Rosalind laughed. “Yes, of course. And a true gentleman, too. Manners are what raise us above the animals in their forests and barnyards. They are the mark of true civility.”
Violet nodded eagerly. “I read it every night.” She ran her fingertip over the silver words, By an Anonymous Lady. “Do you think we shall ever know who wrote it?”
“Perhaps not. But that is not important, Lady Violet. What is important is the content of its pages.”
Violet tucked the book carefully back into her reticule. “Perhaps I should get a copy for my brother?”
I doubt it would do him much good, he is so far gone, Rosalind thought wryly. But outwardly she just nodded, and said, “I am sure Lord Morley would appreciate that. Now, my dear Lady Violet, tell me what else you have planned for your holiday.”
She half-listened as Violet talked of tea parties and museums. Yet in her mind she saw the most distracting image of A Lady’s Rules in the philistine hands of Lord Morley.
For Rosalind had a secret, an even greater one than the rice powder that covered her freckles. She herself was the anonymous lady who wrote the very popular Rules. And the sales of this slim volume, so dependent on its interest among the ton, helped pay her own, and her brother’s, bills. Fortunately for her, Lord Morley and his ilk were in the minority in Society at the moment. A Lady’s Rules had become all the crack among the haute ton. Everyone was eager to buy the book and show how very civilized they were.
That tiny book was Rosalind’s very life’s blood.
Chapter Two
“Young ladies are particularly impressionable, and look to their families for a fine example. Proper behavior and language, while always important, should be especially observed in their presence.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter One
M ichael Bronston, the Viscount Morley, drew his phaeton to a halt on the gravel drive outside Mrs. Chase’s Seminary for Young Ladies, and sat there for a moment, studying the surroundings. The Seminary was only a few miles outside London, but it might as well have been on another continent, so different was it from the rush and noise of the city. Situated in its own green, tidy park, surrounded by a high wall, it had almost the hush of a monastery.
The school building itself was of red brick, faded by time to a rose pink, with neat white shutters at the windows and white pillars lining the portico. Heavy draperies hung inside all the windows, shutting out the light.
Michael frowned at its terribly tidy, terribly proper appearance.
A fitting prison for my poor sister, he thought. Then he had to laugh at himself. It seemed the whole “poet persona” he took on himself in Society was beginning to tell on him. He was becoming melodramatic.
And, prison though the Seminary might be for Violet, it was far better for her than being at home. Their father was a more accomplished jailer than Mrs. Chase could ever hope to be.
Ah, yes. Mrs. Chase. The beauteous Mrs. Chase, who tried to hide her glorious sunset-colored hair under hideous caps, and whose disapproving moue made her seem far older than she surely was. Michael had met her only once, on one of the occasions he came to visit Violet, but her cool glance had almost frozen him where he stood.
There was something about her, though, something in the pale depths of her ice blue eyes that made him want to bait her, to tweak her maddening propriety—to make her show some emotion. So he, perhaps childishly, had acted even more the “poet” around her, lounging indolently in the dainty chairs of her drawing room, quoting suggestive verse to her.
Mrs. Chase had merely raised her chin even higher, and stared at him as if he was an insect on her polished floor. And Violet had berated him for his lack of manners for hours afterward. It had not been his proudest moment. He had been deeply relieved to find Mrs. Chase gone to Bath on his next visit to Violet.
But now here he was again, and there was very little hope that Mrs. Chase would not be on the premises. He vowed that this time he would act his age, and be impeccably well-mannered. He had even brought a sort of peace offering, a volume of his newest collection of poems, though he doubted it would thaw any of Mrs. Chase’s frostiness.
A footman in the school livery came to take the reins of the phaeton, and Michael jumped down to the gravel drive. No sooner had he placed one booted foot on the front steps than the white-painted door opened and Mr. Allen Lucas came barreling out.
The young man was scowling, distracted, until he saw Michael, and a grin lit up his face.
