Red Rose (5 page)

Her jaw clenched. “You have given no reason at all,” she snapped unwisely. “Kindly make yourself clearer, my lord.” His palms lowered to the desk and he rose to his feet without hurry. He did not remove his gaze from Rosalind’s face. “I shall make myself clear, ma’am,” he said very softly, coming around the desk to stand towering over her, “crystal-clear, I trust. I am your guardian. Until you marry, you are my responsibility. I shall choose what is best for you and you will not question my decisions. Perhaps my uncle allowed you to question him and dictate your own terms. You will not find me so amenable. I tell you now that you will remain in London until the end of the Season or until I have found you a husband. At the end of the Season I shall tell you where you will be going. You do not need to concern yourself with the matter. You will not be consulted. Do I make myself understood, ma’am?”

Rosalind had sat crimson-faced through most of this icily delivered monologue. Now she looked at him with an expression of incredulity. She laughed scornfully. “You speak like a character from a gothic romance,” she said. “I am two and twenty, my lord, a grown woman. Do you believe you can browbeat me as if I were a child? You have it within your power, I suppose, to keep me here against my will. I am reminded that the place I call home is in reality your home now. But this idea of totally ruling my life as if I were a mindless imbecile! I would remind you, sir, that we moved out of the Dark Ages a significant time ago.”

His jaw clenched. “By God, ma’am, you will learn who is master here,” he said. “If you must speak with a shrewish tongue, you may do so, but not with me as an audience. And you will remain in this house at my pleasure and do as I bid you. You have a ball to prepare for next week, and I believe that at the moment you are delaying a shopping expedition.”

Rosalind rose to her feet and glared up into his face. “And that is another thing,” she said. “I believe you have commanded us to have new clothes. I thank you for Sylvia, my lord. She is most excited at the prospect. I need nothing new. I am quite satisfied with the clothes that I have.”

“You do not have to look at yourself wearing them,” he sneered. “A sack would become you as well as the gown you are wearing now. Look at you!” He rashly reached out a hand and grasped a handful of fabric at her waist, startling himself when his knuckles came to rest against the shapely curve of a hip.

Rosalind jumped back, slapping at his hand and colliding clumsily with the chair as she landed on her weak leg. “Don’t touch me!” she hissed.

He stood staring at her for a moment, his hand still outstretched. Rosalind turned and limped her way to the door, uncaring that her hasty progress merely emphasized her ungainly motion. His voice stopped her as she grasped the door handle.

"You will accompany Mrs. Laker and your cousin this afternoon,” he said, “and you will purchase the garments that I have instructed Hetty to help you choose. If you fail to do so, Miss Dacey, I shall take you shopping myself tomorrow.”

Rosalind, seething, had no doubt that he meant what he said.

***

Madame de Valéry, to whom Cousin Hetty conducted her charges as one of the most fashionable modistes on Bond Street, was a busy woman. A demand to have two new evening gowns designed, made, and delivered by the following afternoon was one that she would not normally have complied with. But when Mrs. Laker dropped the name of the Earl of Raymore, she thought that perhaps she might oblige if her seamstresses could be prevailed upon to work through the night. Madame did not personally know the earl. He was unmarried and did not keep mistresses, as for as anyone knew. But he was enormously wealthy. If it suited his fancy to rig out these two young ladies—even the crippled one—in the height of fashion, she would go out of her way to please him.

The younger of the two was every dressmaker’s dream. Petite and very pretty, she also had enough interest in the clothes that were to be made to stand through the tedious business of being measured and to point out designs, fabrics, and trimmings that she liked. She was also flatteringly willing to take advice. With her coloring, did she not agree that the spring-green satin would make a more dazzling underdress for the white lace that she had chosen for her come-out ball? Oh, yes, Lady Sylvia Marsh thought that was a splendid idea.

The older one was a different kettle of fish altogether. She had the most unfortunate limp, which would surely ruin her chances of cutting any sort of dash. But she need not be such a dowd. She had fine hair—a trifle dark for fashion, of course, but thick and shiny. She made it quite clear to her long-suffering chaperone, though, that she would
not
have it cut and styled just to please his lordship. It suited
her
very well the way it was. Her figure, too, was good. Madame de Valéry learned this after winning a battle in which she insisted that she could not make miss’s clothes by measuring the ones she wore. She must measure miss herself. Miss Dacey stood with set jaw and angry eyes while Madame discovered that beneath the loose, ill-fitting walking dress was a figure that many an actress or opera dancer would have killed for: full breasts, tiny waist, generous hips, and long slim legs—though, of course, there must be something wrong with them to cause her to walk the way she did.

