Rosalind prided herself on being a generous lady. Surely Lord Morley deserved a chance to atone for his bad behavior, and she deserved the chance to ask him to leave Allen alone. To try to fulfill her mission in London, which was to restore the rules and the proper order of things.
Yes, she decided, she would allow him to make amends. With a strawberry ice.
“Very well, Lord Morley,” she said. “I would be happy to join you and Lady Violet at Gunter’s this afternoon.”
He smiled, a wide, white grin that dazzled as the sun breaking forth on a dreary winter’s day. “Excellent! I am sure Violet will be in alt when I tell her. Would two o’clock suit?”
“Yes, thank you,” Rosalind answered politely. “That would suit very well.”
She had surely just completely lost her mind. The moment the acceptance passed her lips, she had the wild desire to pull it back, to stay safely alone in the house for the rest of the day.
It was too late, though. Georgina and Emily were chattering again, asking Lord Morley about his newest volume of poems. Elizabeth Anne was pirouetting around the furniture. And, as if it was all not cacophonous enough, the door opened and Allen appeared.
He was paler than usual, but otherwise did not appear to be damaged in any way by his escapade at the Portman ball. He was even rather better groomed than usual, with clean boots, unwrinkled trousers, and a crisply tied cravat. If only he did not look quite so morose.
“Morley!” he cried happily, his strained, white face transformed from melancholy to avid interest in an instant. “By Jove, but it’s good to see you again. Didn’t know you were expected.” He stepped forward to shake hands with Lord Morley, and added, in a quieter tone, “I’m afraid I made a bit of a cake of myself last night.”
A bit of a cake? Rosalind almost choked. Her brother had made a veritable pastry kitchen out of himself. She held her tongue, though. It would not serve her cause if she embarrassed Allen in front of his hero Lord Morley. It would not serve her cause at all.
She would just have to bide her time—until this afternoon.
Chapter Thirteen
“Always be gracious when introduced to new acquaintances.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Eleven
“D o you really mean it, Michael? We are going to see Mrs. Chase today?” Violet practically bounced on her toes in her enthusiasm, her hands clasped under her chin. A delighted giggle bubbled from her lips.
Michael couldn’t help but smile at her happiness. She had smiled a few times since they came to Town, and even laughed at the play they had attended. But he had not seen her eyes sparkle so in—well, in a very long time. And it was due to Mrs. Chase. Somber, straightlaced Mrs. Chase, who was not quite as prim and proper as she would like everyone, including herself, to believe.
Violet almost spun about in a joyous circle, but then, with a visible effort, brought her exuberance under control. She folded her hands in front of her, and recited, “ ‘A lady never displays her joy in an unseemly, physical manner.’ ” Then she gave a tiny jump and another smile. “Do you mean it, Michael? Mrs. Chase is in London and we are to see her?”
“Of course I mean it, Vi,” Michael said, with a laugh to cover his irritation at her rule-spouting. “She is going to Gunter’s with us. I met her at a ball last night, and she asked after you.” He decided to omit the quite unnecessary details of everything that had happened after his initial encounter with her at the Portman ball.
“A ball,” Violet sighed. “It must have been lovely.” Her smile turned wistful.
Michael put his arm about her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. She did not draw away, as she had so often of late when minding the rules. “Next Season, you will attend more balls than you could count,” he said. “So many you will be longing for a quiet evening at home!”
Violet laughed, a strangely bitter sound, unlike her earlier happy giggles. “I cannot imagine ever longing for that.”
Michael frowned. “Has Father been bullying you?”
“No, of course not.” She pulled away from him and went to look into a mirror hanging on the morning room wall. She fluffed up her pale curls, not meeting his reflected gaze. “I have been trying to educate him on some of the rules. Just because he never leaves the house is no excuse for him not to be civilized. He took exception to one of them this morning and threw his stick at me.”
“He did what?” Michael shouted. “Did that old barbarian hurt you?”
