by Godman, Jane
“Oh, miss!” she clasped her hands to her breast, permitting herself a tiny moment of indulgence, “You are prettier than any picture.”
Rosie smiled in response, it was impossible not to find pleasure in a dress such as this, she decided. What a pity it was – to all intents and purposes at least – for the benefit of Clive, on whom, she felt sure, it would be wasted. The mask of respectability he wore in the country, and which was largely effective in concealing his true nature, had been allowed to slip somewhat on his arrival in London. His aunt’s plump face hardened into unaccustomed lines when she heard that he had taken lodgings in a less than fashionable part of town because of the constraints on his purse. Heaven forbid that she should find out how often he frequented a certain notorious gaming hell. Or, indeed, an even more nefarious establishment run by a lady rejoicing in the name of Ruby Portal. Rosie, glancing idly at a pamphlet he had carelessly discarded, had read enough about the services offered by Miss Portal to make her shudder.
In spite of this, London had proved to be all that her girlish dreams had promised, and more. The vibrant city, fully recovered from the fire of the previous century, was thriving and growing. It was swallowing up the surrounding countryside and spewing out buildings in its place. It was a city of huge contrasts and Rosie wondered how the wealthy and privileged managed to turn a blind eye to eye-watering degradation suffered by the slum dwellers. This was the Age of Enlightenment. However that enlightenment, it appeared, was limited to those with inherited wealth, status and feudal power. For visitors such as Rosie and Harry there seemed to be almost too much to do, and their growing list of places to visit included pleasure gardens, fairs and curiosities. Rosie, bowing to Lady Aurelia’s insistence – after all, prolonging her seclusion would not bring her beloved father back – must also endure an endless round of balls, soirees and routs. Tonight marked the beginning of that merry-go-round.
To her new acquaintance, Rosie appeared content. Her engagement to Clive had not been publicly announced because of her mourning state, but it was generally known that she was promised to him. Rosie was reminded of the swans on the lake at Delacourt Grange and the way they glided smoothly across the water with scarcely a ripple. Yet, all the while, their feet were paddling wildly just below the surface. ‘I am one of those swans,’ she thought. ‘Although my emotions are raging beneath the surface, I surprise even myself by continuing in an outwardly calm and serene manner.’ No-one would ever suspect that her mind played a perpetual series of memories of Jack, so that he was with her constantly. It was only Harry, knowing the laughing, light-hearted sprite of a girl his sister had been, who wondered at her unnatural tranquillity and regarded her with brotherly concern. He must never know – no-one must ever know – that it was only by maintaining this cool, collected and unfamiliar persona that she could function at all. She lived in fear that, if she let the mask slip, she would tumble headlong into the bottomless pit of her grief.
Before she could gather up her ruched velvet cloak, Harry and Beau wandered into her bedchamber and both regarded her thoughtfully.
“Lord, Rosie,” Harry announced with somewhat unflattering surprise, “I did not know you could look half so good!”
“Flatterer!” she laughed and twirled, then curtsied before him, “Did you want to talk to me, love?”
“No, merely to bring you a letter,” he held it out to her, “It is Tom’s writing. I think it has been forwarded from Drummond Park.”
“So it is, but I must dash because it will not do for me to make Lady Aurelia late.” she swung the heavy cloak about her shoulders. “Do leave it on my dressing table, Harry, so that I may read it tonight when I return.”
She kissed his cheek and, from habit, he scrubbed where her lips had touched with the back of his hand. Laughing, Rosie went down the wide staircase to join her hostess.
“Fore ‘gad, St Anton!” Sir Peregrine’s exclamation dragged Jack out of his reverie and back into the ballroom, “Who would have believed the wilds of Derbyshire could spill forth such beauty?” his friend had raised his quizzing glass and, through it, was appreciatively regarding the lady who had just arrived. With a heart thudding so loudly he felt sure it must echo around the room and betray him, Jack stared at Rosie. For a brief instant he forgot everything in the fierce joy of seeing her once more. Anger, hurt and heartbreak were momentarily banished and he actually started towards her, intent only on the overwhelming need to hold her in his arms once more. He was caught up short as he recognised her companion. A stocky, petulant man, attired in dull puce brocade, who placed a proprietorial hand in the small of her back to guide her through the throng.
Jack’s sudden flush of rage was disguised by the paint on his face. He was glad to have this fashionable mask behind which to hide his feelings as he studied Sir Clive and his future wife. The simplicity of her attire made her stand out in a gathering such as this, where modish excess was the norm. In looks, Rosie had changed not one jot, he observed, although tonight her naturally unruly curls had been neatly tamed into the latest mode. Her wide, silver-grey eyes and flawless complexion needed no enhancement and only a trace of cherry had been applied to deepen the colour of her sweet lips. Those lips! They had haunted his dreams these long months. His gaze lingered hungrily on them when she smiled shyly as Lady Aurelia introduced her to an acquaintance, showing perfect, pearly teeth. One, tiny, heart shaped patch danced enticingly just above her adorable dimple.
