And now she had succeeded with poor Crawleigh. Raymore doubted very much if the man had really been about to offer for her. She had obviously been intent on seducing him there in the summerhouse. She doubtless would have succeeded had he not interrupted them. But the end result was the same. Crawleigh had been forced into a situation in which he had no choice. And why should pity be wasted on him? the earl thought bitterly. He had been willing to enjoy her there in the garden. Let him have joy of her for the rest of his life. Raymore thought again of Crawleigh's hands on her back and gritted his teeth.

His rose! In the past weeks he had been lulled again into thinking that the girl who could produce such glorious music must be pure. The truth was that only a person of experience and knowledge would be capable of reproducing the passion of Beethoven and that of her unknown poet.

Raymore pulled himself to his feet. He would be glad to see the last of her. It could not be soon enough for him.


***

Rosalind, in her room, sitting up in bed, was having similar thoughts. She had to get away from the Earl of Raymore. The man was pure tyrant, treating her earlier tonight like a child who has no ability to look after herself instead of like the adult she was. And his behavior in the library had been the outside of enough. He had actually accused her of being a seductress, of deliberately setting out to trap Bernard into marriage. If he had called her a whore she could not feel more insulted.

The trouble was that she had a sinking feeling that he was right on at least one detail. Bernard had been forced into that ridiculous declaration. Of course he had not been about to ask her to marry him any more than she had been expecting such a proposal. She liked Bernard excessively and had grown to depend greatly on his friendship. She felt a pleasant attraction to him and had enjoyed both kisses shared with him. She thought she might be falling in love with him. But if they were ever to love deeply enough for marriage, it was likely to be at some future date. Theirs was not a passionate relationship that would develop quickly, but rather an affectionate friendship that might or might not grow into love. At least, that was how she viewed the matter.

And now because of a ridiculous sense of honor, Bernard's hand had been forced. He would call on Raymore tomorrow and then she would be summoned to hear his formal proposal. The whole situation was farcical. She would be downright embarrassed. How could she take Bernard seriously as an ardent suitor? She would tell him, of course, that she could not consider marrying him at present, and that would be the end of the matter. But it was most provoking. Their pleasant friendship would be strained, perhaps ruined, and certainly any chance of love developing would be permanently quenched.

Damn him! Damn Edward Marsh! Why had he had to appear just when he had? That kiss had been so harmless, a joke really. A few seconds later and they would have both been laughing and turning to walk back to the house. And he had been so furious. Rosalind had thought at first that he was about to attack one or other of them. His fists had been clenched at his sides. And she remembered that, inexplicably, she had wanted to go to him, touch him, assure him that what he had seen was really quite deceptive. She had had a vivid memory, looking at him, of what it had felt like to have his arms around her, his mouth on hers. How thankful she was that she had not given in to the impulse. He had been so insulting immediately afterward, putting the worst possible interpretation on what he had seen.

He was quite insufferable. How could she possibly go on living in his home after the things he had said to her? She was almost tempted to accept Bernard's offer. H she did not, it was likely that she would become an old maid and she would always be bound to this man, would always be at his beck and call. She did not think she could bear it.

Both the Earl of Raymore and Rosalind were still awake when dawn broke.

Chapter 8

Rosalind was every bit as embarrassed the next day as she had expected to be when a poker-faced butler summoned her to the library. Although she had not fallen asleep until after dawn, she had not slept late but had breakfasted before either of the other ladies was up. She had seen through the morning-room window the arrival of Sir Bernard Crawleigh. He had been closeted with Raymore for upward of half an hour before she was called.

Crawleigh was in the room alone when a footman opened the library doors for her. That at least was a relief. She had been very much afraid that she would have to face both men. But she still found it difficult to look him in the face.

She smiled vaguely in the direction of his neckcloth. "Good morning, Bernard," she said.

"You look as if you are going to your own funeral," he said with a chuckle. "Come, Rosalind, I am not about to eat you."

"Well," she said, relaxing visibly and smiling at him, "I hardly knew how I was to face you this morning. I am dreadfully sorry about last night. I realize that the whole situation was my fault." She limped across the room and sat down beside the fireplace^

"Fault?" he queried. "You talk as if some disaster had occurred. I have come to ask for the honor of your hand, Rosalind."

"Oh, nonsense," she said, giving him a quelling glance. "That game was perhaps necessary with his lordship, Bernard, but you do not need to pretend with me. Of course you do not wish to marry me."

"Do I not?" he asked, amusement in his voice. He came and sat in a chair opposite hers. "And why not, pray?"

"We are merely friends," she said. "If you were considering marriage, it would be with someone far more beautiful than I and someone who would not be an embarrassment to you in public. Come now, admit that you had not had the fleetingest thought of marriage before my guardian found us together last evening."

"There you are wrong, Rosalind," he said quietly. "I have for some time been thinking of you in terms of marriage."

"Why?" she asked, staring across at him incredulously.

"What a disconcerting female you are," he commented, smiling back at her. "You are supposed to be in transports of delight at the moment, or possibly in a swoon at my feet."

"Fiddle!" she said.

He laughed. "You are one of a kind, Rosalind," he said, "an original. I like your company and I am attracted to your person. Have I answered your question?"

