The Rebel's Promise (15 page)

“You have come to ask me, for the second time this month, to advance you money, Clive,” her voice cracked out, and he flinched as if she had whipped him. “Have the goodness not to bring the manners of the stables into my drawing room.”

“She will not cry off,” he assured her grimly.

“Very well.” Business-like now, she began to count out notes from the hefty bankroll she held. “To be absolutely sure, I will hold a betrothal party here in her honour.”

“She may refuse to attend, given her mourning state.”

“Nonsense! I know for a fact she has attended several balls in Aurelia’s company, although she has very correctly refused to dance.” She held the wad of money out to him and he took it gratefully. “Once she – and society – knows that I have given the betrothal
my
approval and that I am sanctioning it by hosting the party here, there can be no objection. Make sure my money is used to stave off the most pressing of your creditors … rather than to prop up a hell or a whorehouse. ”

Clive, who never ceased to marvel at the way she reduced him to feeling like a grubby schoolboy, breathed a sigh of relief when he was able to take his leave of her.

***

It was the most beautiful dress Rosie had ever seen. Quite unlike the more subdued, modest gowns she usually favoured. The amethyst folds of the outer robe a l'Anglais added vibrancy to her delicate colouring and lovingly outlined her figure. The matching silk petticoat was embroidered all over with tiny coral and silver flowers and intricate silver lace flowed from the elbow-length sleeves, enhancing the slender white curves of her arms. Stiff whale-boning clinched her waist, thrusting her breasts upwards so that they swelled enticingly against the restraining stomacher. She studied the amount of flesh revealed dubiously and attempted to pull the bodice higher. However Lady Aurelia, whisking around Rosie’s bedchamber like a butterfly in a high wind, shrieked in horror.

“You will ruin the line, you foolish child!”

“But, ma’am, ‘tis positively indecent.”

Rosie regarded her décolletage again, then twisted around in an attempt to see the back of her reflection in the mirror. She noted the way the gown highlighted contrast between trimness of her waist and the fullness of her derriere.

“Tish! What nonsense!”

Her ladyship busied herself by liberally sprinkling perfume onto Rosie’s lace handkerchief.

“Stand still, I beg you, you make me feel quite dizzy with this incessant twirling!”

She twitched the gown into place over Rosie’s petticoat and arranged one glossy, un-powdered ringlet so that it nestled against the satiny flesh of her shoulder. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she sighed sentimentally, “Oh my dear! I vow and declare, you will break a thousand hearts this night!” She tittered apologetically, “Lud, what nonsense I do talk sometimes! You have captured the only heart you desire, have you not, my dear? My nephew is quite, quite devoted to you. ‘Tis most affecting to observe … well, of course, he does have a little natural reserve in his manner, but I believe that merely adds to a man’s attraction …” She continued in this artless style for some minutes, and Rosie let her chatter wash over her as she viewed her own reflection in amazement. She hardly dared hope that Jack would attend the ball tonight but … oh! How much she wanted him to see this beautiful, alluring stranger and perhaps know a brief moment of regret. If she held onto that slim hope, she could almost forget that this night was bringing her inexorably closer to the altar.

They were to join Lady Harpenden and a quite staggering array of prestigious guests for dinner before the ball commenced. Gathering up her cloak, she dutifully followed Lady Aurelia out to the carriage.

Lady Harpenden greeted Rosie with every sign of genuine pleasure even if her gaze appeared to linger disapprovingly on her gown. Although, Rosie reminded herself, her ladyship’s habitual expression was one of censure. In point of fact, Lady Harpenden was wondering how wise it was to pin her hopes for the future of her family on those slender, young shoulders. Sir Clive came forward to greet Rosie and positively drooled at the sight of her. The feel of his damp lips on her hand made her feel slightly queasy, and she was glad when dinner was served so that she could escape his attentions. The meal was a formal affair and Rosie, seated between an aging, hard-of-hearing Duke and a hunt-obsessed Earl, felt a sudden longing for Harry’s chatter and dinner eaten on a tray before the fire.