The young lady took almost no interest in the styles that were chosen for her, but she did plead with Madame when her cousin and Mrs. Laker were out of earshot to please make the gown loose-fitting. She did not wish to display herself to the gaping
ton.
The poor dressmaker protested that her professional reputation was at stake. She would lose half her patrons if it were seen that she had outfitted the protégée of the Earl of Raymore in a sack. She did, however, agree to necklines that were more modest than she favored, and to high-waisted gowns with skirts a trifle less figure-hugging than most young ladies desired.

Rosalind had to be satisfied with the small victories she had won.

***

It was only the following afternoon that Sylvia and Rosalind discovered the reason why one gown each had had to be delivered that same day. They were to attend the theater, it seemed, with their guardian and his friend Sir Henry Martel. The great Edmund Kean himself was to play Shylock.

“Oh, I do think it kind of his lordship to arrange entertainment for us so soon,” Sylvia said to Cousin Hetty, her eyes shining. “I feared that he did not like us, that we were a nuisance to him, as he paid only that one brief call on us two days ago. But he has arranged this for us, and the ball next week.”

“Cousin Edward is not accustomed to having ladies around him,” Hetty explained, attempting to tie a bow in the red ribbon that she had placed around the neck of one little poodle. “He does not know quite how to behave in female company, I believe. He is shy.”

“Oh, do you believe so?” Sylvia asked, her eyes large with sympathy. “I had not thought of that. We must make an effort tonight to set him at his ease, Ros. Shall we?”

Rosalind smiled fleetingly. ”I must disagree with Cousin Hetty,” she said. "The man is not shy. He is arrogant and he is a tyrant.”

“Oh, I do not feel you should speak that way about his lordship,” Cousin Hetty said, flustered. “Hold still, Pootsie, my love. After all, my dear, he has invited each of us into his home and has seen to it that we have every comfort.”

Rosalind did not reply. She had no wish to begin an argument. She was relieved to find during the conversation that ensued, though, that the earl was to dine with his friend and that the two of them would return in time to escort the ladies to the theater. During the play she would be able to direct her attention to the action on the stage. Only during the carriage ride would she be forced to make conversation with that horrid man. She dreaded seeing him again. Her interview with him the previous morning had convinced her that he was the kind of man she most disliked. To him women were not persons at all. They were mere chattels who were made to be seen and not heard, who were to kiss with gratitude the ground before the man who deigned to notice them. Rosalind had never been a rebellious girl. She had been used to living her own very private life while sharing a home with relatives she loved and respected. But she neither liked nor respected the Earl of Raymore, and she had no intention of allowing him to rule her life. She had decided the previous day, after her meeting with him, that there could be nothing but open warfare between the two of them. She would cross him at every opportunity that presented itself.

The earl himself was having similar thoughts. He had avoided meeting his wards after that first formal introduction. He had no wish to exert himself in making the kind of polite and inane conversation that women seemed to enjoy. And he did not wish to give that Italian spitfire a chance to cross swords with him again. He knew now beyond a doubt that she was trouble, but he would handle her. He had been pleased to learn from Hetty that she had attended a modiste along with his young cousin and had been fitted for all the garments that would be necessary during the Season. Perhaps she had learned that it was pointless to argue with him. But Raymore doubted it.

When he entered the drawing room of his own home after dinner with Sir Henry, he was pleasantly impressed. His cousin Sylvia now looked perfect for her part. Her hair had been trimmed so that the blond curls molded her head and trailed down a very delicate neck. She wore a gown of the palest blue that appeared to be a perfect match for her eyes. She would do very well. This evening’s appearance would whet the appetites of those men who were on the lookout for a beautiful heiress. And who was not? he thought cynically.

