by Joan Smith
She hauled her fiancé up from the gardening pot and began to brush leaves and dust from his jacket. “We’ll have to put something on that eye,” she scolded.
“Forgive me, my sweet,” Sylvester said. “A little too much champagne.”
Rosalind just looked at Harwell in bewilderment. He shook his head and rolled his eyes ceilingward.
Annabelle was not likely to overlook a new match, even in the midst of such chaos. She looked up at Rosalind and said, “So you have finally nabbed Harwell. Congratulations, Roz.”
Rosalind’s “No indeed!” was overridden by Harwell’s, “Thank you, ma’am.” He took a firm grip on Rosalind’s arm and led her out before Annabelle could demand clarification.
Annabelle came pelting after them. “About that flat on Glasshouse Street, Roz. I doubt you would like it. Some of the tenants are no better than they should be. It is exactly what my aunt Venetia is looking for, however.”
Rosalind swallowed her laughter at the unintentional slur on the unknown Aunt Venetia. “Then by all means, let her have it. She will help you keep an eye on your husband.”
“Exactly! And, Roz—you’ll tell Dick how sorry I am. But really, you know, the son of a marquess! I don’t have to tell you,” she said, casting an arch smile from Rosalind to Harwell, as if the two ladies had conspired together to each nab a title for herself.
“I understand,” Rosalind said. She felt sorry for Annabelle, and unutterably happy for Dick’s deliverance. She even felt a little sorry for Sylvester. If he thought he was marrying easy money, he was much mistaken.
“And about Camena—I fear, under the circumstances, it will be impossible for us to continue publishing your little rhymes,” Annabelle said. “We want the magazine to have a more serious tone. Papa will handle the administration, leaving my Sylvester free to write his sublime poetry.”
“That is quite all right,” Harwell said. “Blackwood’s has made a better offer.” He bowed formally. “Good evening, Lady Sylvester,” he said, and walked off with Rosalind, who was downcast to hear her publishing career was over.
“Just reminding her of the title. Wouldn’t want her to change her mind,” he said, when they were beyond earshot. “About Blackwood’s, Roz.”
“I know. It was merely to annoy her and save my face.”
“Yes, but I might be able to twist someone’s arm.”
“What a wretched muddle. I feel sorry for everyone. Annabelle’s match was made in the devil’s workshop.”
“No, purchased at Vanity Fair. The lady wants a title. The gentleman—and I use both words loosely—wants her blunt. They deserve each other.”
“Let us find Dick and get out of this abominable place.”
“I’ll take you home.”
Rosalind did not forget Harwell’s announcement that he planned to marry her. When he didn’t mention it again, she assumed he had spoken rashly in the heat of the moment to defend her honor, or perhaps just to give him an excuse to poke Sylvester in the eye. At least he had not heard Sylvester’s charge that he had been her lover.
“We had best have a word with Annabelle first,” she said, glancing at him uncertainly.
“Afraid she’ll make our announcement for us?”
“You can’t expect her to keep such a prize piece of news to herself. She doesn’t know you were joking.”
“Who said I was joking?”
She peered at him in the darkness. “Well, you only said it to have an excuse to hit Sylvester.”
“I own that was one reason. The desire to beat him has been growing over the past weeks,” he replied. He looked at her, waiting for her to ask what other reason he might have.
She murmured, “You are not the only one. Dick can’t abide him either. As to your offering for me, however, that is too much to ask of friendship.”
As she spoke, she was looking around for Dick. Perhaps Annabelle would not tell anyone what Harwell had said. Sylvester’s eye would very likely be darkening by now, and she would be busy concealing it from Mr. Fortescue and the guests.
Dick came from the ballroom to meet them. “Are we off?” he said to Rosalind.
“Yes, let us go. Thank you for—everything, Harry.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. You’ll want to think about it.” His dark eyes gazed into hers for a longish moment, then he pressed her trembling fingers to his lips before leaving.
“This is a night I wouldn’t want to have to live through again,” Dick said. He called for their carriage, and they drove home. Rosalind wished they might repeat the silence of their trip to the party, but it was not to be.
She told him briefly what had happened in the conservatory, before he heard some worse version. She omitted only Sylvester’s hint that Harwell and she had been lovers. Heaven only knew what Annabelle would make of that if Sylvester told her.
