Red Rose

by Mary Balogh

  And, God, more than a fool. A prize idiot! He loved her. He loved Rosalind Dacey, the woman to whom of all others he felt most antagonistic. Of course! He must have felt it from the start, and some inner instinct of self-preservation had reacted with such terror that he had convinced himself that the opposite was true, that he hated her. God help him, he had lost, cruelly lost, every woman to whom he had entrusted his love and now it was happening again. But this time he had lost her before ever having her. He had done everything in his power to make her hate him, and hate him she did. He had used every effort to find her a husband, to be rid of her before he was forced to recognize his love of her. And she was now betrothed to a man with whom she seemed quite contented and who obviously desired her. And he had just insulted her beyond endurance. The terrifying experience of expecting her each moment to break her neck had snapped his control. If she had not broken away when she had, he would be lying with her now, his seed inside her, contemplating the worst dilemma of his life. He would have been forced to marry a woman who hated him, keeping her away forever from the man with whom she could be happy.

  He had lost again, and through his own stupidity this time. Raymore looked up at the blue sky and laughed harshly. But the smile on his face faded quickly and he rested his forehead on his knees again. He could not get that song out of his head. Words that had eluded him for days were suddenly there with cruel clarity:

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  While the sands o' life shall run.

  Rosalind!

  Sylvia had passed a restless night. She felt extremely foolish having discovered that yet again she had only imagined herself in love. But tbis time it was impossible to get out of the entanglement that she found herself in. Lord Standen was a man of principle and impeccable reputation. Their betrothal had been publicly celebrated in London at his sister's ball and was being celebrated this week. She had been accepted by his mother. Plans for a wedding in the autumn were already being made. She could not possibly tell him now that she did not wish to be his wife.

  Perhaps the situation would still be tolerable if it were not for her terrible discovery of the day before. She could do worse than make this marriage. Lord Standen would be a good husband, she believed, even if rather strict. She would have a good home, all the luxuries she could want for the rest of her life. She would occupy an enviable position in society. The fact that she did not love him need not doom her to misery.

  But the fact that she loved his brother surely would. She was not really surprised that she had not realized the truth until the day before. Nigel Broome was so different from any of the young men with whom she had fancied herself in love during the past few years. They had all been handsome, charming, fashionable. Nigel was so ordinary: only passably good-looking, only of medium height, and earnest rather than charming in manner. She had liked him from the first, had developed a close and warm friendship with him. Only the afternoon before, when they were together in the boat, had she known that he was far more than a friend to her. He was the man with whom she wished to spend her life. She did not care that with him she would not live in mansions or have several carriages or dressing rooms full of gowns. It would be enough just to be with him, to share his dreams, to look after his comforts.

  But there was little use in dreaming. Even if she could summon the courage or audacity to break off her engagement to Lord Standen, she could not then marry his brother. Such behavior was unthinkable. And even if she had not accepted Standen's proposal in the first place, she doubted very much if Cousin Edward would have countenanced her marriage to Nigel Broome. His birth, of course, was as good as Lord Standen's, and he had an income of his own, she knew, though he was not a wealthy man. But the fact was that he was a younger son with no particular prospects, and she was sure that her guardian would consider him unworthy of the daughter of an earl.

  There was nothing for it, it seemed, but to accept her fate. But Sylvia felt desperately lonely. At one time during the night she had considered going into the next room and waking Rosalind. But she remembered Cousin Edward telling Lady Standen in the drawing room that her cousin had retired to bed with a headache.

  When she awoke the next morning, Sylvia felt an immediate sinking of the heart as memory flooded back. She dreaded telling anyone of her problems, but the need to confide in someone was overwhelming. She dressed in haste, without summoning help, and brushed impatiently at her blond curls. She would go talk to Rosalind before going down to breakfast. Rosalind always seemed to know what to do, although Sylvia did not think that anyone could offer her any real help. Rosalind's room, alas, was empty. She must be up and riding early as she often used to do at home.