His other ward was looking almost promising, too, if one ignored the look of hostile defiance in her dark eyes. She wore a gown of royal-blue velvet with modest neckline and rather wide folds falling from the high waistline. Madame de Valéry had done a rather clever job of hiding the girl’s lack of shape, he decided, ignoring the incongruous memory of the feel of her hip beneath his hand the morning before. Her hair, too, was dressed becomingly in heavy coils high on her head, loose curls trailing her neck and temples. She looked striking, he decided, even if not handsome.

Sir Henry, having been introduced to the ladies, scooped an indignant poodle pup out of the nearest chair and sat down. Sylvia took the little bundle from him and soothed it in her lap as she talked to her new acquaintance as if she had known him all her life.

The Earl of Raymore turned to Rosalind. “I compliment you on your appearance, Miss Dacey,” he said unsmilingly, “but I see that you did not have your hair styled.”

“You can perhaps force me to buy clothes, my lord,” she answered coolly, “but my hair is part of my person. And I will allow no one, not even you, any control over that.”

He turned away from her, showing no visible reaction. “Shall we go?” he said to the room at large. “The carriage is waiting.”

“A trifle early, are we not, Edward?” asked Sir Henry. But he rose to his feet when his friend did not reply.

Raymore had good reason for leaving early. He wished to have Rosalind seated in her box before a large number of curious eyes could watch her arrival.

His plan succeeded. The boxes were almost empty when he seated his wards. Only a few young men had taken up their positions of vantage in the pit, where they could ogle all the ladies as they arrived.

“Oh, look, Ros,” Sylvia exclaimed, grabbing her cousin by the wrist. “That man is entirely pink. Even his hair!”

She stared quite openly at a tall young man who stood languidly in the pit, surveying some new arrivals in the box opposite through a quizzing glass.

“That is one of our most prized exquisites, Lady Sylvia,” Sir Henry said, smiling and leaning forward. “Lord Fanhope. He turns a different color for each day of the week. He even wears a patch on his cheek. It is somewhat unfortunate that the color is pink tonight. The patch cannot be easily distinguished from this distance.”

“If you keep staring at him, cousin,” Raymore added, “he will be your friend for life.”

“Well, I think he looks remarkably silly,” Sylvia decided, and she turned her attention away from its unworthy object.

“Does your wife not enjoy the theater, Sir Henry?” Rosalind asked, having heard him refer earlier to a wife.

He smiled at her. “Elise would love to be here,” he said, “but she is not going into company these days. She expects to be confined any day now.”

Rosalind gave him her full attention. “Oh, how splendid!” she said, her face glowing. “Is it to be your first, sir?”

Sir Henry was unused to anyone talking about the expected event. Pregnancy was generally considered to be an ungenteel topic of conversation. Most people would politely choose not to notice when a lady was missing from society for a few months.

“I should be so delighted to meet Lady Martel if I may, at a time convenient to her, of course,” Rosalind continued. The greatest regret she had about her physical condition had always been that, because she would not marry, she would also not bear children.

The Earl of Raymore, standing at the back of the box, was pleased. His cousin, of course, would take with no trouble at all. But even the other girl was glowing at the moment. She looked almost handsome with her bright dress, and her dark hair and eyes. For once she even had some color in her cheeks. He let his eyes stray casually around the other boxes and the pit, all of which were now full. The attention of several people was directed at his box. His plan was working well, it seemed.

The evening continued well. During the intermission, Sir Henry left to greet some friends in another box. And several of Raymore’s acquaintances, paid a call in his box with the obvious purpose of being introduced to the two young ladies. The earl, his manner cool and detached, performed the introductions and mentally assessed each visitor. Mr. Victor Parkins, balding, paunchy, was obviously taken with his cousin. Rich enough, well-enough connected, but not a dazzling-enough catch. She could aim higher. Charles Hammond, charming, handsome, also set out to dazzle Sylvia. Not a bad connection, but something of a rake. The chit looked interested, too. He must be careful that Hammond did not get too close to her at next weeks ball. Sir Bernard Crawleigh was eminently suitable. He had the connections, the presence, and the wealth to win Raymore’s approval. The earl watched in some fascination, though, as the young man directed his interest, not at Sylvia, but at Rosalind. He had no chance to observe her reactions as his attention was claimed by the arrival of Sidney Darnley, come to view the newly arrived heiresses.