Red Rose (27 page)

During the first half of the time set aside for refreshments Rosalind’s attention was taken by a large crowd of people wishing to congratulate her on her performance. Finally, though, Sir Bernard was able to steer her back into the music room and to a couple of chairs on the side of the room farthest from the refreshments.

“I must speak to you in private,” he said. “This may not be quite the time. I should be allowing you to bask in people’s praise. You deserve it all, you know, Rosalind.”

“What do you wish to say, Bernard?” she asked.

“I see I must get to the point,” he said. “I wish you to break our engagement, my dear.”

“Bernard?” she asked, her eyes wide.

He smiled rather crookedly. “I am sure you must have suspected that I had no intention of getting married this early in life,” he said. “That does not mean that I do not desire you as a bride. And I would have made the best of it. In my way, I love you, Rosalind. But the marriage would not be good for you, my dear. Your heart is engaged elsewhere. I am not even sure that you realize it. But you would in time, and I should hate it to happen after you had married me.”

Rosalind was staring at him, her face pale. “With whom am I in love?” she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

“With Raymore, of course.” he said, “damn his eyes.”

Rosalind stared dumbly back at him.

“I cannot break the engagement,” he continued. “It would be very bad 
ton.
 You must do it, dear. But do not feel guilty. I regret never having possessed you, Rosalind, but in a few days’ time I shall no doubt feel relieved at my own renewed freedom.” He attempted a grin, which appeared rather lopsided.

Rosalind was searching for an answer, but it was too late. The guests were reassembling and Hans Dehnert was taking his place at the pianoforte again. She sat next to Bernard for the full hour of the second half of the recital without hearing one note of the music. She sat in an agony of guilt and confusion. Could it be true? How could she love a man she detested, a man she had felt suffocated by for as long as she had known him? How could she have failed to recognize the truth a long time ago? And what of Bernard? Was he hurt? He pretended not to be, but she suspected that it had not been easy for him to release her from their betrothal.

She stole several surreptitious glances at Raymore, who sat with his eyes directed at the floor. It was hard to tell from his expression whether he was engrossed in the music or a million miles away in thought. She remembered Lady Martel telling her a few days before that it was possible that he loved her. Could it be true? The idea seemed too fantastic. They had disliked and despised each other so strongly at the start. And how could a man who was himself so physically perfect and who cultivated beauty around him love her? It could not be.

It was at that moment that their eyes met across the music room. Each looked away hastily. Rosalind felt as if a shock had passed through her. What was she to do now? She would have to end her betrothal to Bernard. Then, what? Should she accept Raymore’s offer to send her back to the country? It was what she had longed for from the start. But she would never see him again. Could she bear the thought of that? There was just no alternative. She would soon be free, but free only to leave forever the man she loved.

Rosalind heard loud applause all around her and realized, with a start of guilt, that the recital was over. She had missed the chance of a lifetime! She applauded with everyone else and stood talking with friends reluctant to leave long after Raymore had escorted the Austrian pianist outside to his waiting carriage.

Bernard succeeded in having a private word with her before he left. “I shall expect to hear from you tomorrow,” he said. “Please think carefully, Rosalind. I should be delighted to be held to our engagement, but I think, my dear, when you have had time to consider, you will find that I am right.”

She put her hand in his. “Yes,” she said, “I shall write to you tomorrow. Good night, Bernard.”

He bent and kissed her hand.

***

“Well, I ben’t altogether sorry ter see the back of Lunnun,” Ben was saying. “What say you, lad?”

“The streets be too hot’n dusty fer me,” the footman agreed. “Reckon young Jenny’ll like the country, then?”

“She’ll like it iffen you be there,” Ben replied, leering sidelong at his companion on the box of Raymore’s traveling carriage. “Yer’d better set yer poppers back, lad, iffen yer wants a last glimpse o’ Lunnun. We lose ’er over yonder rise.”

The footman obediently cast his eyes back on the London skyline that had set his jaw hanging with wonder only a few short months back.