“Sure Harwell didn’t mean it, about offering for you?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Dick was so enraptured to be free of his shackles that he soon forgot Rosalind’s doings and babbled like a boy. The name Miss Rafferty was not spoken, but her presence was felt lurking behind every word.
“I hope Annabelle will be happy. Marriage is a very good thing, by and large. A fellow reaches a certain age and wants to settle down. I daresay that is why I ever offered for her in the first place. I see now she is not at all the sort of lady for me. I want someone quieter, who won’t upset the household and want to be darting off to London, squandering a fortune on gowns and gewgaws. Some nice, quiet girl who will get along well with Sukey.”
All Rosalind had to do was nod, and he continued, leaving her free to ponder her own position. “You’ll want to think about it,” Harry had said, referring, of course, to his announcement that he planned to make her his wife.
Rosalind had no doubt in her mind that she wanted to marry him. The feeling had been buried deep inside her for years, and it had been growing in strength all spring. It was only the unlikelihood of his ever offering that had kept the hope suppressed. What bedeviled her now was whether he really meant it. She knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink for thinking how lovely it would be if he did.
Chapter Twenty-one
Rosalind’s night was as restless as she knew it would be. She gave scarcely a thought to the interruption in her career. She would continue writing for her own pleasure, and submit her work to Blackwood’s and the Edinburgh Review and the Examiner and any other literary magazine she could think of. If the poems were any good, they would find a publisher eventually. She wouldn’t pretend she was a man either. She was a little known now, after being puffed up in Camena.
The greater quandary was to do with her relationship with Harry. She could think of no greater happiness than to marry him and go on living next door to Apple Hill. She would still get to London. Harwell enjoyed the liveliness of the Season. He enjoyed it very much—too much. Would he try Sylvester’s stunts on his bride? She had not Annabelle’s tolerance for infidelity. That was one thing she must get clear with him—if he truly wanted to marry her.
Dick was radiant at breakfast. He could scarcely control his smiles.
“Since the day is so fine, Sylvia and I are going for a ride with Sukey,” he announced, the minute she sat down. No more “Miss Rafferty” was necessary. “Sylvia will ride the spare mount. You need not fear she plans to usurp your nag, Roz. I offered her the use of Lady. The spare hack is on its last legs. She wouldn’t hear of using Lady.”
Dick had offered Miss Rafferty the use of her mount, and without asking her. Rosalind noticed that already Miss Rafferty was being placed above her, as was only right, but it still hurt a little. She knew it was but the first of many little unintentional slights. Miss Rafferty was a modest creature, but even she would want to be mistress of her own home.
“I expect Annabelle’s announcement will be in the local journal today,” was his next speech.
“Oh, certainly, and in the London journals by tomorrow.”
He spooned a dollop of strawberry jam onto his toast and said nonchalantly, “How long do you figure a fellow must wait to announce a new engagement, after he’s been jilted?”
“You and Miss Rafferty ought to wait a few weeks, Dick.”
“Deuce take it, what makes you think I was talking about myself?”
“Just a guess,” she said, shaking her head.
“I haven’t even asked her yet—but she is a darling, ain’t she?”
“I like her very much.”
“And there’s no fear she’d try to freeze you out of your home either. She ain’t that sort. We shall all be merry as grigs. You can write a poem about it.”
As soon as he had gulped his gammon and eggs, he rose and went to order the horses saddled. Sukey and Miss Rafferty soon came downstairs, outfitted for riding.
“I expect I shall fall off,” Miss Rafferty said, glancing shyly at Rosalind. “I’ve never ridden before. Lady Syon gave me this riding habit when she had a new one made. I had planned to make a walking suit out of it.”
“You look very nice,” Dick said. “We’ll go through the spinney. It is soft falling there. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.” As he spoke, he ushered Miss Rafferty out, with a proprietary and unbusinesslike grip on her elbow.
“We’ll do our lessons this afternoon, Miss Sukey,” Sylvia called over her shoulder.
Sukey gave a very knowing look. “April and May,” she said, handing Snow Drop to Rosalind. “Take good care of her for me. She doesn’t like me riding. Sandy will go with me, though. Snow Drop’s just for fun. She can’t keep the pace.”