“Oh, no, no. I am quite adept at dodging. And I am certain there must be a rule against stick-throwing. I shall have to look it up.” Violet reached for her bonnet and tied it over her hair, tucking stray curls up into its confinement. She was trying so hard to be calm and casual, but her movements were stiff.
Michael longed to storm into his father’s room, grab that blasted stick out of the old man’s gnarled hands, and break it over his head.
Violet obviously sensed his inner turmoil, for she reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Oh, la, Michael, but you have turned all red! Please do not mind it. I hardly see him, really, for you and Aunt Minnie keep me so very busy. Soon enough I will be back at school. And this afternoon I will see Mrs. Chase! Speaking of which, shall we be going? She will be expecting us.”
She picked up her shawl and handed it to him for him to drape over her shoulders. Then she took his hand and guided him to the front door, obviously trying to hurry him out of the house.
Michael went along with her maneuverings. It would be too bad of him to start yet another quarrel in this house, when she so badly wanted this outing. But one day—one day soon—matters in this family would erupt.
Right now, though, they had this afternoon. And he was going to make very sure it was enjoyable for his sister, and for Mrs. Chase. Surely the woman just had to see that he was not the lout she thought him. An hour or two in Gunter’s, with the warm, sugary smells of pastries around them and a luscious strawberry ice to savor, would be just the thing.
She was making a great mistake. She should stay home and work on her writing, or her embroidery, or anything rather than go out with Lord Morley.
But that would be cowardly, Rosalind told herself, and it certainly would not help her in her cause at all. She had to make Morley see the error of his rude ways, and she could never do that by hiding away in the house. She truly wanted to see Lady Violet, too, and be certain the girl was faring well.
She paced back to the window for the tenth time to peer down at the street. Lord Morley was not there yet, but many pedestrians and carriages crowded on the pavement outside Wayland House. She studied the passersby, fiddling idly with the braid trim at the wrist of her spencer. For just one instant, she wished she had borrowed one of Georgina’s walking dresses, of vivid blue or wine red or tawny gold. Her sensible dark blue wool, with its pale yellow braid trim, was just so very—sensible. That was the only word for it.
Of course it is, she told herself sternly. You are a sensible lady.
She half-turned to pluck up the hat Georgina had convinced her to borrow, then peered down again at the street as she pinned it to her curls. It was the same swirl of humanity, but, as Rosalind’s gaze moved over the crowd, it was somehow caught by the figure of a man across the street. He leaned idly against the fence that hemmed in a small park in the square, apparently just a careless man-about-town with nothing better to do than lounge about, observing passing females. There was nothing remarkable about him at all; he was of middling height, slim, well-dressed but not ostentatious. The brim of his hat concealed his features.
Rosalind would not even have noticed him, except that he had been there for rather a long time—ever since she herself had come down and begun her vigil at the window. And he was oddly intent. He gave the appearance of watching the other people, yet he never really turned his attention from Wayland House.
Rosalind frowned. She was strangely reminded of that evening at her school, when she had been looking out th
e window of her sitting room and thought, or imagined, she saw a movement in the garden.
“Don’t be silly,” she whispered aloud. “You are becoming delusional.”
Perhaps what she needed was a seaside holiday, away from all the distractions of Town. Away from Lord Morley.
She gazed down again at the man. If he was there again tomorrow, she would tell Georgina or the duke. Today, though, she would just enjoy her time with Lady Violet.
As she watched, a carriage drew to a halt below her window. It was a proper open landau, driven by a coachman in livery, not Morley’s usual dashing phaeton. But she would have recognized the figure who leaped jauntily to the pavement, even if he had arrived in a stuffy old barouche. His head was uncovered, his dark hair tossed about, a glossy blue-black in the sunlight. His coat fell back as he turned to offer his hand to his sister, revealing a waistcoat embroidered with red flowers and a cravat of deep yellow.
“Good heavens, Rosalind!” she said to herself. “Imagine that. You are about to go out in public with a man who wears yellow cravats. And forgets his hat.”
That ought to fill her with horror, ought to make her run into her chamber and lock the door. But instead it gave her a tiny, tingling thrill that had nothing to do with horror at all.