Although she was still his Rosie, there was something different about her. He had known a laughing, loving, impetuous girl. The future Lady Sheridan, in comparison, carried herself with grace, poise and composure. Therein lay the change, he thought with an unexpected trace of sadness. Rosie, to all intents and purposes, appeared to have grown up.
Desperate for distraction he turned his attention to her betrothed and his contempt deepened. The man had neither looks nor charm, he remembered. Just a brooding, sulky intensity that bordered on … his thoughts shied away from the word ‘evil’, yet it was the most appropriate. As his sword hand itched to call Sir Clive to account for setting the King’s men on him, the enormity of Rosie’s betrayal hit him once more like a punch in the gut. Just a brief heartbeat of time after professing undying love for him, lying with him and sharing the secrets of her body with him, she had agreed to marry the very man who had brought him within a hairsbreadth of the gibbet.
Before Jack could stop him, Sir Peregrine had stepped forward and, with the grace for which he was famous, bowed low before Lady Aurelia, prompting that lady to introduce him to her companions. Rosie held out her hand to Sir Peregrine as she sank into a curtsey and he took it reverently, murmuring exquisite compliments which brought the ready blush to her cheeks. Sir Peregrine turned and beckoned his friend forward and, with a feeling of resignation, Jack stepped into Rosie’s path.
For a brief moment Rosie forgot to breathe as she gazed once again into the eyes of the man she still loved. Jack! How could he have been alive all this time and she not know? ‘But I did know!’ For a long, heart-stopping moment, she simply gazed at him, rejoicing in the familiar beauty of his features. Realising that Clive was watching her reaction closely, she sank into a curtsey, murmuring a few disjointed words as Jack bowed over her hand.
“Your servant, mademoiselle,” his voice was cold – bored – and he gave no sign of recognition as, turning abruptly on his heel, he walked away.
Rosie watched him go, a crushing sensation –as if her heart had swelled and become too big for her chest – making her breath come faster and harder. Dark spots danced before her eyes and the room began to spin. Clive and Lady Aurelia continued to move through the crowd, oblivious to her distress. It was left to Sir Peregrine to catch her elbow as she swayed and guide her carefully to a vacant chair.
“The crowd … the heat …” he explained to those around them, possessing himself of her fan and wafting it gently before her face, “A glass of wine for Miss Delacourt, I beg …” and, when it arrived,
he held the revivifying liquid to her lips, smiling encouragingly as she sipped.
“You are too kind, sir,” Rosie whispered when the faintness at last began to recede. Sir Peregrine laughed mischievously.
“Not I,” he confessed, with a twinkle, “My motives are purely selfish,” at her look of enquiry, he informed her simply, “I would know more of the lady who can make my friend St Anton look so heart-sore.” They both glanced instinctively to where Jack was standing with his back to them, in a small embrasure. He was talking animatedly to a very pretty lady who was laughing up at him with undisguised delight.
“What have I done?” Rosie spoke more to herself than to him.
“Are you quite sure that it is aught which cannot now be undone?” Sir Peregrine looked pointedly at Sir Clive who, realising she had left his side, was, together with a fluttering Lady Aurelia, making his way back towards them with a purposeful stride. Rosie bit her lip and, in response to Sir Peregrine’s question, gave a tiny shake of her head.
Sir Peregrine sketched a graceful bow, “Miss Delacourt succumbed to this dreadful swelter, my lady,” he informed Lady Aurelia who was clucking around her in concern. “I declare ‘tis a wonder we are all of us not nigh dead with its oppressive effects.” He bowed low over Rosie’s hand and she murmured a quiet thanks.
“My dear child, how unfortunate that this should happen tonight, of all nights, when I most particularly wished to introduce you to polite society,” Lady Aurelia pouted.
“I believe I shall be better shortly, my lady,” Rosie told her with an attempt at a smile, conscious all the while of Clive’s gaze searching her face. He knew the torture she had endured these long months, when she believed that Jack was dead. He must be only too aware of the cause of her current distress.
Lady Aurelia clapped plump little hands together, “I have bethought me of a plan! You shall sit quietly for a spell in that little ante-room to recover your breath, and I will come to fetch you shortly.” A genuine smile lit Rosie’s eyes this time. Heaven forbid that her ladyship should miss any of the evening’s entertainment! “Do go ahead of us, Clive, and make a comfortable spot in which this dear child can rest.”
When they finally left her, reclining on a gilded chaise-longue, Rosie heaved a sigh of unalleviated relief. The swooning sensation had long since vanished, but her thoughts were in turmoil. To be so unprepared for this! And yet, was there not a part of her – buried deep in her subconscious – which knew, even when the odds became overwhelming, that Jack could not be dead? She lay back. Her eyes closed, as she tried to assimilate what had happened.
She didn’t notice the click of the door and only became aware that she was not alone when he spoke. “Well met, Miss Delacourt. I see you have been somewhat busy since last we spoke.”
The voice was familiar but the clipped, brittle tone was not. Her eyes flew open and she gazed up at the dear face which had featured in all of her dreams – waking as well as sleeping – since the painful January night when they had parted.
“Jack …” she rose jerkily to her feet and stood facing him.