“Someun be in a big hurry,” he commented, jerking his thumb at a distant horseman who was galloping hard up the hill a mile or so behind them. "He ben’t a highwayman, eh, Ben?”

"Nay,” said the other. “Road’s too open ’ere fer gen’lemen o’ the road.”

Inside the carriage Rosalind sat gazing sightlessly out the window. A smart little maid sat in the opposite corner, watching eagerly the passing scenery. She had never been out of the city before.

She had finally got her wish, Rosalind was thinking. She was on her way home. She was free. Within a few days she would have picked up her life where she had left it before coming to London. She could ride Flossie, paint, revel in her music, read to her heart’s content. And although Raymore Manor would never legally be hers, she was assured sole possession of it for her lifetime.

She had had a short and uncomfortable interview with Raymore two days before, the day after the concert, at her own request. She had told him that she had ended her betrothal and that she wished to return to the country. He had made no comment, put up no argument, merely agreed to make all the arrangements for her journey. And he had promised to send his man of business into the country the following week to give her a signed copy of his agreement to allow her undisputed possession of Raymore Manor during her lifetime. This man would also go over with her the details of her fortune, so that she might decide for herself how she wished to manage it. It had been a purely businesslike meeting. The concert and the tense bond that she had felt with him on that evening might never have been.

The two days before her departure had been busy ones. In addition to helping the maid, Jenny, who was to accompany her on her journey, to pack her trunks, she had to write to Sir Bernard Crawleigh and pay calls on Lady Martel and Sylvia and Nigel. There had not been a great deal of time for reflection, but there had been enough time for some very disturbing thoughts. The great irony of her life, she discovered, was that when she had finally gained the freedom she had longed for for more than a year, since the death of her uncle, she no longer wanted it. She wanted only Edward! Somehow the thought of riding without him to scold her, playing the pianoforte without him to praise her, living without him to constantly stimulate her emotions, seemed very dull. He had become the focus of her life, but she had fought so hard against losing the privacy that had surrounded her all her life that she had not recognized the fact that she loved him. Edward Marsh: strong-willed, well-educated, cultured, so very attractive. She could never be happy with a lesser man.

But then, she thought with a sigh, still staring out the window, there would never be any other man. She was going home to the life of a hermit, the life she had chosen for herself. Back to her dreams of Alistair, except that now he had changed name and had acquired a far more forceful character than Alistair had ever had. She would remember him as he had been a couple of hours ago as he said goodbye, to her. He had said very little. His face was serious and controlled, but not cold as it had been when she first knew him. He had shaken her hand, wished her a safe journey, and finally, as an afterthought, had bent and kissed her on the cheek.

The carriage bounced on its springs as the coachman drew it to a sudden halt. As the horses slowed down, both Rosalind and Jenny became aware of the louder sound of galloping hooves.

“Oh, lawks, madam,” Jenny yelped, “highwaymen!”

“Nonsense,” Rosalind replied, “this is daytime on an open and well-traveled highway.”

She did start forward in alarm, though, when the sound of hoofbeats suddenly stopped and the carriage door was flung back.

“Don’t have hysterics, my girl,” the Earl of Raymore said to Jenny, “it is just me. Out you come and up on the box with Ben and Harry.”

Having lifted the girl out, Raymore vaulted into the carriage and shut the door behind him. Rosalind sat on the edge of her seat, saucer-eyed, staring at him.

“It’s no good,” he said, obviously greatly agitated. “I cannot let you go.”

She sat back in her seat and turned her head to look out the window. “I see,” she said stiffly. “Has Sir Rowland made a more tempting offer, or do you have someone else picked out for me?”

“The latter,” he said.

Her head jerked back in his direction. “No,” she said, “I am not for sale. You promised, my lord.”

“I am the one offering,” he blurted. "I love you, Rosalind. I don’t think I can live without you.”

“You cannot love me,” she denied. “I am ugly and I limp.”

