Red Rose

by Mary Balogh

  Rosalind could not find any interpretation of Raymore's behavior that satisfied her. But she did know that their relationship was dangerous. They could not be in each other's presence without quarreling, and when they quarreled, this disturbing passion flared. She had to get away from him, and stay away.

  She had contrived to spend the afternoon alone as well, keeping to her room, complaining of a recurrence of her headache. At dinner she had been relieved to find herself seated next to Sir Bernard. Only by talking and joking with him could she cope with the terrible ordeal of having to share a table with the Earl of Raymore. And after dinner, in the drawing room, her fiance had taken her apart and asked her if she could be ready for a wedding the following month when they visited his parents. He had made a joke of the proposal. Since he could not get her to bed this side of the wedding, he said, he would have to move the wedding ahead in order to save his sanity.

  "Of course," he had added with a grin, "the offer that you so heartlessly rejected yesterday still holds for tonight. Will you, Rosalind?"

  She had slapped him playfully on the hand. "Patience, sir," she had said. "All good things come to those who wait, you know."

  "I shall hold you to those words," he had replied.

  While Rosalind had crossed to the tea table in order to pour tea for them both, Sir Bernard had watched Raymore with narrowed eyes as the latter contemplated the cards in his hand, apparently engrossed in his game. From his bedroom window he had seen the earl ride after Rosalind that morning. It had been a full hour before he returned, alone. He had not stayed with her. But still, an hour!

  ***

  There were more than thirty people invited to the grand dinner before the ball. All the leading gentry of the countryside had been invited. Sylvia was dressed to perfection. She wore white satin covered with delicate Brussels lace threaded with silver. The gown, with its high waist, low neckline, and short puffed sleeves, emphasized her delicate beauty. Rosalind was pleased to notice that her cousin was looking happier than she had looked for days. In fact, she positively glowed. She must, then, have convinced herself that her betrothal was right, that she really did love Lord Standen.

  Rosalind herself wore a gown of bright turquoise. She had had it made hurriedly for this very occasion, after she had accepted Bernard's offer. And for the first time she had allowed Madame de Valery to shape the gown to her figure. She did not have to hide herself any longer. Nobody could dispute the fact that Sir Bernard Crawleigh was a fashionable member of society. He had chosen her to be his bride. It did not matter that she limped, that she was unfashionably dark, that she did not have the sylphlike figure of the ideal debutante. He had chosen her. She had therefore decided to be ashamed of her appearance no longer.

  She was rewarded by a look of frank admiration from her betrothed as she entered an already crowded drawing room. "I say," he said, "you will make me the envy of every man present tonight." He raised her hand to his lips.

  Rosalind smiled determinedly into his eyes. A sixth sense told her that Raymore was also in the room already, but she could not risk looking around and meeting his eyes.

  Lord Standen was circulating in the room, Sylvia on his arm, introducing his bride-to-be to his neighbors. They made an extremely handsome couple, Rosalind thought. His ice-blue coat, white satin knee breeches, and silver waistcoat complemented Sylvia's outfit to perfection. They looked like a bridal pair.

  Sylvia was seated at dinner at the right hand of Lord Standen, instead of at the foot of the table next to his mother as she had been all week. She made a great effort to talk to him during the meal and flushed becomingly when he rose at the end to introduce her formally as his betrothed to the company. She looked at Nigel for the first time at that point. He was smiling at her, but she knew him well enough to detect that the smile was strained. She smiled warmly back at him. All will be well, she wanted to tell him, if only my plan works. It must work, she thought as she turned to answer a comment made by the guest sitting to her right.

