Mary Balogh - Red Rose

Rosalind waited until the dresser had added the final touches to an elaborately piled hairdo, then made her way downstairs. She was deliberately almost late. She did not wish to have to make polite conversation in the drawing room with either Raymore or Bernard. She found that she had to cling more tightly than usual to the banister of the stairs. Her leg throbbed so badly that her whole body felt like a mighty heartbeat. She set a smile in place on her lips before entering the drawing room and accepting a glass of ratafia from a footman.

Rosalind's attention during dinner was taken by Sylvia. She was deliberately trying to ignore the presence of both Sir Bernard seated three places from her, and of Raymore seated almost opposite. There was certainly something wrong with her cousin. She was conversing with both Lady Standen and Sir Rowland Axby, but she did not have her usual sparkle. Rosalind doubted that anyone else would notice, but she had grown up more as a sister to Sylvia than as a cousin. And she recognized instantly that the girl was unhappy. Was Standen still displeased with her for the way she had behaved the night before at the dinner table? It seemed possible. The man set great store by his own consequence. Or had Sylvia discovered that she was not in love with him after all? Rosalind had never known the girl to be in love for more than a few weeks at the longest. And the match with Standen did not seem right. This time, though, Sylvie was in much deeper than she had ever been before. A betrothal, especially such a public one to a leading figure of the ton, would not be easy to withdraw from. Rosalind made a mental note to have a talk with her cousin before they went to bed. She held up her hand to refuse the helping of strawberries and Devon cream that a footman was about to set at her place. The pain in her leg was like a gnawing toothache. She could not concentrate upon eating.

Raymore noticed nothing strange about Sylvia's behavior, perhaps because he was sitting at the same side of the table as she and could not see her without leaning forward and turning his head. However, he was pleased to note that she was seated beside Lady Standen and that the two ladies appeared to be conversing. She was a crusty old bird, he understood. Standen might not be so eager for the match if his mother disapproved of his chosen bride.

He did watch Rosalind, though, without appearing to do so. He conversed politely with both Lady Theresa Parsons on his left and Letitia Morrison on his right. He felt an amused contempt for Lady Theresa, who was sending out very obvious lures in his direction. Women were all the same. Set a man with a title and wealth within their reach and they would use all the wiles at their disposal to trap him into matrimony. Rosalind was very subdued, he noted, probably feeling cramped by his presence. He drank from his wineglass and glanced across at her as she refused dessert. She would feel a great deal more cramped in the next few days if he had anything to say in the matter. She would find it far more difficult to meet her lover t?te-a-t?te

In the drawing room afterward Rosalind played the pianoforte while Lady Theresa and Letitia took turns singing. Sir Bernard joined them briefly, but he did not have the chance for personal conversation, as Letitia was seated on the stool beside Rosalind sorting through a pile of music. Within a few minutes he was called away to make up a table of cards with Lady Standen, Susan Heron, and Thomas Morrison. Rosalind limped to a sofa and sank down thankfully onto it, trying to find a comfortable position for her aching leg. The Earl of Raymore seated himself beside her almost immediately and handed her a cup of tea.

Rosalind looked up in surprise and not a little alarm. "I trust you had a pleasant journey, my lord," she said with chilling formality.

He inclined his head but did not reply. "You have a headache?" he asked abruptly.

"Why, no," she replied. "What gave you that idea?" She had been quite deliberately smiling brightly all evening.

"You are in pain," he stated. "Do you think I do not know you well enough to notice the strain on your face?"

Rosalind was completely amazed. No one had ever known that she suffered occasionally from the old injury to her leg. Not even Sylvia or her aunt and uncle had ever guessed. She had always considered it a matter of pride to hide the fact from them. "My leg aches a little," she admitted.

"I would guess more than a little," he replied, no trace of sympathy in his voice. "Does it often pain you?"

"No, not often, my lord," she said. "Sometimes in cold or wet weather, or when I have had too much exercise."

"How far did you walk this afternoon?" he asked.

"The lake is about a mile away," she said. "We all walked there and back."

"And did neither Standen nor Crawleigh realize that the distance was too far for you?" he asked. Rosalind was surprised to detect a note of anger in his voice.

"I am not an invalid, my lord," she replied rather stiffly.

"Would you like me to help you to your room," he asked, "and have some laudanum sent to you?"

Rosalind had been wishing for just such an escape since she had come downstairs to dinner. Perhaps it was fortunate for her that Raymore asked rather than ordered.

"Would it be very ill-mannered to retire so early?" she asked, looking full into his face for the first time.

"Not at all," he replied, rising to his feet and extending a hand to her. "I shall make your excuses when I return."

Rosalind placed her half-empty cup of tea on the table beside her and put her hand in his. She found it surprisingly strong and supportive. She was able to rise to her feet without putting weight on the aching foot. He offered his arm and she leaned on it heavily as they left the room.

Sir Bernard Crawleigh, his attention distracted from the card game, watched them go, a frown creasing his brow.

Rosalind felt a powerful urge to rest her head against the broad and inviting shoulder that was so close to the side of her head. She supposed that the unusualness of having the pain recognized by another person was making her a little self-pitying.

Raymore paused when they came to the foot of the broad marble staircase that led to the upper apartments, and looked down into the drawn face of his companion. He said nothing, but quietly disengaged his

arm from hers and stooped to lift her up into his arms. Rosalind said nothing, either. One of her arms, in a reflex action, went around his neck. She did not even feel surprise or outrage. Time and reason were suspended as he carried her up the stairs and along the upper corridor to her room. He set her gently down outside the door and they suddenly found themselves staring uncomfortably into each other's eyes.