His jaw clenched. “I will not have you describe yourself that way,” he said. “You are your own worst enemy, Rosalind. You are beautiful, quite exceptionally lovely, ‘like a red, red rose.’ He must have known you, Robert Burns. And do you still limp? I confess I have not noticed lately.”

“No,” she said, her face pale, “it is not true. You know it is not true, Edward. People would laugh at you.”

His jaw was still clenched. “You know,” he said, “when I realized finally that I loved you, I thought I would never wish to quarrel with you again. Right now I am holding onto my temper with all my willpower. Why do you do this to me?”

“I belong at Raymore Manor,” she said stubbornly, “where no one can see me and where I can do the things I love doing.”

“Come back to London with me,” he said, “and I shall see to it that you spend the rest of your life doing what you like doing. But not in loneliness, Rosalind. You have too much to share: your musical talent with the world, your passion with me.”

She darted him a startled look.

“You have proved your worth, love,” he said. “You are well-admired in London. I want to marry you in St. George’s, and I want you to walk the whole length of the aisle toward me, with your chin up and your eyes on me. Will you?”

“Oh, Edward,” she said, laughing but with tears springing to her eyes, “what an absurd picture you paint.”

“Will you?”

“Are you sure you really wish to, Edward?” she asked wistfully. “It is not just that you have fallen in love with my music?”

He smiled. “It is not my pianoforte, much as I value it, that I long to take to bed or to Florence and Milan and Rome with me. I believe you will make a much warmer and more passionate companion, Rosalind. You have become part of my life, love, whether you wish it or not. You are like the other half of my soul. I cannot face living without you.”

“I do love you so,” she said almost in a whisper.

They sat and stared at each other from opposite corners of the carriage for long moments.

“Come here,” he said finally, and when she came, he pulled her down roughly across his lap and met her open mouth with his in a kiss that immediately had passion flaring between them.

Ben had to expend some energy steadying the horses when the carriage suddenly lurched. He addressed the head of the horse most distant from him. “If I ever understands the quality,” he said, “I’ll know I’ve up an died an’ gone to ’eaven. ’Is lordship just took ’is leave of ’er two hours past.”

Jenny sighed. “Lawks, it’s so romantic,” she said.

The Earl of Raymore leaned his head out of the carriage window at that moment. “Is the girl comfortable up there, Ben?” he called. “Will you tie my horse behind and return to Grosvenor Square?”

Ben and the footman exchanged knowing glances and Jenny peeped shyly up into the latter’s face.

“Now,” said Raymore, shutting the window and settling Rosalind more comfortably on his lap, “what was I saying?

“I don’t believe you were saying anything, my lord,” she replied, twining her arms around his neck.

“Really?” he said, his eyebrows arching above very blue eyes. “What was I doing, then?”

“This, Edward, ” she said, threading her fingers through his thick blond hair and feathering a kiss across his lips.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I remember.” His fingers began to remove one by one the pins that held her hair on top of her head. “I have noticed that you have not answered my question. I am determined that you shall marry me, Rosalind. As your guardian, I strongly disapprove of your present behavior with a man who is not even your betrothed. If you do not say yes immediately, I shall have to use coercion, you know.” He brushed his lips tantalizingly across hers. “Well, what do you say?”

She looked down at him, her heart shining from her eyes. “You had better try coercion, my lord,” she said, shaking her hair loose as he removed the last hairpin.

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Mary Balogh
was born and educated in Wales and now lives with her husband in Saskatchewan, Canada. She has written more than one hundred historical novels and novellas, more than thirty of which have been
New York Times
bestsellers. They include the Bedwyn saga, the Simply quartet, the Huxtable quintet, and the seven-part Survivors’ Club series.

Also by Mary Balogh

The Survivors’ Club Septet

The Proposal

The Suitor

The Arrangement

The Escape

Only Enchanting

Only a Promise

Only a Kiss

Only Beloved

The Huxtable Quintet

First Comes Marriage

Then Comes Seduction

At Last Comes Love