  Rosalind had the great misfortune to be seated next to the Earl of Raymore. She was most dismayed and vastly annoyed with herself for not having taken an active interest in the preparations earlier in the day as the other ladies had done. Perhaps she could have discovered the seating plan and had it changed while it was still possible to do so. Raymore too seemed taken aback to find himself seated next to her. For the whole of the first course they studiously devoted their attention to their other neighbors. Rosalind listened to a monologue on the corn crop delivered by a Mr. Phelps, who was openly delighted to discover such a receptive audience. Raymore submitted himself to an exhaustive interrogation on the latest hairstyles and fashions in gowns and bonnets by an eager little matron whose husband would apparently never agree to take her to town. Both held themselves turned stiffly away from the other. Each felt an electric awareness of the other.

  Raymore was finally forced to turn to his ward when the little matron leaned across him to ask Rosalind to pass the salt.

  "You are looking extremely handsome tonight," he said stiffly after the salt had been passed.

  Rosalind darted him a startled look. "Why, thank you, my lord," she said. It was the first time she had looked directly at him since he had held her in his arms. He looked breathtakingly handsome himself, she thought, looking away in confusion as her quick glance took in the black coat, which molded his shoulders as if he had been poured into it; the elaborate, diamond-studded folds of his white neckcoth. His hair looked gleamingly blond in contrast to his coat.

  "I trust your foot has not been paining you lately?" he asked.

  "No, thank you," she replied. "I am quite well now." She had a sudden, alarming urge to giggle. What a ridiculous conversation to be holding on such a festive occasion. "Did you make final arrangements for your concert while still in London?" she asked.

  His face relaxed almost into a smile. "Yes," he replied. "I believe it will be a great success. Dr. Hans Dehnert has agreed to perform."

  Rosalind turned to gaze at him, wide-eyed. "Hans Dehnert?" she repeated. "You mean the Austrian pianist? He has agreed to play for you?"

  He smiled openly. "Are you surprised?" he asked. "I can be very persuasive, you see, when a matter is important to me."

  "I have dreamed and dreamed of being able to hear him play Mozart," she said, cheeks flushed with excitement. "He will play Mozart, will he not?"

  "Exclusively," he assured her. "It was the one condition he made, and I would have requested it, anyway. I, too, shall be hearing him for the first time, though he will come to the house for a few days before the concert to acquaint himself with my pianoforte and the room in which he will play."

  "And may one listen to him?" she asked eagerly.

  "He has specified not," he replied. He grinned suddenly. "But there is an anteroom, you know, from which one can hear sounds made in the music room as well as if one were right there."

  Her eyes sparkled into his. "Dare we?" she asked, and they grinned at each other like a pair of conspirators.

  A footman stretched out an arm between them in order to refill Rosalind's glass with wine. His presence broke the spell with great thoroughness. Raymore's face sobered as he continued to gaze into his ward's eyes. She stiffened, blushed, lowered her eyes, and turned jerkily away. Mr. Phelps was waiting to recapture her attention with news of enclosures that he had been making on the eastern portion of his land.

  ***

  Lady Standen stood with her son and Sylvia in the receiving line when the other guests arrived later for the ball. Sir Bernard Crawleigh led Rosalind to a sofa and seated himself beside her. She felt self-conscious again. These people were strangers and had not seen her before. She had intercepted several curious glances. However, she raised her chin and refused to be daunted. Let them stare. Lady Theresa, she noticed, was smiling dazzlingly and chatting with the Earl of Raymore. He was looking bored, as he usually did in such situations.

  It was much later in the evening when Sylv
ia, dancing with Lord Standen for the second time, complained of the heat. "I feel I shall surely faint if I do not have some air," she told him.

  "I ordered the doors to be left closed, my dear, because the evening is quite raw and I would not wish any of the ladies to take cold," he replied.

  "But I must go outside," she said. "Please take me into the garden for a while. Your guests will not miss you." She held her breath. Would he reply as he had the many times she had rehearsed this scene with herself?

  "I could not desert my guests in the middle of a ball," he told her kindly. "Perhaps if you were to sit down and I were to bring you a glass of lemonade, you would feel better my dear?"

  "Perhaps," she answered faintly.