“Lord Morley!” he cried happily, and caught Michael’s hand in a hearty shake. “Fancy meeting you here, of all places.”
Michael remembered then that Lucas was Mrs. Chase’s brother. It was hard to remember that when he saw the young man at their club every week; his behavior and demeanor were so very different from hers. Allen Lucas was one of a group of young men, newcomers to the Thoth Club, who had literary and artistic pretensions and who spent most of their time trying to outdo one another in hell-raising.
“I’ve come to fetch my sister home,” Michael said, pulling off his leather driving gloves.
Lucas gave a lopsided grin, which he obviously considered sardonic, and leaned against one of the pillars. “And I’ve just left my sister.”
“Your sister is Mrs. Chase, is she not?”
“The very same.” Lucas heaved a deep sigh, full of exasperation. “I vow I will never be able to fathom females! Rosie has become such a dry stick, and I don’t know when it happened. She was always laughing, always game for a lark, when we lived at my parents’ house.”
Mrs. Chase, of the icy blue eyes and tilted chin, game for a lark? Mrs. Chase, called Rosie? Somehow, Michael could not envision it. But then, he very often could not fathom females, either. “So you are leaving, Lucas?”
“Indeed, and the quicker the better, before Rosie finds me and rings another peal over my head. See you at the club on Thursday? I heard Lord Waverly and Mr. Gilmore are going to race their curricles!”
“Not in the club, I do hope.”
Lucas guffawed loudly, far more loudly than the light jest deserved. “Certainly not! The road to Brighton, I daresay. But it will be on the betting books.”
“Ah. Well, then, I will see you there. Good day, Lucas.”
“Good day, Morley!” Lucas bounded down the steps to where a footman held the reins of his horse.
Morley gave him a farewell wave, and then turned back to the front door. Lucas had left it ajar on his exit, so Michael just pushed it open and went in.
The foyer was crowded with piles of trunks and valises, with girls in fluttery pastel travel gowns, who called to each other, and giggled, and cried as they tied their bonnet ribbons and draped shawls over their shoulders. Footmen and teachers moved between them, carrying bags away or just shifting them about. Michael glanced back to the door he had just entered. It seemed to be a portal back to sanity, out of bedlam.
But he was too late. Miss James, one of the teachers, saw him before he could make his escape.
“Lord Morley!” she called. She handed one of the girls a pink bandbox and made her way over to him, wending past the obstacles of luggage. “How good it is to see you again. Lady Violet has been asking every five minutes when you would arrive.”
“Hello, Miss James,” Michael answered. He pushed away his doubts about all the feminine fuss, and gave her a polite bow. “I must say I am quite eager to see my sister again, too. It has been far too long.”
“Such brotherly devotion is most touching, Lord Morley.” Miss James smiled at him rather mistily. “Lady Violet is in the drawing room. Mrs. Chase is serving tea in there, as well. I am sure you must be in need of refreshment after your long drive.”
“Thank you, Miss James.” Michael bowed to her again, and made his way toward the door that led to the drawing room, trying not to knock over any scurrying young misses or fall over any errant trunks on the way.
It was slightly quieter in the elegant pale green and cream drawing room.
There was no luggage piled about, only the usual chairs and tables and bibelots. Parents, and a few daughters, gathered in clusters and groups, chatting and laughing in perfectly civilized tones. On one large, round table was an array of tea things—cups, pots, tiered trays of tiny sandwiches and cakes.
There was a small, barely perceptible lull in the conversation when Michael appeared, and a few female glances turned his way. He was not entirely thrilled to meet the dark gaze of Lady Clarke. They had flirted casually at a ball or two, but she had soon spread the word that Michael’s poem, “Alas, fair cruelty,” was about her. It most decidedly was not. She gave him a little wave of her dainty fingers.
