by Jane Godman
They were to join Lady Harpenden and a quite staggering array of prestigious guests for dinner before the ball commenced. Gathering up her cloak, she dutifully followed Lady Aurelia out to the carriage.
Lady Harpenden greeted Rosie with every sign of genuine pleasure even if her gaze appeared to linger disapprovingly on her gown. Although, Rosie reminded herself, her ladyship’s habitual expression was one of censure. In point of fact, Lady Harpenden was wondering how wise it was to pin her hopes for the future of her family on those slender, young shoulders. Sir Clive came forward to greet Rosie and positively drooled at the sight of her. The feel of his damp lips on her hand made her feel slightly queasy, and she was glad when dinner was served so that she could escape his attentions. The meal was a formal affair and Rosie, seated between an aging, hard-of-hearing Duke and a hunt-obsessed Earl, felt a sudden longing for Harry’s chatter and dinner eaten on a tray before the fire.
The whole evening had a surreal quality as if she was moving slowly and listlessly through a dream. In the ballroom, thousands of candles in myriad chandeliers blazed so brightly that they hurt her eyes. The glittering diamonds, adorning the rich costumes of the assembled guests, dazzled her with their reflected fire. So brilliant were the jewelled colours of the parade of ball gowns, that the overall effect became garish rather than elegant.
The subtle scent of the banks of pink roses that lined the room was lost amongst the violently clashing perfumes and colognes of the noble company. The ladies’ voices sounded shrill and tinny whilst the gentlemen’s tones boomed and made her wince slightly. She was having trouble hearing what was said to her and her jaw ached with the false smile she had pinned to her face.
Stealing a glance at the man by her side – her betrothed – she looked away quickly as she encountered his gaze. The blaze of triumph and – she struggled briefly for the right word and came up with ‘ownership’– in his eyes disturbed her only marginally less than the other look, the sensual, brooding look that grew in intensity with every passing day.
A shiver ran down her spine, belying the oppressive heat. Trapped in this loathsome betrothal, she was handing control of her life over to this man. A man who had secured her promise through foul trickery, a man she feared and detested with every fibre of her being.
Jack had toyed with the idea of not attending Rosie’s engagement ball, but Sir Peregrine, meeting him earlier that day at a cock-fight in a riverside tavern, was adamant.
“Dashed bad form if you cry off, old chap,” he had said, examining the very large nosegay he wore in his button-hole with some consternation. “Bound to be talk. Don’t want it said you still hold a candle for the bride-to-be. Good thing the whole town knows you are keeping cully with Lady Bella.”
Jack sighed, “For the last time, Perry! I am not ‘keeping cully’ with Lady Bella Cavendish and I do wish you would refrain from borrowing your vocabulary from your groom!”
Sir Peregrine, however, was not listening, “I say,” he exclaimed in alarm, “Here’s a devilish thing, Jack! I asked that man of mine to procure me a button-hole of violets, and stap me if he hasn’t gone and got irises instead!”
He looked up in alarm just in time to avoid the snuffbox which Jack, with an exasperated growl, threw at him.
As it was, they arrived late at the betrothal party. This was due to the fact that Sir Peregrine’s valet, already in disgrace over the nosegay scandal, had, in his nervousness, mislaid his master’s new pale pink stockings. Since these had been chosen to perfectly match the exquisite hue of his new satin coat, nothing would do for him but that they should be found.
“Turn the fellow off without a character, Perry,” Jack had advised with a yawn, when the offending items had finally been discovered in the drawer with Sir Peregrine’s elegant small clothes.
“I can’t,” Sir Peregrine was being eased into his tight-fitting coat by the crestfallen valet and three sweating footmen, “He has his own particular method of polishing my boots which cannot be rivalled.”
