Red Rose

by Mary Balogh

  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.

  Chapter 11

  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 sli
ghtly 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.

  Why, then, did he feel this impossible attraction to the girl? It was years since he had been tempted by a lady of quality. His tastes had drawn him to women of the theater, with whom he could very quickly satisfy his appetites. There was no way he could rid himself of the desire he felt for his ward. In fact, he felt quite humiliated even to admit to himself that he did want her. He must concentrate on his dislike of her, he reminded himself as he kept urging his horse to a slightly faster speed to keep pace with hers. His rose!

  Suddenly he found himself left behind as Rosalind spurred her mount into a gallop. She did it partly to show him that she cared nothing for his admonitions; Yet she had intended when she left the house to blow away the cobwebs of her mind. She bent low over the horse's neck and urged him on ever faster and faster. When she saw a hedge approaching, she made no attempt to avoid it but soared over with a feeling of great exhilaration. She felt again the thrill of speed and uninhibited motion. On horseback she could forget her disability; she was the equal of anyone. She was aware of Raymore half a length behind her. The need to stay ahead of him added to her excitement. With Flossie she could have done so with ease.

  There was another hedge at the far side of the field through which they now raced. There was also a five-barred gate, higher than the level of the hedge. Rosalind turned her horse's head so that she galloped directly toward it.

  Raymore saw her intention at a glance. He gritted his teeth and knew a moment of blank terror. She would kill herself. Even if the horse did not catch a leg on the top bar and plunge them both to the ground, she would never be able to keep her seat over such a height, mounted as she was on a sidesaddle. He considered trying to head her off, but that would mean risking collision and almost as much danger.

  He took the hedge at the same time as she soared over the gate with inches to spare. Rosalind immediately pulled back on the reins and eased the horse to a walk. She had turned its head so that it could keep to the cooler shade beside the hedge. She leaned forward and patted its neck.

  The next moment a very firm gloved hand grasped the reins and her horse was pulled to an abrupt halt. The Earl of Raymore was off his own mount almost as quickly. He reached up, caught Rosalind by the waist, and almost dragged her to the ground. The horses wandered off, side by side, in search of some longer grass on which to graze.

  Before Rosalind could make any sort of protest, she was being shaken by hands that held her shoulders in a bruising grip. Her head flopped back and forth like a rag doll. Her riding hat fell to the ground and her hair cascaded down over her shoulders and face.

  "Damn you to hell!" Raymore was shouting. "You could have killed yourself, do you realize that? You hotheaded, stubborn fool!"

  When he finally stopped shaking her, Rosalind had a hard time catching her breath and her sense of balance. She clung to his arms in self-defense. "Stop treating me like a child," she cried, her voice shaking. "I am mortally sick of your constant spying and scolding. Leave me alone!" She struggled to free herself from his grip but only found herself hauled firmly against his chest, her hands imprisoned between them.

  "By God, Rosalind," he said between his teeth, "I shall teach you that you cannot bait me and get away with it."

  His mouth was savage on hers, as it had been the last time, she remembered. But that last time he had not tumbled her immediately to the ground, his weight pinning her to the grass and depriving her momentarily of breath. He had not then proceeded to dispense with her upper garments so that almost before she understood his intentions his hands were on her naked breasts, his mouth and tongue plundering her own before trailing a hot path down her throat and to her breasts. But then that other time her hands had not unbuttoned his coat and roamed over the thin silk of his shirt to feel the firm muscles of his chest, the rippling muscles of his arms.

  "Rosalind," he was murmuring over and over again. "My rose! My red rose!" His hands twined in her thick dark hair until his fingers rested against her scalp. He turned her head up to him again and traced her parted lips with his tongue before covering them with his own and exploring the warm excitement of her mouth.

  "Edward," she moaned when he lifted his head again, "oh, please. Please!"

  He had to have her. He would go mad with longing if he had to wait just one moment longer. He had to be one with her, had to be inside her. He eased his weight half off her and reached down to pull up the skirt of her heavy riding habit. His hand caressed her slim legs as his mouth sought out the pulse at the base of her throat. She twisted her hands in his hair and gasped out his name.

  His hand stroked and caressed its way up one leg to the knee, along her warm inner thigh, over the tight muscles of her stomach to the fastenings of her undergarments at her waist.

  She wanted him so desperately. He was moving so slowly, pulling loose now the ribbons that kept him away from her. Finally his warm and gentle hand was against the bare flesh of her stomach, moving to one side to trace her hip before continuing its descent. Rosalind was raw sensation. She would explode if he did not release this tension soon. She arched her hips against his hand, parting her legs, willing him lower.

  He raised his head and she gazed into his passion-heavy blue eyes. Beautiful eyes that she could drown in. "My rose!" he murmured.
The eyes and voice heavy with feeling, the hand worshiping her body. So different from usual. From usual! Rosalind was suddenly jerked back to reality. She was lying under a hedge in an open field in broad daylight, almost naked to the waist, her skirt bunched up around her hips, within a few moments of being bedded by the Earl of Raymore. And inviting and responding to his advances every step of the way. With a cry of panic, she pushed at his chest and rolled to one side, pulling her skirt down with shaking hands as she did so.

  "Rosalind!" he protested in bewilderment.

  "Go away! Leave me alone!" she cried, leaping to her feet and, her back to him, pulling her blouse around her and buttoning it up. "Do you think I am a servant or a milkmaid to be rolled on the ground like this? I am the niece of the former Earl of Raymore and your ward. I am betrothed and soon to be wed. Do you hate me so much that you must ruin me and spoil my one chance of a respectable future?"

  She babbled on, not knowing half of what she said. Finally her jacket had been buttoned up again and her hat and riding crop gathered from the ground. In her frenzy she had tried to find enough hairpins in the grass to pin up her hair again, but it was a hopeless task. She limped across to where Prince was grazing and mounted unassisted into the sidesaddle. Without a backward glance at her companion, who had not uttered a word since her outburst, she spurred the horse into a gallop across the field.

  Raymore, who had been sitting with his head resting on his updrawn knees, looked up as she moved away. What a fool he was! She was easily the most accomplished horsewoman he had ever seen, as he would have realized earlier had he not been blinded by irrational fears for her safety. She was true grace and beauty as she disappeared from sight, dark hair streaming out behind her.