The whole evening had a surreal quality as if she was moving slowly and listlessly through a dream. In the ballroom, thousands of candles in myriad chandeliers blazed so brightly that they hurt her eyes. The glittering diamonds, adorning the rich costumes of the assembled guests, dazzled her with their reflected fire. So brilliant were the jewelled colours of the parade of ball gowns, that the overall effect became garish rather than elegant.

The subtle scent of the banks of pink roses that lined the room was lost amongst the violently clashing perfumes and colognes of the noble company. The ladies’ voices sounded shrill and tinny whilst the gentlemen’s tones boomed and made her wince slightly. She was having trouble hearing what was said to her and her jaw ached with the false smile she had pinned to her face.

Stealing a glance at the man by her side – her betrothed – she looked away quickly as she encountered his gaze. The blaze of triumph and – she struggled briefly for the right word and came up with ‘ownership’– in his eyes disturbed her only marginally less than the other look, the sensual, brooding look that grew in intensity with every passing day.

A shiver ran down her spine, belying the oppressive heat. Trapped in this loathsome betrothal, she was handing control of her life over to this man. A man who had secured her promise through foul trickery, a man she feared and detested with every fibre of her being.

Jack had toyed with the idea of not attending Rosie’s engagement ball, but Sir Peregrine, meeting him earlier that day at a cock-fight in a riverside tavern, was adamant.

“Dashed bad form if you cry off, old chap,” he had said, examining the very large nosegay he wore in his button-hole with some consternation. “Bound to be talk. Don’t want it said you still hold a candle for the bride-to-be. Good thing the whole town knows you are keeping cully with Lady Bella.”

Jack sighed, “For the last time, Perry! I am not ‘keeping cully’ with Lady Bella Cavendish and I do wish you would refrain from borrowing your vocabulary from your groom!”

Sir Peregrine, however, was not listening, “I say,” he exclaimed in alarm, “Here’s a devilish thing, Jack! I asked that man of mine to procure me a button-hole of violets, and stap me if he hasn’t gone and got irises instead!”

He looked up in alarm just in time to avoid the snuffbox which Jack, with an exasperated growl, threw at him.

As it was, they arrived late at the betrothal party. This was due to the fact that Sir Peregrine’s valet, already in disgrace over the nosegay scandal, had, in his nervousness, mislaid his master’s new pale pink stockings. Since these had been chosen to perfectly match the exquisite hue of his new satin coat, nothing would do for him but that they should be found.

“Turn the fellow off without a character, Perry,” Jack had advised with a yawn, when the offending items had finally been discovered in the drawer with Sir Peregrine’s elegant small clothes.

“I can’t,” Sir Peregrine was being eased into his tight-fitting coat by the crestfallen valet and three sweating footmen, “He has his own particular method of polishing my boots which cannot be rivalled.”

The ball was in full swing when they eventually breezed into Lady Harpenden’s elegant home. Sir Peregrine soon minced away to indulge in a flirtation with a pretty coquette who made come-hither eyes at him from behind her fan. Jack exchanged a few words with Bella, who rapped him over the knuckles with her own fan in a familiar manner and informed him, with a provocative wink, that he was looking ‘positively edible’ this evening. Whilst to the uninitiated her body language appeared flirtatious in the extreme, Jack was grateful for the sympathetic light which shone in her fine eyes. He assumed that the affianced couple were at the other end of the ballroom, where the throng was at its greatest. Deciding it behoved him to be seen offering his congratulations, he made his way, in a leisurely fashion, in that direction.

Lady Harpenden had presented a rather tongue-tied second cousin to Rosie as a suitable dance partner. Rosie trod gracefully onto the dance floor, unaware of her ladyship’s ulterior motive. If her nephew’s betrothed was seen dancing in public it must be assumed her mourning was over. There could be no further objection to a speedy marriage. She was neatly performing the intricate steps and trying to make painstaking conversation with her partner, when she saw Jack. As always, he stood out in the ballroom for the elegant restraint of his attire. He drew attention because he did not seek it. A lone moth moving quietly amongst the rainbow coloured butterflies. Sir Peregrine, his mentor, despaired of him for it.

Tonight, Jack wore a well-fitting dove-grey coat and matching breeches. His waistcoat, although flowered, was a study in understatement. He immediately, in Rosie’s eyes at least, made every other man in the room appear over-dressed. ‘
I can’t help it
,’ she thought sadly. ‘
Every time I see him, no matter how hard I try to stop it, my heart flips over.’