The ball was in full swing when they eventually breezed into Lady Harpenden’s elegant home. Sir Peregrine soon minced away to indulge in a flirtation with a pretty coquette who made come-hither eyes at him from behind her fan. Jack exchanged a few words with Bella, who rapped him over the knuckles with her own fan in a familiar manner and informed him, with a provocative wink, that he was looking ‘positively edible’ this evening. Whilst to the uninitiated her body language appeared flirtatious in the extreme, Jack was grateful for the sympathetic light which shone in her fine eyes. He assumed that the affianced couple were at the other end of the ballroom, where the throng was at its greatest. Deciding it behoved him to be seen offering his congratulations, he made his way, in a leisurely fashion, in that direction.
Lady Harpenden had presented a rather tongue-tied second cousin to Rosie as a suitable dance partner. Rosie trod gracefully onto the dance floor, unaware of her ladyship’s ulterior motive. If her nephew’s betrothed was seen dancing in public it must be assumed her mourning was over. There could be no further objection to a speedy marriage. She was neatly performing the intricate steps and trying to make painstaking conversation with her partner, when she saw Jack. As always, he stood out in the ballroom for the elegant restraint of his attire. He drew attention because he did not seek it. A lone moth moving quietly amongst the rainbow coloured butterflies. Sir Peregrine, his mentor, despaired of him for it.
Tonight, Jack wore a well-fitting dove-grey coat and matching breeches. His waistcoat, although flowered, was a study in understatement. He immediately, in Rosie’s eyes at least, made every other man in the room appear over-dressed. ‘I can’t help it,’ she thought sadly. ‘Every time I see him, no matter how hard I try to stop it, my heart flips over.’
Jack paused to watch the dancers and his eyes were drawn immediately to Rosie. She looked stunning, but too much like every other woman present, he decided savagely … and she had far too much flesh on display! Her youthful partner was unashamedly ogling her breasts as they came together in the dance. Jack felt an unaccountably strong compulsion to take the stripling by the throat and shake the life out of him. He resisted this unsociable impulse by ramming his hands into the pockets of his breeches and leaning his shoulders against the wall. A giggly debutante, who much admired his heroic good looks, advanced towards him. Noticing the brooding frown on his face, she thought better of it and drifted nonchalantly away.
When the dance ended, Rosie curtseyed low to her partner who, to Jack’s further outrage, took the opportunity to snatch another lecherous eyeful. Without thinking, he marched over to where she stood and, ignoring the blaze of hope which lit her eyes, bowed stiffly.
“Your servant, Miss Delacourt,” he could barely speak for rage, “May I claim the pleasure of your hand in the next dance?”
Rosie’s smoke-grey eyes showed her dismay. She had no idea what she had done to provoke this mood, but he was clearly seething with ill-concealed outrage. But surely even Jack, unquestionably the most audacious man alive, would not dare to cause a scene here … at her engagement party? With an inclination of her head, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The last dance had been a minuet but the mood became less formal now as the musicians struck up a country dance. All around them, other dancers indulged in the opportunity for socialising, gaiety and even – disguised within the abandon of the dance – amorousness. Rosie was reminded of the dance she and Jack had shared at Christmas, in a very different mood. Why must these memories, all of which made her body ache with longing, keep tormenting her? Studying the clenched muscles of Jack’s jaw, Rosie prayed for the dance to end before he gave vent to his annoyance. Her prayers were ignored.
“Your gown suits you very well,” he informed her, steering her expertly around the floor, “It announces to the world that you have the heart of a common harlot beneath all that expensive silk and lace.”
He might be angry – although Rosie had no idea why
– but that was going too far! They were separated briefly by the movement of the set and, when they came back together, Rosie’s own temper – usually slow to ignite – had already reached boiling point. Between his cold fury and her white hot chagrin, it was obvious to even the most casual observer that a sizzling argument was underway.
“How dare you!” Rosie hissed, her hand, gripped tightly in his, twitched convulsively with the effort of not slapping him.
Jack shrugged, “The truth stings, does it not?” he asked, through gritted teeth, “You should take yourself off to Covent Garden and ply your trade there. With your wares so openly on display,” he indicated the exposed half-globes of her bosom, “I’ve no doubt you would be a success.”