Michael acknowledged her greeting with a brief nod, but his own gaze was caught by the woman who stood next to the tea table—Mrs. Chase. She had not seen him yet, and was talking to one of the parents. She nodded at whatever the other woman was saying, and tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. Her hair was smoothed back beneath an ugly lace cap, but one flame red curl had fallen from its confines and tangled with a pearl drop earring. She reached up absently to brush it back, and the curl twined around her slender finger before she managed to confine it.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed. Really laughed. The sound reached all the way across the room to him, wrapping around him silkily, as her hair had caught on her finger. It was sweet and rich, surprisingly dark, like a Spanish sherry. It transformed her entire being, making her face, usually so pale and distant, glow with an incandescent radiance.
“Aurora, the dawn…” he whispered.
As if she heard him, though that was impossible from across the room, she looked up and saw him standing there. The laughter faded as if it had never been. Her eyes turned from sky blue to ice, and her lips thinned.
Michael wanted her laughter back—more than wanted, he needed it. He could not have said why he mourned the loss of this woman’s merriment. She was a person he hardly knew, did not even like. But there it was. He found he would do anything to hear her laugh again.
As if in some sort of a trance, a daze, he took a step toward her, then another.
The invisible cord that pulled him to Mrs. Chase snapped when he heard his sister’s silvery voice call, “Michael! Here you are at last.”
Michael blinked, as if awakening from some dream, and rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes. That—that whatever it was that had come over him dissipated, and he found himself still in the school drawing room. He glanced quickly over to where Mrs. Chase had gone back to her conversation, half turned away from him. She was hardly an Aurora; she was just a stern schoolmistress.
“I am sorry I was delayed, Vi,” he said, catching his sister’s hands in his and leaning down to kiss her dimpled cheek. “There was a great deal of traffic on the road from London. It was all coming here, I see.”
“Oh, yes, indeed! It is always crowded before holidays.” Violet smiled up at him, those dimples flashing. “It is very good to see you again, Michael.”
“And it’s good to see you, Vi. It has been far too long.” His sister was looking very well, he thought, as he held her away from him so he could study her. She had always been a pretty girl, the very image of their late mother with her golden curls and grass green eyes. But she had always been rather quiet, too, lost in her own world. Here, away from their father, she seemed more confident, more a part of the world around her.
If only she would learn to follow her own way in that world, and not follow in the paths of others so much.
“Oh, Vi!” he teased. “When did my baby sister grow to be such a grand lady?” He caught her up in a hug, until her little feet left the floor.
“Michael!” she squealed, pushing him away. “There are people watching.”
He laughed. “So, since people are watching, I am not allowed to greet my sister?”
Violet frowned up at him, her pink and white forehead puckering, her lips drawn together in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Chase. She opened the reticule that dangled from her wrist and drew out a small, blue leather-bound book. She flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for, and she read aloud, “ ‘A gentleman shall never be overexuberant when greeting a lady, even one nearly related to him. Bowing over the hand, or, if closely related, a kiss on the cheek, will suffice.’ ”
Michael laughed again, thinking she could not be serious. But Violet’s frown deepened, and she even tapped the toe of her kid half-boot against the floor.
“Michael!” she scolded. “The rules are not to be mocked. They are important. Manners are what make us civilized.”
“What on earth are you spouting about, Vi?” Michael asked, and grabbed the book out of her hands.
A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior.
Michael almost groaned aloud. So the insidious “rules” had spread out from Town into the Seminary. And his own sister was an adherent.
He should have known that Mrs. Chase, of all people, would read and espouse this book.
Violet took the volume back, and tucked it into her reticule. “You should read it, Michael. It is really most edifying.”
“Edifying, eh?” Michael couldn’t resist reaching out to tweak one of his sister’s sunshine curls. “They do teach you big words here.”
Violet drew back with another frown. “You see, Michael? You do need to read the rules. A gentleman should never pull a lady’s hair. But come and say hello to Mrs. Chase now! I have told her all about our plans for the holiday.”