  He led her solicitously to a chair close to the windows and seated her before moving away to the refreshment room. Sylvia smiled at Nigel, who was standing a short distance away, not dancing. He came across to her uncertainly and bowed.

  "Are you not feeling quite the thing?" he asked.

  "Just a trifle faint," she assured him. "Standen has gone to fetch me some lemonade."

  When it arrived, she sipped on it awhile while both men watched her. She looked up at Lord Standen with pleading eyes. "If you cannot take me outside, may Nigel accompany me?" she asked. "Just for a brief walk?"

  "I was about to suggest the very same thing," he said. "Nigel, do you mind?"

  Nigel hesitated. He looked quite taken aback. "It would be my pleasure," he said, bowing in Sylvia's direction. "You will need a shawl, Sylvia, or even a cloak."

  "I shall have one brought from your room," Lord Standen agreed.

  Having given his orders to a footman to have a maid fetch a cloak from Lady Marsh's room, Lord Standen also ordered that one set of French doors be thrown back for the comfort of his guests. The crowded ballroom, laden with flowers, had become unpleasantly stuffy.

  Five minutes later, Nigel led his charge, well-protected from the chilly evening air in a pink cloak, out onto the terrace. Rosalind noticed Sylvia leave and felt a twinge of uneasiness. It had seemed for a few days as if her cousin was happy with her betrothal, but Rosalind had never been quite certain of the role played by Nigel Broome in the relationship. The Earl of Raymore also saw his ward leave but was not alarmed. The girl had appeared happy tonight with Standen, and, as he thought, the man was taking pains to look after his own. Raymore had noticed how he had delegated to his brother the task of escorting Sylvia out of doors.

  It was only much later that anyone still present indoors realized that neither Nigel nor Sylvia had returned to the ballroom.

  Nigel's arm was tense beneath Sylvia's hand. He walked her in silence along the terrace and turned to walk back again.

  "Let us not go in yet," she pleaded with him. "Let us go down onto the lawn, Nigel."

  "It is cold," he said. "You will catch a chill."

  "No, I will not," she said. "Please, Nigel."

  They descended the stone steps to the grass below and she turned and strolled-aimlessly, it seemed-in the direction of the trees to the east of the house. It was a dark night, but occasionally moonlight flooded down on them as broken clouds scudded across the sky. They said nothing but an awareness grew as they moved farther and farther away from the light and music of the ballroom. Again Nigel moved to turn back when they reached the line of trees.

  "Take me to the lake," she said. "I want to see it in the moonlight."

  "No," he said, strain in his voice. "It would not be wise to go farther. This is not easy for me, Sylvia."

  "Nor for me," she said, turning to him and clasping her hands. "Nigel, please. This may be our only remaining chance to be together-for just a short while."

  He gazed at her out of tortured eyes. Then he caught her to him, holding her head against his chest, resting his cheek on her curls. "My love," he said shakily, "I cannot bear this."

  He allowed her to take his arm again and they walked through the trees until they came to the edge of the lake. It took a little more persuasion to convince Nigel to take out one of the boats, but eventually they were out on the lake. Sylvia gazed happily at the moonlit water, rough and choppy in the wind. She ran her hand experimentally through the water. It felt disconcertingly cold. Her heart started to thump uncomfortably loud as she silently measured the distance to the island. Soon now!

  "Nigel," she said, looking up to find his eyes fixed on her in an agony of longing, "'do you truly love me?"

  "Don't ask me to say it," he said. "Please, Sylvia, I am trying not to think of it."

  "I need to know," she pleaded.

  "Yes, I love you," he said.

  "And you would wish to marry me if I were free?"

  "It is the dearest dream of my life," he said.

  "Nigel," she cried, "hold me, hold me just once."