Rosalind pushed all these thoughts away, and turned to make her way down the stairs just as the butler opened the door to admit Lord Morley and Lady Violet. Rosalind paused to be sure her hair was still pinned neatly beneath the hat, then went down to greet them properly.
“Lady Violet, Lord Morley,” she said. “How delightful to see you.”
“Mrs. Chase!” Violet cried, and rushed over to take Rosalind’s hand. The girl was obviously trying to behave with the utmost propriety, but her eyes sparkled, and her gloved fingers curled tightly over Rosalind’s own. It was quite a relief to see the girl looking so well. “I could scarcely believe it when Michael told me you were here, in London. I thought I would not see you again until I returned to the Seminary.”
“The school is far too quiet with all of you girls gone,” Rosalind said. “I am very happy to see you, too, Lady Violet. You seem very well indeed.”
“My brother has been keeping me busy, taking me to the theater and such,” Violet replied. “It has been very merry! This will be the third time we have been to Gunter’s. I am quite in alt over their strawberry ices!”
“Well, I have never been there before, so I shall rely on your guidance in making my choices,” Rosalind told her.
“You have never been to Gunter’s!” Violet cried in evident horror. “Then we must go there now, at once. You will adore it, I vow! Won’t she, Michael?”
Rosalind reluctantly turned her attention from Violet to the girl’s brother. Lord Morley gave her a wide grin, and said, “Oh, yes, we should hurry. Some pleasures, Mrs. Chase, should never be delayed.”
Before Rosalind could respond, Violet took her arm and drew her to the front door, with Lord Morley following behind. She was so caught up by the feel of his gloved hand on hers as he helped her into the carriage that she quite forgot to see if the lurking man was still there.
Gunter’s was crowded with well-dressed members of the ton, gorging themselves on pastries and ices and glancing about avidly to see who else was there. It was exactly as if the Portman ballroom where Rosalind had first encountered Lord Morley in London had been moved in toto to the café. All the same people were there; the same snatches of conversation floated through the sugar-scented air. Only the jeweled hair combs and feathered turbans had been replaced by bonnets here.
As Lord Morley opened the door to usher Rosalind and Violet inside, Rosalind reached up to be sure her own hat was straight. It was one of Georgina’s pieces of millinery, a tall-crowned, fashion-forward affair made of dark blue velvet and satin, with a flirtatious half veil of blue tulle. Rosalind had not been too sure of it when Georgina pressed it on her; unlike a proper bonnet or a cap, it left too much of her red hair exposed. But she had given in and worn the thing.
Now she wished more than ever for one of her own bonnets, preferably one with a concealing brim. When Michael stepped into the shop and offered an arm each to Rosalind and his sister, everyone turned to stare. A small hush fell over the café, but it was quickly dissipated, like a puff of smoke. Conversation resumed—yet people still watched. Rosalind saw Lady Clarke, who gave a tiny finger wave to Morley before leaning forward to whisper to her friends.
Rosalind stiffened her spine until she stood at her full, not inconsiderable height, and tilted up her chin. She absolutely refused to let anyone, much less Lady Clarke, make her feel as if she did not belong here, on the arm of Lord Morley.
Morley himself seemed oblivious to the attention. No doubt he was accustomed to it, since it appeared to follow him wherever he went. Lady Violet, too, paid no heed, since she was too busy staring around with wide, amazed eyes.
“I believe I see a table over there by the wall,” Lord Morley said. “Shall we?”
Rosalind glanced over at the table indicated. It was just big enough for three, in a relatively quiet corner. “It seems fine,” Rosalind answered. “But do you not want to sit with one of your friends?”
A tiny, puzzled crease appeared between his velvety dark eyes. “My friends, Mrs. Chase?”
“Yes. Obviously many people here know you. I just saw Lady Clarke wave at you.”
He laughed, a rich, merry sound that caused yet another wave of attention to crest in their direction. “No, Mrs. Chase. This afternoon I want only to be with my sister—and with you.” His gaze lingered on hers, almost like a—a caress.