Snow Drop hopped down from Rosalind’s arms and disappeared under the table. Sukey went scampering off after the others. No assuming of airs was necessary with Miss Rafferty. They left via the kitchen and the back door. Rosalind picked up Snow Drop again and stroked her neck, thinking of Sylvester and Harry.
She waited a quarter of an hour and when still Harwell hadn’t come, she took her lap writing desk into the garden. She was sitting on the wicker bench in the shade of the tall lilac bushes when Harwell came strolling forth from the stable, where he had left his mount.
He was dressed more formally than usual, wearing a proper cravat in lieu of a kerchief. He wore a sober face to match the cravat. Not the face of a man in love, Rosalind decided as she watched his approach. That cravat hinted at London. He was going to London to save her the embarrassment of meeting with him for a few days. He already regretted his rashness of the night before. She would put him out of his misery at once. She owed that much to her oldest and dearest friend.
“No need to look like an undertaker,” she said, offering him her hand and smiling fondly. “I don’t plan to hold you to your rash announcement, sir.”
Harwell held on to her hand, drawing her up from her seat. “Not you!” he said, with an answering smile and a little shake of his head. “You are not a Miss Fortescue after all, to be snatching at a title.”
“And from a gentleman who is much too fond of the ladies besides,” she added. She could not suppress a little frown to realize her dream was to come to naught.
He leapt on it. “Is that why you are refusing me? I have sown my wild oats long ago, Roz.”
“Yes, a whole two weeks ago, if memory serves. You told me right in this garden two weeks ago that you had enjoyed some delightful flirtations in London.”
“I lied,” he said, with a deep, penetrating gaze. “The Season was just another dreary round of simpering debs, no different from the debs last year. I am too old for schoolgirls. I need a real woman to share my life with me. That was the day I realized I had outgrown flirting and was ready to settle down. I wondered then why I had bothered with London this year, when you were here all the time.”
The breath caught in her lungs. “I have been here two and a half decades, Harry,” she reminded him.
“And it took Sylvester to make me realize I have loved you all the time. We never realize what we have, until we are in danger of losing it.” He tried to gather her into his arms. She stepped back and stared at him.
“You overheard Sylvester last night,” she said. “That’s why you’re here. But I’m sure he won’t tell anyone, Harry. He cannot have told Annabelle, or she would have thrown it in my face. We would have heard the words ‘bit of muslin’!”
“I didn’t overhear it, actually. But he thought I had when I called on Fortescue this morning. Sylvester waylaid me. He was trembling like a leaf. He thought I had come to offer him a challenge. He won’t mention it. I put the fear of the Lord into him.”
“What on earth did you want to see him about in the first place?”
“I didn’t go to see him. I had an appointment with Fortescue. We are cooperating in building a new block of flats in Croydon. He’s a shrewd businessman. He screwed the mortgage rate down a whole percent. But I didn’t come to talk business, Roz.” He took a deep breath, swallowed twice, and said, “I came to ask you to marry me.”
“You don’t have to do this, Harry. I’m not going to London to make a fool of myself. I plan to stay on here with Dick and Sukey.”
“The Abbey is not that far away. You can still do Dick’s accounts if that—”
“No! It’s not that.”
“What is it you dislike? I can change,” he said simply, with even an air of uncertainty.
Tears dimmed her eyes. “I don’t want you to change. Well, not much,” she said in a husky voice.
“Then what—”
“Oh, Harry!”
The way she said it, in a voice throbbing with emotion, was a cry from the very depths of her heart. He gazed at her for a long moment with a fixed, penetrating eye and lips lightly curved in delight, while storing up this precious image in memory for all time. This was the woman he loved, had always loved, and he trembled to think how close he had come to losing her.
Then his arms reached instinctively for her, and she went into them with the joyous satisfaction of a long-delayed dream finally coming true. His arms tightened inexorably around her, pressing her to his heart as his lips found hers for a deep, lingering kiss, which felt as if the other half of himself had finally come home, making him whole. They clung to each other with a fierce tenderness while the kiss soared to passion.
In the lilac bushes overhead, the blossoms were gone, but it felt like blossom time in his heart.
Copyright © 1997 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest (0449287939)
Electronically published in 2007 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
