Amanda McCabe

by The Rules of Love

  Michael pushed Carteret back to the floor and came to her side, still keeping a sharp eye on the prone young man. “What is it, Rosie?” he said roughly, impatiently.

  “I think Violet has been drinking strong spirits,” Rosalind whispered. “There was whiskey in this glass, and she seems terribly disoriented.”

  “My sister has never had anything stronger than watered wine in her life!” he protested vehemently.

  “I am not suggesting that Violet became foxed on purpose. She is not a girl to make such mischief. I am merely suggesting that she is in a very poor condition right now, and I ought to escort her upstairs.”

  “That is a very good idea. I don’t want Violet here while I deal with that—that—”

  He uttered a word that was most assuredly against the rules, yet Rosalind could not chide him. It expressed her own sentiments toward Carteret exactly. But she did not at all like the darkness shadowing Michael’s beautiful eyes. She caught his hand between both of hers and held him beside her.

  “Promise me that you will not do something like challenge Lord Carteret to a duel.”

  “Rosie,” he answered, curling his fingers around hers. “He plied my sister with whiskey, and lured her in here to take advantage of her! How can I let these things go unchallenged?”

  “They need not go unchallenged. I am sure he will pay—he is paying already.” She gestured toward Lord Carteret, who still lay in a heap on the floor, moaning about his aching head. “Violet took care of herself with him, but she cannot take care of herself all the time. She needs you here, in her life, to help her. Not dead in some field, shot through the head.”

  “I would not be the one lying there. I am an excellent shot, Rosie.”

  “But what if Lord Carteret cheated? If he does not scruple at giving young ladies strong drink, he would not at turning before the count of ten.” She leaned closer to him, clinging to his hand. She could not remember ever feeling more desperate before in her life. “Please, Michael. Violet needs you. I need you. Promise me that, whatever you do, you will not fight.”

  His expression eased a bit, the sharp crease between his eyes softening as he stared down at her. “Very well. For you, I will not fight.”

  Rosalind nodded, her heart lightened even if only a small bit. “Very good. I will hold you to that. And now I must take Violet upstairs before she becomes ill.”

  “Of course.” Michael kissed her cheek quickly and released her hands. “What did Vi and I ever do before you came into our lives, Rosie? You are an angel.”

  An angel. Funny—that was exactly what she had thought about him. Smiling secretly, she went to Violet and wrapped her arm around the girl. “Come, my dear, let me take you up to your chamber. You will feel better after you have washed your face and lain down on your bed for a few moments.”

  Violet nodded weakly, and released her death grip on the plant stand. She did look rather green, but at least her eyes were no longer glazed and clouded with shock. “Yes,” she murmured. “I feel a bit queasy, Mrs. Chase.”

  “I will send for some strong tea. That will settle your stomach.”

  Violet leaned against her. “People are probably talking about me. Saying dreadful things.”

  “’Not at all. No one even knows you left the party except for me, your brother, your aunt, and the Waylands. We would never tell a soul; we are concerned only for your safety.”

  Tears trickled down Violet’s flushed cheeks, silent harbingers of misery. “I was so stupid, Mrs. Chase! So very stupid.”

  “Not at all, my dear. This was not your fault at all. It was entirely Lord Carteret’s. He is a very bad man.”

  “He broke the rules!” Violet cried. “So very many rules.”

  Violet’s words reverberated in Michael’s mind long after Rosalind had led her from the conservatory. The rules. Carteret had broken the rules. Violet seemed quite obsessed on that point.

  Michael turned to stare down at Carteret where he huddled on the floor. The man—or boy, really, as he could hardly be older than eighteen—appeared crumpled and miserable on the flagstones. But when he peered up at Michael, his bleary eyes burned with a strange resentment, a glowing, sullen fire.

  For the first time, Michael had some idea of what had driven Rosalind to write those rules. It was not from some manic compulsion to control the behavior of others, as he had once imagined, before he knew her. It was to impose some order, some limits to the actions of people like Carteret. People who would take advantage of innocents like Violet—such as Rosalind had surely once been.

  Women were weak, not only physically but within the dictates of Society. He had always known this, of course; it was self-evident, a part of everyday life. But he had never really known that, not until this moment. Rosalind had devised those rules to give the girls at her school some power over what happened to them. If all of Society insisted on following the rules, even men like Carteret and his ilk would have to fall into line or be ostracized. They were a flimsy protection at best, yet somehow Rosalind had managed to make it strong—until he came along and undermined both her and her rules.

  Mindless obedience to dictates would never be right in his mind. But some rules were necessary, and he had been an utter fool not to see that before. He owed Rosalind a great apology.

  He strode up to Carteret and nudged him with the toe of his shoe. “Get up,” Michael ordered brusquely. “And cease moaning.”

  “Your chit of a sister nearly broke my head,” Carteret whined. He held his hand away from his wound to show Michael the blood there.

  “You deserved far worse. I said get up.”

  Carteret used the frame of the iron chaise to haul himself upright. He really did look to be in bad shape, with blood dripping from the cut on his head and his coat sleeve torn. Michael mentally applauded his sister for attempting to take her pound of flesh.

  Carteret sneered at him, or at least tried to. It came out looking more like a pout. “Are you going to call me out? Demand that I name my seconds?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but not tonight.”