“Is that where you found your fine mistress?” Rosie spat back at him, “I don’t see you berating Lady Cavendish who is practically falling out of her gown. Since when did you become a puritan, my lord? Was it in her bed? I had heard she teaches a very different type of lesson from its oft-used depths.”
“Is this display for any man who cares to look his fill? Or is it to inflame your intended? I believe his predilection for whores is well known. Do you whisper sweet words of love to him as you flaunt your charms in front of his eyes?”
Jack knew he was degenerating into a jealous rant now, but he found he could not stop firing bitter questions at her. A few interested glances were cast their way.
“What do you say to him, Rosie? Do you use the same sugared phrases and feigned artlessness with which you charmed me?” He gripped her wrist tightly as she tried to swing away from him. “After all, it was not so very long ago that you said ‘I love you more than life itself, Jack’…”
“If I said that, I lied! I don’t love you!” she panted under her breath, trying to pull away. “I hate you! I wish I had never met you!”
Rosie chose words she knew must hurt him but, even as the angry denial left her lips, she wanted to withdraw it. Her anger died as quickly as it had flared. She could never wish that brief time, when they had loved each other, undone. And she would never, as long as she lived, be unable to love him.
His face was as white as hers was red and he released her wrist immediately.
“You cannot wish it more than I,” he informed her coldly and, with a contemptuous little bow, he turned on his heel and left her alone – embarrassed, humiliated and the object of a hundred curious eyes – in the middle of the dance floor.
The gossips were having a field day. Lord St Anton certainly gave value for money when it came to scandalous behaviour, even if one discounted his swashbuckling, Jacobite past! Not content with behaving in the most blatantly lustful manner with Lady Cavendish, he had now indulged in a very public tiff with a young lady set to be married shortly.
“In my younger days, “Mrs Drummond confided to any of her acquaintance who were prepared to listen, “One waited until after the wedding before taking a lover! The girls these days are positively feral in their lack of restraint!”
“But, my dear,” her companion lowered her voice confidingly, “Who can blame that pretty, little bride-to-be of Sir Clive Sheridan’s? One can scarce imagine he will be a loving – or even, for that matter, kind – husband. And Lord St Anton is quite outrageously handsome as well as being quite uncommonly dashing! What lady could resist him if he chose to turn his charm on her?”
Rosie was mortified to note the number of high-ranking ladies who whispered behind their hands as they passed her in the park the following day. Her instinct was to fly back to Derbyshire but Sir Clive, almost licking his lips in delight at her disgrace, forbade any such action.
“You have made your bed, my dear, and have lain in it many, many times with St Anton … behind my back …” he grinned lasciviously, and she was too tired of his determined refusal to listen to utter her usual denials, “And now you must suffer the consequences.”
Lady Harpenden and Lady Aurelia were secretly delighted at the scandal which followed what they persisted in referring to as ‘the unfortunate dance floor incident’. The only way to restore Rosie’s damaged reputation, they agreed, was for her and Sir Clive to set a wedding date for as soon as possible after the banns had been read. And, of course, she must henceforth eschew the company of Lord St Anton. Rosie, unusually pliant, meekly agreed to a date one month hence. What did it matter now? Although she had goaded him into it, Jack’s admission that he wished they had never met made the storm of scandal breaking about her head pale into insignificance.
Sir Clive, lingering after his aunts had left them, slid an arm about her waist and, when she did not resist, pressed wet lips against her neck. Rosie, limp as a rag doll, managed to hide a shudder of revulsion but, when he tried to slide his hand inside her bodice, she sprang up hotly, her eyes flashing. Sir Clive laughed, “Oh, my proud beauty,” he murmured as he rose to leave, “How much I look forward to bringing you to heel.”