  She went downstairs, but shook her head at the footman who would have opened the doors of the breakfast room for her. She could hear voices inside and did not think she could cope with the need to be sociable just yet. She wandered through the front door, which stood open to the morning sunshine, and started to cross the main driveway to the formal gardens that were laid out south of the house. She stopped when she saw Raymore striding toward her from the direction of the stables. He was staring at the ground, looking pensive. He did not look his usual arrogant self at all, in fact. On impulse, Sylvia stopped and waited until he was close enough to notice her.

  "Good morning. Edward," she said brightly when he looked up. "Have you been riding so early?"

  "Yes," he said, "it is a beautiful morning."

  "May I speak to you for a few moments?" she asked hesitantly. "Or are you very anxious to go in to breakfast?"

  "I am not hungry at all," he said abruptly and, offering her his arm, led her into one of the grass walks of the garden.

  "Cousin Edward," Sylvia said with a deep breath, "I am very unhappy."

  Unhappy, he thought, turning to glance down at the pretty girl on his arm. What did she know of unhappiness? She had doubtless been pampered and petted all her life and had no conception of what pain and misery were. "Oh?" he prompted chillingly.

  "I fear I have made a dreadful mistake," she said, staring at the ground ahead of her.

  "A mistake?"

  "I do not wish to marry Lord Standen," she said.

  Raymore stopped walking and turned to look down at her incredulously. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked. "Why, pray, do you not wish to marry?"

  Sylvia's syes were filled with tears. "Don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I cannot love him, Edward. I thought I did, truly, but it is not so. Oh, what am I to do?"

  "What are you to do?" he thundered. "Why, you are to marry the man, of course. Love! What does that have to say to the matter? Do you believe you would be one whit the happier with a man whom you loved? You would only be inviting misery and betrayal. I want to hear no more of this nonsense. Do you understand?"

  "Edward," she began, a tear spilling out of each eye.

  "The connection is eminently suitable," he went on. "You are doubtless the envy of every unmarried girl in London. You will live in the style to which you are accustomed, and even more elaborately. I will not tolerate any withdrawal from this betrothal, Sylvia. Such a move would publicly embarrass Standen and sully your own reputation. What other man would be willing to look at you for the remainder of the Season?"

  "I am sorry," she said. "I did not mean to anger you. Please forgive me. I shall try to feel as I ought."

  Raymore relaxed slightly. He had certainly not expected trouble from this girl. But at least she was more biddable than her cousin. She just needed firm handling. She would have it from him until she was safely married, and he believed beyond a doubt that Standen would put up with no nonsense once the ceremony was over.

  "Come," he said, his tone somewhat softened, "let me escort you to the house. Have you had breakfast yet? I imagine that you are suffering from prenuptial nerves. Believe me, you will live to thank me for promoting this match."

  "Yes, Edward," she said, taking his arm and allowing herself to be led back to the house.
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  Susan Heron and Letitia Morrison, in the breakfast room, were planning yet another morning visit to the village. Sylvia declined to join them, saying that she would wait for Lady Theresa to get up and Rosalind to return from her ride. They would find something to do together.

  But Sylvia did not wait for either her friend or her cousin. As soon as she was alone, she left the house again and wandered in the direction of the trees, where she could think without interruption. It was hopeless, of course. She could see that she was doomed to marry Lord Standen. And there was no possible way she could ever marry Nigel. But there was no harm in dreaming, was there? If only there were some way of making everyone see with great clarity that she and Lord Standen were not suited. If only everyone could agree that she must break her engagement to him. And if only miracles would happen and everyone would urge her to marry Nigel.

  Sylvia stopped and stood with her arms stretched around the trunk of a tree. She laid a cheek against the bark. It was impossible, of course. Unless… An arrested look came over her face. She stood thus for several minutes, hugging the tree. Anyone who had observed her both enter the woods and leave them a half-hour later would have noticed that there was more spring in her step as she strode back to the house, more color to her cheeks and sparkle to her eyes.

