trying not to be too smug. One tiny push, and a lady and her rules would be parted. Under the tablecloth, he gently, surreptitiously, pressed his leg against hers through her skirt.

She jerked and stiffened—but she did not move away. She just took another sip of wine, and gave him a small smile.

“My brother is soon to have another volume of poetry published,” Violet said, breaking into his pleasant ruminations. “He is becoming so well-known. As great as Byron.”

He left off gazing at Rosalind to smile at his sister. “My verses are not nearly as great as Byron’s, Violet.”

“It is a sister’s prerogative to brag about her brother, and so I shall,” Violet said stoutly. “They
are
great poems, and I am sure everyone here would agree.”

A murmur of laughter and assent rose around the table, and the conversation turned generally to poetry and literature. The lady on Michael’s other side asked him a question about the new volume, and he turned to answer her. Yet he was still very aware of Rosalind’s warmth next to him, her fresh, soft scent. Once, she even smiled at him.

Things were all going extraordinarily well, for an evening he had so dreaded. But then his father, so uncharacteristically quiet and subdued throughout supper, finished his fourth glass of wine and tapped the edge of the crystal for a fifth.

“Demmed ridiculous way for a man to pass his time, spouting poetry,” he announced querulously. Aunt Minnie tried to put her hand on his arm, to rein him in, but he shook her off. “A shame he is the only heir I have, but his mother was a bloodless woman. She had no bottom, gave out after two mewling babes. And now my daughter is the same! Inviting curates and schoolmistresses into the house. What is Society coming to? I ask you!”

He left off on a groan. Aunt Minnie had apparently just given him a quick kick to his gouty leg beneath the table. The earl subsided to quiet mutters into his wineglass.

Michael felt a rush of fury, a white-hot tide that was too familiar whenever he was in the presence of his father. The earl had never been renowned for his sparkling good behavior, but this was the outside of enough. Violet had so looked forward to this evening, and now she appeared pale and stricken.

Rosalind drew away from Michael, and would not meet his gaze. Across the table, the Duchess of Wayland watched her friend with a concerned frown.

Michael wanted more than anything to leap across the table and strangle his father, yet he knew he could not. He would not make the evening any more difficult for the women he cared about.

“My father is also writing a book,” he said loudly. “On the great downfall of civilization. His theory is that art and civility are killing us. This evening, with such congenial company and fine cuisine, is hastening its demise. I say we finally send it on its way
after
cards.”

There was a wave of relieved laughter, and conversation resumed its steady hum. Violet’s rosy color returned to her cheeks, and she smiled at the young man—the curate—seated to her left.

Yet Rosalind still would not look at him.

 

Rosalind studied the array of cards in her hand, unable to fully comprehend the numbers and suits. Usually she quite enjoyed a pleasant game of piquet, but tonight it was a struggle. She had to rely on Georgina’s promptings to carry her through.

She peered over the top of the cards to see the dark corner where the old earl sat slumped in sleep. He was truly horrid, just as Violet and Michael had hinted. It was a very good thing that he almost never went into Society. He could have very much benefited from a copy of her
Rules
.

Yet the old curmudgeon had been right about one thing. A schoolmistress had no place here. She should probably be grateful to the man for stopping her now, before she made an even greater fool of herself than she already had. She ought to go back to her school, before London began to gossip about the ridiculous schoolmistress widow who chased after the young poet viscount. She should cease playing dress-up in Georgina’s gowns and go back to her real life.