  She leapt to her feet and almost launched herself at his chest. He had time only for a startled exclamation and a "Look out!" and they were both in the water, sputtering and coughing as their heads came above the surface. Nigel tried to grab for the overturned boat, but Sylvia clutched at his coat and he was forced to abandon the boat in order to save her from panic. The island was close by. Nigel swam for it, dragging Sylvia along with him. They lay on the bank for a few moments, coughing and gasping.

  "Are you all right, love?" he asked finally, pulling her sodden form close to him and pushing the soaked strands of hair away from her face.

  "Y-yes," she stammered, becoming more and more miserably aware of the icy coldness of the gown and cloak that clung to her and of the cold wet velvet of Nigel's coat, against which her cheek was pressed. "Are you?" She had thought of the wetness and cold, had tried to think of some way of landing them on the island in dry clothes, but there had seemed to be no other way.

  "It has not floated too far away," he was saying. "I can swim to it, love, and bring it back here. I shall have you back at the house in a half-hour."

  "No!" she shrieked, clutching at his sodden sleeve. "Don't leave me, Nigel. You will be drowned for sure and I should have to watch you. Please, please stay with me."

  "It might be morning before they find us," he said. "You will have pneumonia by then, love. There is no other way."

  "No," she said. "Stay here. We will keep each other warm as best we can."

  If Sylvia had ever imagined that the situation would be romantic, she was to be rudely disillusioned. They moved to the pavilion, where at least they would be shielded from the worst force of the wind. Nigel wrung out as much water as he could from Sylvia's cloak and his own coat, and Sylvia squeezed the folds of her dress. They lay on the hard floor for the rest of the night, covered with dried leaves and the decidedly damp cloak, huddled together, but too miserable with cold to feel any spark of desire.

  Sylvia had not planned to confess quite so soon, but she found that, loving Nigel as she did, she could not deceive him any longer. She told him that she had carefully plotted all the happenings of the last hour.

  "Even the tipping of the boat?" he asked incredulously.

  "Yes," she admitted, "even that. I could not think of any other way to get us stranded here, you see, Nigel."

  "But why?" he asked. "Do you not realize that you will be hopelessly compromised, love?"

  "Yes," she said against the curve of his neck.

  "George will never marry you now," he said seriously. "I shall be forced to."

  "Yes," she said.

  There was a short silence.

  "Sylvia," he said, "I shall be forced to marry you. I shall be forced to marry you! You little schemer!"

  "I did ask you if you truly wished to before I tipped the boat," she said anxiously. "You do, Nigel, don't you?"

  "Little schemer!" was all he would say in reply. "I can well see who will rule our household if I do not put my foot down very firmly right at the start."

  "No, really, Nigel," she said, moving her cheek away from the thread of warmth she had found against his neck. "I shall be very good and very obedient. I was despe
rate on this occasion, you see."

  He kissed her on the lips for the first time. Unfortunately, it was not the most auspicious occasion for a first kiss. They were soon desperately trying again to find some measure of warmth against each other and beneath the damp cover. Sylvia fell into a light doze just before dawn. Nigel, whose arm soon became badly cramped beneath her neck and whose velvet coat brought more discomfort than warmth, did not sleep at all.

  Chapter 13

  During supper Lord Standen had tried to find his brother and his fiancee, without alerting anyone to the fact that they were missing. He circulated among the tables, smiling graciously at all his guests, took a turn in the garden, walking completely around the house in the process, circulated among his guests again, and then searched all the rooms in the house except the bedrooms and the servants' quarters. There was no sign of them anywhere.

  Finally, as the dancing began again, he thought it wise to consult Raymore. Perhaps two heads would be better than one. He strolled across the ballroom, nodding at acquaintances as he went, and joined Raymore, who was standing talking to the parson and his wife. Standen too talked with them for a few minutes until he had the opportunity to draw Raymore aside. The two men went to the library.

  "Your ward has been missing for almost two hours," Standen said, coming straight to the point. "She left the ballroom to walk in the garden with my brother for a few minutes. Neither has returned."