Mary Balogh - Red Rose

Raymore rang the bell at his elbow. When the butler appeared, he was informed that his lordship would not dine at home. White's Club was a more congenial setting for this particular evening than his own home.

The Earl of Raymore entered his house late the following morning and made his way, as usual, to his secretary's office to examine the morning's post. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had his promised talk with Hetty earlier and she had been most eager to comply with his demands. She had been delighted at the prospect of preparing her charges for a visit to the theater. Henry had just agreed to join the party, provided there had been no further developments in his wife's delicate condition by the following evening. And, best of all, Raymore had just thought of Sir Rowland Axby. A middle-aged man of unprepossessing appearance and totally lacking in personality, he had nevertheless succeeded in finding a bride fifteen years before and fathering a brood of six youngsters before his wife died. His efforts to find himself a new mate were fast becoming a standing joke with the ton. Miss Dacey would be perfect for him. Axby would want a wife who would be prepared to rusticate with the children. His ward would doubtless be grateful to have her future settled and to be removed from the embarrassment of a public setting. He instructed Sheldon to send an invitation to Sir Rowland to attend his ball the following week.

"Miss Dacey has asked to- speak with you on your return, my lord," Sheldon said.

"Eh?" said Raymore, looking up from a letter that he held in his hand. "Has she not gone shopping with her cousin and Mrs. Laker?"

"I believe they have postponed the outing until after luncheon, my lord," the secretary replied.

Raymore put the letter down on the desk in irritation and frowned at Sheldon. "What does she want?"

"She did not say, my lord."

"Send word that she may attend me in the library at once," the earl directed and strode from the room. The infernal chit! He had known she would be trouble.

Rosalind assumed a confidence she did not quite feel as she waited for a footman to open the library doors for her. Her guardian was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk at the far side of the room, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, making a halo of his blond hair. She felt that he had deliberately placed himself there so that she would be forced to undergo the ordeal of limping across the room toward him while he watched her steadily. His elbows were on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Alistair with a stony expression!

"Have a seat, Miss Dacey," he said, motioning to a straight chair at the other side of his desk.

Rosalind sat down, her back straight. He did not initiate any conversation. He sat and stared at her.

My lord, will you please allow me to return home?" she blurted, and watched his eyebrows rise haughtily. She had not intended to broach the subject quite so bluntly.

"Home, Miss Dacey?" he queried, ice dripping from each word. "You are at home, ma'am. This is your home as long as I choose to make it so."

Rosalind blushed and bit her lip. "I mean to Raymore Manor, my lord," she said. "Indeed, I appreciate your fondness in inviting us here. For Sylvia it is a dream come true to be in London during the Season. But you did not know when you invited us here that I am disabled. I cannot mix with society, my lord. My presence would merely be an embarrassment to you and to myself. I am sure you must agree."

"Must I?" he asked quietly.

Rosalind paused, uncertain of his reaction. His eyes gave no clue. "Will you allow me to return?" she asked.

"No, I will not," he replied.

Rosalind swallowed. "Why not?"

His eyebrows rose. "Because I choose not to allow it, Miss Dacey," he said. "This is reason enough."

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," be 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 Valery, 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 far 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 Valery 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 protegee 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.