"Thank you, my lord," she said.

"I shall have some laudanum sent up to you," he said at the same moment.

There was another awkward silence.

"Good night, Edward," she said, smiling slightly.

"Good night, Rosalind," he replied. "Go inside now and lie down. If the leg pains you in the morning, I shall have Standen send for a physician."

"These bouts do not last," she assured him. "I am sure I shall be better in the morning."

She smiled briefly again and went into the room. Self-pitying indeed, she told herself in mockery as tears that she could not control coursed their way down her cheeks.

As Rosalind rose early the following morning, she remembered that she had not had the talk with Sylvia that she had promised herself. She had intended to wait up until her cousin came to bed, but her leg had been aching quite severely and the temptation of the laudanum had proved irresistible. Rosalind had never taken any sedation in a similar situation before. She had been fast asleep long before anyone else went to bed.

Perhaps there was another reason why she had taken the draft. She had wanted to drug her mind. She was so used to hating the Earl of Raymore and believing that he did not possess one redeeming feature. It seemed out of character for him to be the first person in her life to know when she was hiding pain. How was she to reconcile that sensitivity with the cold, unfeeling man she had always known him to be? She did not want to like him in any way. If she did, the attraction she felt toward him would be dangerous. As it was, she had wanted to lay her head down on his shoulder as he carried her upstairs and breathe in the very masculine scent of him.

She had sobbed and sobbed after coming inside her room, but could not adequately explain to herself why she did so. Was it the pain? But she was accustomed to coping with that, although it did not happen very frequently. She had just felt hopelessly depressed. Consequently, when a maid had brought her medicine a mere ten minutes after Raymore had left her, she had taken it and lapsed into blessed unconsciousness soon after.

Now she felt considerably better. Her leg had stopped aching and she was cheered by the sight of a clear blue sky and sunshine when she drew back the curtains at her window. Her head was feeling a trifle heavy from the drug-induced sleep, but fresh air would soon dispense with that problem. She decided that she would take a brisk ride before breakfast. She doubted that anyone else was up yet.

Less than half an hour later, having washed, dressed, and combed her hair into a loose knot beneath her feathered riding hat, Rosalind was walking across to the stables, the loose gravel of the driveway crunching beneath her boots. The Earl of Raymore, seated alone in the breakfast room with yesterday's paper spread before him, saw her go. He frowned. She was up very early and seemed to be in a great hurry. Was she keeping a tryst? It was hardly likely this early in the morning, but he would not exclude any possibilities as far as Rosalind Dacey was concerned. Sbe must be made to realize that she could not come and go with total freedom even if she was now in the country. Once she was married, it would be up to her husband to set the limits. In the meanwhile, she would have to accept the restrictions he chose to impose upon her. He folded the newspaper, threw his napkin onto the table, and rose to follow her.

Rosalind was impatiently tapping her riding crop against her boot waiting for a groom to finish saddling the stallion that she usually rode when Raymore entered the stable yard. The crop became still when she saw him.

"Good morning, my lord," she said warily. Why did he always have to look so disturbingly handsome? This morning he was wearing a close-fitting dark-blue coat with buff riding breeches and shiny black boots. A black top hat sat at a slightly rakish angle on his blond hair.

"Is it wise to ride when you are in pain?" he asked.

She was relieved to hear his voice. It had its old irritable tone. She could safely dislike him again.

"I am quite recovered this morning," she said. "A ride is just what I need."

"Not on that animal," he said decisively. "He is much too large and skittish for you. Saddle a quiet mare for Miss Dacey," he ordered, turning to the groom.

"I shall ride Prince, as I intended," Rosalind replied coolly. "He needs the exercise as much as I."

"Are you doing this to provoke me or to impress me?" he asked coldly. "You are not strong on common sense, ma'am, but surely even you must realize the folly of risking a fall when you already suffer the consequences of one."

She did not deign to reply, but seeing that Prince was ready, she crossed to his side and indicated to the groom that she wished to mount. Soon she was guiding the horse out of the stable yard. She did not even glance in the direction of her guardian.

"Hot headed fool," he muttered under his breath as he strode to the stall that housed his own horse and began swiftly to saddle it. A few minutes later he was urging his mount in the direction of a field, where Rosalind was holding her horse to a trot. He quickly caught up to her.

"At least, if you must be foolhardy. I shall accompany you and pick up the pieces," he called testily across to her.

She smiled frostily back. "I plan to give this horse a good workout once he has warmed up," she said. "Do you think you can keep up with us, my lord?"

"You do not have to show off for me, Rosalind," he growled. "Your present pace is quite fast enough."

She laughed and increased her horse's speed slightly.

He should have told her to go ahead, that it mattered not to him if she broke her neck, Raymore realized. She was so headstrong that she would do anything just to defy him. Why, in heaven's name, had he been blessed with her? It was bad enough to be landed with two female wards under any circumstances, but when one of them was Rosalind Dacey, the situation became a nightmare. His peace of mind was completely shattered. He had lain awake half the night before puzzling over his feelings for her. She was everything that should repel him. He had never admired dark-haired women and her hair was almost black. He liked sweet, fragile faces that promised submissiveness. She had strong features, flashing dark eyes, and a stubborn chin. He had always disliked tall women. She reached to his shoulders and was far from fragile. He had seen her and touched her often enough to know that a voluptuous figure lay beneath the loose, flowing clothes that she favored. He hated women who talked a lot. She was not a prattler, but when she did speak, it was with the assertiveness of a man. And then there was that limp.