Jack paused to watch the dancers and his eyes were drawn immediately to Rosie. She looked stunning, but too much like every other woman present, he decided savagely … and she had far too much flesh on display! Her youthful partner was unashamedly ogling her breasts as they came together in the dance. Jack felt an unaccountably strong compulsion to take the stripling by the throat and shake the life out of him. He resisted this unsociable impulse by ramming his hands into the pockets of his breeches and leaning his shoulders against the wall. A giggly debutante, who much admired his heroic good looks, advanced towards him. Noticing the brooding frown on his face, she thought better of it and drifted nonchalantly away.

When the dance ended, Rosie curtseyed low to her partner who, to Jack’s further outrage, took the opportunity to snatch another lecherous eyeful. Without thinking, he marched over to where she stood and, ignoring the blaze of hope which lit her eyes, bowed stiffly.

“Your servant, Miss Delacourt,” he could barely speak for rage, “May I claim the pleasure of your hand in the next dance?”

Rosie’s smoke-grey eyes showed her dismay. She had no idea what she had done to provoke this mood, but he was clearly seething with ill-concealed outrage. But surely even Jack, unquestionably the most audacious man alive, would not dare to cause a scene here … at her engagement party? With an inclination of her head, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The last dance had been a minuet but the mood became less formal now as the musicians struck up a country dance. All around them, other dancers indulged in the opportunity for socialising, gaiety and even – disguised within the abandon of the dance – amorousness. Rosie was reminded of the dance she and Jack had shared at Christmas, in a very different mood. Why must these memories, all of which made her body ache with longing, keep tormenting her? Studying the clenched muscles of Jack’s jaw, Rosie prayed for the dance to end before he gave vent to his annoyance. Her prayers were ignored.

“Your gown suits you very well,” he informed her, steering her expertly around the floor, “It announces to the world that you have the heart of a common harlot beneath all that expensive silk and lace.”

He might be angry – although Rosie had no idea why – but that was going too far! They were separated briefly by the movement of the set and, when they came back together, Rosie’s own temper – usually slow to ignite – had already reached boiling point. Between his cold fury and her white hot chagrin, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that a sizzling argument was underway.

“How dare you!” Rosie hissed, her hand, gripped tightly in his, twitched convulsively with the effort of
not
slapping him.

Jack shrugged, “The truth stings, does it not?” he asked, through gritted teeth, “You should take yourself off to Covent Garden and ply your trade there. With your wares so openly on display,” he indicated the exposed half-globes of her bosom, “I’ve no doubt you would be a success.”

“Is that where you found your fine mistress?” Rosie spat back at him, “I don’t see you berating Lady Cavendish who is practically falling out of
her
gown. Since when did you become a puritan, my lord? Was it in her bed? I had heard she teaches a very different type of lesson from its oft-used depths.”

“Is this display for any man who cares to look his fill? Or is it to inflame your intended? I believe his predilection for whores is well known. Do you whisper sweet words of love to him as you flaunt your charms in front of his eyes?”

Jack knew he was degenerating into a jealous rant now, but he found he could not stop firing bitter questions at her. A few interested glances were cast their way.

“What do you say to him, Rosie? Do you use the same sugared phrases and feigned artlessness with which you charmed me?” He gripped her wrist tightly as she tried to swing away from him. “After all, it was not so very long ago that you said ‘I love you more than life itself, Jack’…”

“If I said that, I lied! I don’t love you!” she panted under her breath, trying to pull away. “I hate you! I wish I had never met you!”

Rosie chose words she knew must hurt him but, even as the angry denial left her lips, she wanted to withdraw it. Her anger died as quickly as it had flared. She could never wish that brief time, when they
had
loved each other, undone. And she would never, as long as she lived, be unable to love him.

His face was as white as hers was red and he released her wrist immediately.

“You cannot wish it more than I,” he informed her coldly and, with a contemptuous little bow, he turned on his heel and left her alone – embarrassed, humiliated and the object of a hundred curious eyes – in the middle of the dance floor.