  "I was beginning to think that you were never going to rise, sleepyhead," she called gaily to Lady Theresa, who was standing in the doorway, blinking in the bright sunlight.

  Chapter 12

  Lady Standen had planned a grand dinner and ball for the following evening. She wished to introduce her future daughter-in-law to the foremost families of the neighborhood and to make a formal announcement of the betrothal. The whole house was in an uproar of excitement at the elaborate preparations that were being made. The chef was preparing all the food himself, the gardener was cutting flowers enough to decorate the dining room and the ballroom, and all the servants were engaged in cleaning and helping.

  The guests were glad of the distraction. The weather was cold and blustery, the pleasures of the countryside beginning to pall on those who were eager to participate in the last whirl of activities that the Season had to offer in London. Sylvia and her two friends fluttered gaily about the house, helping with floral arrangements and exchanging details of the gowns they were to wear that night. The men played billiards and wisely stayed out of the way of the main activities. Lady Standen and Letitia Morrison spent most of the day in the morning room, sewing and chatting cosily. Only a few went about their lone pursuits.

  Nigel spent the day visiting his brother's tenants and paying a lengthy call at the school, where he helped out an overworked teacher by listening to some of the youngest children read. He deliberately occupied himself away from the house. He could not resist his beloved's plea to stay, yet he could not be near her. It was a personal torture to see and hear her, and to know that soon she would be his brother's wife and beyond his reach forever. And it went against his sense of honor to be in her presence while harboring forbidden feelings for her. He would have to attend the ball tonight. It would be most unmannerly of him to stay away. But tomorrow he must go, a day before the rest of the party broke up. He must find an opportunity to tell her so tonight.

  The Earl of Raymore played billiards for part of the day, but soon after luncheon he secluded himself in Standen's library, where he drew down volume after volume, trying to interest himself in a pastime that was usually among his favorites. Nothing would do. Each book found its way back onto the shelf when less than a page had been read. He should leave. It was torture to be in the same house as her. In London, he could at least leave the house and spend a whole day away. Here that was impossible. Luncheon and dinner yesterday had been an acute embarrassment. He had stolen a glance at her only a few times, and though she had not been looking at him on any of those occasions, he knew that she too felt desperately uncomfortable. He did not even have the consolation any longer of believing that he disliked and hated her. And he could no longer persuade himself that she was ugly. Her startling southern beauty made everyone else at the table look insipid, even Sylvia. He knew what that dark hair looked like falling in heavy locks around her face and over her shoulders, making her skin appear like alabaster. He knew how her eyes and lips looked when they were dreamy with passion. And he knew how very womanly her body was beneath the flowing gown.

  He needed a few days to accustom himself to the knowledge that he loved her but could never have her. For a while she had responded to his lovemaking, but she had made it very clear before leaving him that she hated and despised him. And she had conversed almost exclusively with Crawleigh during dinner. Afterward, in the drawing room, she had sung for a while, but not for the entertainment of the room at large. Her songs had been quietly directed at her fiance, who leaned against the pianoforte the whole while gazing into her face. Raymore had been tense, though he appeared to be relaxed as he made up a table for piquet. He was terrified that she would sing the song about the rose. He would not be able to stand that. He was greatly relieved when she moved away from the instrument and joined Crawleigh on a love seat a little removed from any other members of the company.

  Despite his need to distance himself from Rosalind, Raymore knew that he must stay. He had joined the party only two days before. It would be entirely rude to leave before the end, especially on the day of the ball. He must be present as the guardian of the girl whose betrothal was to be celebrated. And his talk with Sylvia the morning before had bothered him. He had thought her to be a thoroughly predictable young lady. He had expected her to be mindlessly satisfied with any marriage, provided the man were eligible, wealthy, and tolerably good-looking. He was not seriously alarmed, as he believed the words she had spoken to him had been prompted by prenuptial nerves. He could think of no rational explanation of why she would suddenly wish to withdraw from her engagement. However, he felt that his presence was necessary. He must certainly watch to see that she did not do anything foolish before she had time to recover from her strange mood.