She stared at him silently, trying to understand his enigmatic smile. She had never found Sir Bernard to be a mystery before, but now she did not know what to believe. How much was truth and how much was gallant lying?

"Will you marry me?" he asked. "I would be truly honored, I assure you, and I shall do my best to be a good husband."

Rosalind got abruptly to her feet and crossed the room to the desk. She stood with her hands flat on its surface, her back to the room. "Bernard," she said, "please speak the truth to me. I value your friendship and would far prefer that you speak what you feel rather than what you think you should say. You did not compromise me last night and are not honor-bound to offer for me. Even his lordship admitted that to me when we arrived home from the ball. Please let us be friends again. I do not wish you to come to hate me for forcing you into a course of action that you did not freely choose."

She turned to look at him and found that he had come up behind her while she talked. He was standing now just a foot away. He took her chin in his hand and raised her face to his. "Tears, Rosalind?" he chided gently. "Indeed there is no need to cry. I have spoken the truth to you. I wish above all things to make you my wife. And I ask you again if you will consent to be betrothed to me. The choice is entirely yours, dear. If you wish it, we shall announce our engagement immediately. If you have doubts, you must tell me so and I shall wait." He smiled again into her eyes and lowered his head in order to touch his lips very gently to hers.

Rosalind turned her head away from his hand and fingered a quill pen that lay on top of the desk. "Will you mind very much if I say yes?" she asked apologetically. "I think that I should hke to be married to you, Bernard."

He chuckled. "I should mind very much if you said no," he replied. "Now, if we are truly betrothed, may I have a proper kiss, please?"

Rosalind allowed him to hold her and kiss her with more ardor than he had shown on any previous occasion. She even put her arms up around his neck and let her body lean against his. Her mind, in a whirl, was trying to assimilate what she had just done, trying to believe that she had made the right decision.


***

Cousin Hetty was in an ecstasy of delight. Two announcements had appeared in the Gazette within just a few weeks of each other. Both her charges were betrothed and both to extremely eligible young men. She congratulated herself on her accomplishment. She spent many cheerful hours with the latest edition of the Belle Assemblee, planning a trousseau for each girl. Sylvia joined in with enthusiasm, Rosalind only halfheartedly. But it was far too soon to make any definite plans. Lord Standen's house party had to be given first consideration.

Lord Standen had decided to celebrate his betrothal in the country with a more intimate group of friends than had gathered for his sister's ball. The visit was to last only a week, as most of his guests would want to return to London for the final events of the Season. But he wished to introduce his intended bride to his widowed mother, who rarely ventured away from his country estate. The party was to consist of his brother, Nigel; his sister, Letitia; her husband, Mr. Thomas Morrison; Sylvia; and her cousin Rosalind. Sir Bernard Crawleigh had been added to the guest list after his unexpected betrothal to Rosalind was announced. Sir Rowland Axby had already been invited when it had been thought that he was the girl's suitor. Two of Sylvia's newly formed friends, Miss Susan Heron and Lady Theresa Parsons, were also to be of the party. The Earl of Raymore, of course, had been invited and was to come for the last few days. He excused himself from spending the whole week in the country on the grounds that he was busy organizing his musical concert, which was to take place soon after the end of the house party.

Sylvia bubbled with enthusiasm. Nigel had told her that his brother's estate was a particularly beautiful place, especially in summer. It was known for miles around for its masses of rhododendrons that lined the mile-long driveway and surrounded the house. Nigel had also told her of the stables and the horses that were the pride and joy of his brother.

"You will enjoy yourself, at least, Ros," she said, hugging her cousin happily on one occasion. "You will be able to ride to your heart's content again. I know you have been missing Flossie, although you have not complained at all."

"Yes, it will be splendid," Rosalind agreed with a rare burst of enthusiasm. "But tell me, Sylvie, do you never talk to his lordship? Everything you know of him and his house you seem to have learned from his brother."

"Oh, Lord Standen is a very reticent man," Sylvia explained airly. "Nigel says that he has always been quiet. I was rather awed by his silences at first, for I wondered if he was disapproving of me. But Nigel says no, it is just his way."

"Oh," was all Rosalind could think of to say. She did not know whether to be amused or uneasy by the constant references to "Nigel says."

On the whole Rosalind was happy about the approaching holiday in the country. It would be delightful to be away from the glare of the public eye. Even though there were to be several house guests at Broome Hall, she felt that there she would have greater freedom to do as she wished. She could avoid the more public entertainments and spend more time alone or- blissfully-out riding. It would be heavenly to be away from the Earl of Raymore for a few days. Her hatred of him had become almost an obsession. She had only to anticipate his arrival in a room, had only to hear his voice, to feel her whole body tense and to lose her ability to concentrate on whatever activity she was involved in. When he was in a room with her, she felt every muscle tighten. She found it difficult to behave or talk naturally to anyone else. It was almost impossible to look at him and almost impossible not to look at him. She would find that in the end she could not resist darting a glance at him with an almost jerky movement of her head, and almost invariably she would choose a moment when he too was looking at her, often with the ice-blue eyes she was accustomed to, sometimes with a still, brooding look that made her breathless and uncomfortable for minutes afterward. It would be good to be free of him for at least a few days. Rosalind hoped that perhaps he would not join the party, after all.