Jack’s stare was as cold and unyielding as granite, “I came merely to express my sorrow at the death of your father. He was a fine man, and I was very fond of him,” he bowed and turned as if to leave.
“I thought you had not recognised me … back there in the ballroom …” the words tumbled over themselves in a rush to be out. Anything rather than have him walk away with that expression of repugnance hardening his countenance.
“I confess, I barely knew you in all your finery,” Rosie had never before seen a sneer on those finely-carved, patrician features and – worse, so much worse – was the knowledge that all his chilly contempt was for her. “But, then, it would seem that there is much about you I did not know.”
He paused, as though anticipating a response, but, when none was forthcoming, he turned on his heel and left the room. When Rosie returned to the ballroom a few minutes later, there was no sign of him or Sir Peregrine.
In the carriage during the ride home, Rosie was uncomfortably aware of Clive’s brooding gaze upon her. Lady Aurelia was a-twitter with excitement about the appearance at the ball of the Earl of St Anton who, she informed Rosie in hushed accents, was a reprieved rebel!
“Of course, ‘tis monstrous shocking for a member of the aristocracy to take up arms against the king but his mother was Scottish, by all accounts, and … well, we all know how hot-headed they can be,” she gave a tinkling, little laugh. “No doubt the son takes after her because, although I don’t really recall him … not having been part of that set, you know … his father was, by all accounts a stickler for the proprieties,” Rosie let this aimless chatter wash over her, “Well, I was quite agreeably surprised, I must say, by his lordship because Lady Mawdesley … you remember her ladyship, Clive? Well, anyhow, Maria Mawdesley told me that the Jacobites are quite savage, you know, and do invariably wear a kilt. Which strikes me as quite the oddest fashion for a man! But I thought he looked every inch the gentleman, did not you, my sweet? And so very handsome … hearts will break, of that I am sure …”
When Clive had handed both ladies down from the carriage he followed them into the house instead of continuing on to his lodgings. When Lady Aurelia expressed her surprise at this circumstance, he said bluntly,
“I would have speech with Miss Delacourt.”
“Oh, la!” her ladyship giggled girlishly, “I am in the nature of a chaperone to this child, you know, Clive. Should I permit this, I wonder?” Encountering his blank stare, she blustered a little, “Well, if you must talk to Rosie, so be it … but I am sure ‘tis most improper …” she whisked away up the stairs, still murmuring.
When she had gone, Clive strode into the drawing room and poured himself a very generous measure of cognac. Untying the strings of her velvet evening cloak, Rosie followed him wearily. Every last drop of emotion had been wrung out of her this night, and she did not feel equipped to deal with any further drama. But, however much she despised him, Clive was her affianced and she supposed he was entitled to ask questions about Jack.
“Quite an illuminating little scene you enacted tonight,” he observed with surprising calm.
There was no point in attempting to lie, “I thought Jack was dead,” she explained, “It was a shock to see him there.”
“And what passed between you when he followed you into the ante-room?”
She should have known his sharp eyes would miss nothing, “Naught … he was angry and I was upset.”
“You did not then seize the opportunity to relive any of your former, ah, closeness?” he eyes glittered with an emotion she did not want to examine more closely. Dear Lord, was he becoming aroused by the thought of her and Jack making love? The possibility sickened her.
Deliberately misunderstanding him, she replied, “No, I do not think we can be as close again as once we were. Too much has happened.”
She hoped her tone would ensure a dignified end to the conversation, but he grunted coarsely.
“And yet, by your fetching display tonight, you effectively advertised your panting desire for him … rather reminiscent, my dear, of a bitch in heat. I think it only fair to drop you a word of warning. Devilish bad ton, and all that.”
Rosie drew herself up to her full height, stung, “I can assure you, Clive, that, even if I felt the emotions you ascribe to me, I have more pride than to allow them to be known.”
“Hmm,” his eyes scanned her face hungrily and she was horribly aware that he was, once again, picturing her and Jack together.
Standing oppressively close, he reached out a hand and grasped her throat, forcing her head upwards and digging his fingers painfully into her tender flesh. Despite the uncomfortable sensation of blood pounding in her head, Rosie stood very still. Instinct warned her that resistance would stimulate him to violence in the same way that thoughts of her with Jack inflamed his lust.
“Just so long as you remember, my dear, that you are
betrothed to me now. And that, once we are married I will, believe me, make you forget that you ever thrilled to his touch.”
Releasing her, he collected up his cloak and hat, leaving Rosie to massage her aching neck muscles.
“Do I make myself clear?”
In a slightly constricted voice, Rosie said, “Perfectly, sir,” and, with a bow, he was gone.
The next day, Rosie perused Tom’s letter but, since it had been written to tell her that which she already now knew – that Jack was alive and in London – it did not hold her interest for long. Harry, peeping round her bedchamber door, demanded to know what news there was from home. She held the letter out for him to read. He scanned it quickly, exclaiming over the account of Jack’s return.
“But, do you not see what this means?” Harry’s voice was high-pitched with excitement, “You need not stay with Sir Clive any longer … you can marry Jack instead!”
It took some considerable time to convince him that the case was not so simple.