  Rosalind was not alone on the day of the ball. She was out riding with Sir Bernard Crawleigh, and she was in a deliberately gay mood. She had just agreed, in fact, that their wedding should take place during early August in Shropshire, where his parents lived. They did not enjoy city life and would be far happier to organize the wedding among their friends, he explained. Rosalind had her own reasons for agreeing. She did not want a big society wedding. The thought of limping down a long church aisle watched by all the prominent members of the ton horrified her. And she wanted to move permanently away from the Earl of Raymore's home as soon as she possibly could. She did not wish to have to move back there after the summer while her wedding was organized. She did not wish to have him give her away. It would be quite intolerable to have to walk down the aisle on his arm. She hoped that he would not come to Shropshire.

  They spent the whole morning riding, going even as far as the hills that rose to the north of the estate. Sir Bernard told her about all the places to which he planned to take her during their wedding trip to Europe.

  "I must take you to Austria," he said. "You will love Vienna. And in Italy, of course, Venice is the city of romance. You shall ride in a gondola, Rosalind."

  "And Rome?" she asked eagerly. "Will we go there too, Bernard?"

  "How could we miss it?" he replied.

  By the time they arrived back at Broome Hall Rosalind was feeling quite cheerful. She had certainly made the right decision. In four or five weeks' time she would be married and traveling as she had always dreamed of doing. She would be with Bernard, who was always cheerful and attractive and who understood her. Once she was married, she would be able to forget about the Earl of Raymore. She would be safe from him.

  Rosalind was very grateful to Bernard for urging her to agree to bring forward their wedding. He had suggested it the evening before at the end of a nightmare day. She had been desperately in need of some distraction. She had spent most of the day al
one. After leaving Raymore, she had ridden, not even aware of the direction she took or the landmarks she passed. She had tried to outride her thoughts, but the visions crowded in: Raymore dragging her from her horse, his hands iron hard on her arms, his face furiously angry; shaking her until she thought she would lose consciousness; kissing her and caressing her on the ground; calling her by name, calling her his rose. Her face grew hot as visions of her own response came unbidden to mind. As soon as she had felt his mouth on hers, she had been lost, given up entirely to mere physical responses. His weight on her when he took her to the ground had been such an erotic experience. She had wanted him with a raw passion.

  She might have stopped him from unbuttoning her jacket and her blouse, but she had eagerly cooperated. She had had to feel his hands on her bare flesh, on her breasts. She had not even been ashamed of their fullness as she had been ever since she had realized years ago that she was developing far more than any other girl she knew. She had wanted him to see her, to touch her. And she burned with shame now at the memory of the way she had allowed him to raise her skirts. She had even lifted her hips so that he could pull away the fabric. She had wanted him so desperately, had chafed at the tantalizing slowness with which his hand had moved up her thighs. And she had been close, so close, to losing herself completely. Some instinctive part of her womanhood told her that they had been within moments of the ultimate touch, the one to which everything else had been building.

  And she had desired it, desperately wanted it, with Raymore! The thought was terrifying, nauseating. Was she so depraved, so out of control of her own reactions, that she could have allowed him of. all people to make love to her? She could not even have accused him of ravishment if the act had been carried to completion; she had been an eager partner.

  She found it very difficult to understand her own behavior. She knew that she was physically attracted to her guardian. He was Alistair in appearance, after all. But surely mere attraction should die when one found the person cold and unlikable. And what of him? He disliked her just as much as she did him. Why, then, had he made such violent love to her on two separate occasions? Did he experience a similar sort of uncontrollable passion? It was hard to believe because she knew that he was a man of impeccable taste in beautiful things, and she was far from lovely. Was he merely trying to punish and humiliate her? She would have believed so, but his behavior had not seemed cold and calculating. He had spoken to her, almost as if he did not know that he did so, calling her his rose. What had he meant by that? Was it a reference to her name?