Chapter Eight
Rosie regarded Lady Cavendish with undisguised bewilderment. It was surprising enough that her ladyship had chosen to pay Lady Aurelia a morning visit – they were hardly kindred spirits – but that she had done so in order to invite Rosie to join her on a picnic in the countryside was more astonishing still. Something of Rosie’s thoughts must have shown on her face because Bella, with her tinkling laugh, said, “La, child! You look quite confounded, I do declare! The truth is I find myself with far too many gentlemen for this expedition and not enough ladies.”
“Not a situation which usually fazes your ladyship, I imagine,”
Rosie regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. It would not do to show such open antagonism to Jack’s mistress, particularly since she was still trying to live down the debacle of her engagement party. Lady Aurelia threw her a reproachful glance but Bella, far from being offended, seemed delighted.
“How right you are, my dear Miss Delacourt!” she clapped her hands together, “So, it is decided? You will join me in my new landau, yes? I declare I am positively desperate for my coachman to try it out! I vow ‘twill be the most delightful jaunt imaginable.”
With a swish of chintz she was gone, only the lingering musk of her perfume lingering to remind them she had been there at all.
“Well!” Lady Aurelia seemed, for once to be at a loss for words.
“Shall I cry off, ma’am?”
Rosie hoped her voice did not reveal her desperate eagerness to do so. A day spent in the company of Jack’s mistress? She could not imagine a worse torture!
“I had thought her ladyship was not, perhaps, a proper person with whom to keep company?”
“Lud, no! Bella Cavendish may be a wanton, but she is accepted everywhere and ‘twould not do to offend her. Not after … well, enough has already been said about that dreadful scene at your party … No, my dear, you must join her on her picnic. She is famous for her hospitality,” she giggled naughtily, “If that is what it is called these days! Now, let us consider … will you wear the lavender chintz? ‘Tis a colour most becoming to your dark colouring … but then the rose coloured day dress is also quite heartbreakingly lovely. I do think, my dear, that perhaps we should purchase some new ribbon for your straw bonnet, that flowered lilac does not enhance your pretty face as it should …”
The day of the picnic dawned. Any hopes that Rosie may have harboured of the weather thwarting her ladyships’ plans were put swiftly to flight when, as the housemaid opened her bedchamber curtains, a beautiful sunny day greeted her. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and gloomily sipped her hot chocolate.
Lady Cavendish had arranged to send a carriage for her so that she could join the party at the agreed meeting point on Clapham Common. Rosie decided on the lavender chintz dress, which Lady Aurelia had so admired, worn over a flowered petticoat. A bonnet of bleached straw decorated with silk roses and tied beneath her chin with wide ribbons charmingly framed her face. Jack, seated astride Thunderer, his favourite horse, turned to observe the new arrival as Sir Peregrine hurried forward to hand
her down from the carriage. Rosie’s beauty, as she smiled shyly up at his best friend, once more took Jack’s breath away. What the devil was Bella about now? He threw Lady Cavendish a fulminating glance. In return she kissed the tips of her gloved fingers in his direction and gave the order for the little cavalcade to advance.
Sir Peregrine managed to wangle himself a place in the landau and proceeded to devote himself to Rosie’s entertainment by maintaining a steady stream of flirtatious nonsense. He did this so successfully that she soon forgot her initial dismay at seeing Jack and, by the time they had travelled only a few miles, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks becomingly flushed. Bella was content to sit back and watch them, smiling faintly at Sir Peregrine's funning attempts to open Rosie's sunshade and casting an occasional glance under her lashes at Jack's rigid back. If he overheard Sir Peregrine's banter and Rosie’s answering laughter, he gave no sign of it.
On arrival at Winton Hill, a boulder strewn incline with a panoramic view across outstandingly beautiful countryside, a flurry of activity ensued. Lady Cavendish's servants unloaded an inordinate amount of food from a closed carriage and proceeded to lay rich rugs and pillows on the grass so that her guests could be seated in comfort. They erected a canopy to provide shade for the assembled company. While all this activity was taking place, Sir Peregrine offered Rosie his arm and led her on a pleasant stroll through a little copse of trees. He was good company and it meant she did not have to be close to Jack and bear the scorn in his eyes.