“Did you, indeed?” he muttered. He politely offered Violet his arm, and led her across the room toward Mrs. Chase. He pasted an amiable smile on his lips, but inwardly he hoped he could just keep himself from throttling Mrs. Chase. She was turning his sweet sister into a rule-following stick—just like their father.
Chapter Three
“A gentleman must never seat himself on the settee beside his hostess, or any lady not related to him, unless invited.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Five
R osalind watched Lord Morley’s exuberant greeting of his sister—and almost laughed when Lady Violet pulled out A Lady’s Rules and proceeded to read her brother a portion of it. She did not know which rule it could be, but it must be a good one to cause the dark frown on Lord Morley’s face. He stepped back from Violet, his hands planted on his hips, leather driving gloves dangling carelessly from his curled fingers.
Lady Violet, usually the mildest of young ladies, looked like a fierce little Valkyrie, swooping down to avenge wrongs done to decorum.
Rosalind thought again what a very fine student Lady Violet was.
“Ah, I see Lord Morley is here!” said the woman Rosalind was talking to, Lady Stone-Smythe. She reached up to pinch some color into her plump cheeks, and straightened her pink and green confection of a bonnet. “Such a treat to get a glimpse of him. He is invited simply everywhere, you know, but is so unpredictable in which invitations he will accept. I have hopes he will come to the literary evening I have planned.” She half-turned toward where Lord Morley stood, displaying her ample charms in a tight green carriage costume to better advantage. “Imagine seeing him at a ladies’ seminary.”
Rosalind thought of one or two rules Lady Stone-Smythe would be well-advised to follow, but she resisted the urge to say so. Lady Stone-Smythe had three daughters in the school, and was one of her finest patrons. Even if she was a bit of silly goose.
“Lord Morley is the brother of one of my pupils, Lady Violet Bronston,” Rosalind said. “She told me he was going to escort her home today.”
“Of course! Lady Violet. Such a lovely young lady. And she is such good friends with my Imogen. I must go and say hello to her.” With nary another glance at Rosalind, Lady Stone-Smythe sailed off across the drawing room to greet Lady Violet, clutching at the young woman’s hand with great enthusiasm.
Violet stared at her, obviously bewildered, while her brother looked on, one corner of his lips lifted in amusement. Rosalind realized with a start that tho
se lips were really quite handsome, narrow but sensual. She shook her head hard. What was she doing, thinking of his handsome lips! Ridiculous.
When Lady Stone-Smythe turned her effusions onto him, the quirk became a charming smile, and he bowed over her outstretched hand in its bright pink glove.
Rosalind could not fault his performance. His expression was interested, but not too interested, as he listened to Lady Stone-Smythe, leaning slightly closer as if to better hear her words.
Lady Stone-Smythe’s performance, on the other hand…
Rosalind sighed, and poured a bit more tea in her cup. Some people, no matter how often they read the rules, simply never learned.
“Mrs. Chase,” a voice said, interrupting her musings on Lord Morley, Lady Stone-Smythe, and proper behavior.
Rosalind turned to see Lady Clarke walking toward her, her daughter Emmeline in tow. Lady Clarke was one of the reigning Diamonds of the ton, tall, willowy, with dark, glossy hair and perfect snow-white skin, set off elegantly by her dark red pelisse and tall-crowned hat. Sir Walter Clarke, whom Rosalind had met only once and who was not present today, was also quite handsome, a perfect match for his wife. Rosalind wondered what he would think of his wife’s attention to the poet.
For Lady Clarke’s gaze, like that of Lady Stone-Smythe, slid irresistibly to one magnetic object—Lord Morley.
Lady Clarke smiled charmingly at Rosalind, but kept sending tiny, surreptitious glances across the room. “Mrs. Chase, it is time Emmeline and I were leaving for Town, but we could not go without saying good-bye to you first. Emmeline has so enjoyed her time here, and is looking forward to returning next term.”
Amanda McCabe Page 2