Rosalind felt her cheeks smolder again. Fortunately, Violet tugged at his arm then. “Michael,” she said excitedly. “May I have one of those strawberry ices now?”
Lord Morley laughed again, and led them to the vacant table. “Vi, you may have as many ices as you like, and cakes, too.”
“Truly?” Violet sighed, an utterly rapturous sound, and turned her attention to the small menu set before her.
“Anything you like.” Michael turned to smile again at Rosalind. She couldn’t help but think that he was well-named—Michael, the archangel. “And what would you care for, Mrs. Chase?”
What would she care for? Rosalind could scarcely consider cakes and pastries when he looked at her.
Indeed, she could scarcely think at all. She aimed her full attention on her gloves, tugging them slowly off her hands. She folded the pale blue kid and laid them atop the table.
“I think I shall just have some tea,” she answered. She never removed her stare from the gloves.
“Just tea? Oh, no, no, Mrs. Chase,” Morley chided teasingly. He reached out and touched her gloves, running one long, dark finger over the leather before laying his hand flat atop them. “You are at Gunter’s. They are renowned for their decadent pastries. You cannot go back to the country without at least trying one.”
Rosalind slowly raised her gaze to his. Much to her surprise, he was not smiling now. He was intent as he watched her, questioning—pleading? “Must I?” she murmured. The rich cakes seemed so very—decadent.
“I insist.” His voice was husky.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Chase! You cannot come to Gunter’s and simply have a cup of tea. Try some marzipan,” Violet piped up. Her young voice burst whatever spell of enchantment Rosalind had fallen under, and she was able to turn away from him at last.
She still felt him watching her, though, and even as he laughed with Violet she heard the darkness, the pull of him.
She needed something cold to drink. Cold, and very strong.
Michael watched as Mrs. Chase turned away from him, turned all her attention to Violet’s prattlings. She even reached out and gently slid her gloves from beneath his hand and off the table, careful not to touch his skin.
He felt her, though, felt the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin. She had the fairness of a redhead, with a few pale golden freckles sprinkled over the translucent back o
f her hand.
In his mind, he saw himself catch up that hand, pressing kisses to each of those tiny freckles, to the faint blue of the veins in her slim wrist, her delicate fingers. He could almost feel her pulse throbbing beneath his lips…
Michael sat back in his chair, sucking in a deep breath of the sweet air. Even then he could not entirely escape those strange feelings, for he could smell her fresh, green-spring perfume.
He could not escape them whenever he was in her presence, for these sensations drew him in, drowned him, just as they had in her office, in the dark corridor at the Portman ball. There was just something about Mrs. Chase, something mysterious and alluring and deep. He wanted to discover what that was—he needed to know.
But he could not discover anything here. He would have to find a way to see her again, someplace more quiet. Yet how to persuade her to see him? She was as skittish as a new colt; she did not even want him touching her gloves. He would just have to find a way, that was all.
“Morley!” someone called out.
Michael looked back to see Sir William Beene, a fellow poet who had helped to found the Thoth Club. Will was one of his best cronies; they had spent many hours discussing literature, music, and the damnable fickleness of the muse.
Michael stood up to shake hands with Will—and then saw his friend’s gaze land on Mrs. Chase and kindle with avid interest.
“Morley, old man,” Will purred. “Won’t you introduce me to this lovely lady? It would be a great sin for you to keep her to yourself.”
And, even as he made the introductions and watched Mrs. Chase smile at Will, he had the strongest urge to plant his good friend a facer.
It was rather late when Michael returned to his own lodgings. He had gone for a drive in the park with Violet and Mrs. Chase after Gunter’s, had stayed with his sister until she went off to the theater with Aunt Minnie. So the steps leading to his rooms were dimly lit in the gloaming, and he did not see the figure seated on the top step until he very nearly tripped over him. Michael nearly went sprawling, his foot landing on soft flesh.
Amanda McCabe Page 11