  Carteret’s sneer dissolved into surprise. “N—no?”

  “No. But if anything of this sort ever happens again, I will not so restrain myself. For tonight, it is sufficient that you remove yourself and your friend Mr. Gilmore from my family’s house. In future, you will never show your face at the Thoth Club again.”

  “No!” Carteret cried out. “Not the club! I must have…”

  “You will not be a member of the club any longer. Your name will be stricken from the rolls. And you will never contact, speak to, or look at my sister, Mrs. Chase, or Mr. Lucas. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Carteret gave him a sullen nod. He could clearly see that Michael meant every word he said, and would never be swayed by pleas or threats. Carteret’s days at the Thoth Club were finished.

  “Excellent. Now leave, before you bleed any further onto the floor.”

  With one last glare, Carteret hurried out of the room, his footsteps fading away down the corridor. Michael had the suspicious feeling that he had not heard the last of that young man, but for now he was gone. It was all echoing silence in the conservatory.

  Michael straightened his coat and cravat, and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. He filled his lungs with the cool evening air that flowed from the open windows and slowly released a breath, trying to let go of his raw anger.

  Once he felt as if he could face the civilized world again without disgracing himself, he followed Carteret’s path down the corridor. He had to make sure the cad left, and then he would send Aunt Minnie up to Violet’s chamber, and tell the Duchess of Wayland that their quarry had been safely found.

  And then—then he knew exactly what he had to do.

  Rosalind slowly made her way down the staircase back toward the party. She had left Violet, still queasy and teary but much calmed, to the capable ministrations of her aunt. She had taken Violet’s hairbrush to her own mussed curls and
smoothed her gown. Now there was nothing to do but rejoin the fray.

  She wondered, feared, what she would find there. Would Michael be off with his seconds, going to fight Lord Carteret with pistols at dawn? Or would he keep his word to her?

  She knew that, under ordinary circumstances, Michael would always keep his promises. But she had never seen him look as he had this night, when faced with Carteret’s villainy. Michael was usually so very affable, so full of jests and easy good humor. He could always make her smile or laugh, as no one else ever had before. Tonight, he had looked like a stranger, with a killing fire behind his eyes.

  In that moment, she knew he was capable of a duel, but she prayed a challenge had not gone forth. If he killed Carteret, he would be forced to flee. And if he was killed himself…

  Rosalind’s breath caught on a sob. She pressed her hand to her throat. Neither of those things would happen. He had promised her.

  She forced her breath past the lump in her throat and stepped into the drawing room. It was very clear from just one glance that Violet had not been the only one to unwittingly imbibe this evening. Laughter and conversation were loud, even deafening. The earl was asleep on one of the settees, snoring loudly. An impromptu game of boules was being played from one end of the marble floor to the other. Someone banged out a wild waltz on a dreadfully out of tune pianoforte while couples whirled about unsteadily.

  This was like a scene from Dante, one of the tiers of hell—proper London Society gone mad, flying high on whiskey. It was almost as if the people had never had a drink before in their lives.

  Rosalind laughed helplessly. So many rules were being broken she could not even count them! Yet she did not care. She just wanted to find Michael.

  Ordinarily, she was sure he would be right in the thick of things, playing boules with the others. He was not there, nor at the pianoforte. He was not anywhere in the room.

  “Rosalind!” she heard a voice call. Rosalind turned to see Georgina hurrying toward her through the crowd. “Lord Morley told us that Lady Violet was found. I trust that she is well?”

  “Yes, she is fine. Or soon will be. Lady Minerva is with her now. But have you seen Lord Morley recently? Do you know where he has gone?”

  Georgina gave her a knowing little smile. “Oh, yes. He wants you to meet him in the garden.”

  “The garden?”

  “Yes. By the Cupid fountain, he said.”

  Oh, thank heaven, Rosalind thought. So he had not gone to duel. He was waiting for her in the garden.

  She hurried out of the drawing room to the doors leading into the night-darkened garden.

  She was so relieved she did not even stop to think about the oddness of the invitation, or of Georgina’s smug smile that was always a portent of mischief. She just wanted to see Michael.

  The garden was very dark and quiet, the gravel pathways lit only by the moon and the clear stars. It was obvious that the earl cared little about horticulture; the flower beds were sparse, the borders overgrown. But there were many marble benches and statues of classical figures along the way. They shone with an opalescent glow, lighting her way to the center of the garden where the Cupid fountain waited. The music of water burbled and flowed, drowning out the remnants of voices from the open windows at the party.

  The Cupid waited—but not Michael.

  Rosalind spun about in a circle. She could not see him anywhere, not even at the shadowed edges of the pathway. Her slippers ground on the gravel as she strolled to the fountain. A cool wind flowed over her, and she shivered. She had been in such a hurry she left the house without her shawl.

  Her stomach still fluttered with excitement, anticipation. She had never met a man in a dark garden, not even when she was young and Charles was courting her. It was such a small thing, really, especially compared with all the things she had done in the last few days. But it felt daring. It felt wicked. And so very delicious.

  If only he was here. She began to fear that perhaps he had gone off to fight after all.

  She perched on the edge of the fountain, the hard marble cold beneath the thin silk of her gown. As she wrapped her arms over her waist, a whisper came to her on the breeze.

  “Rosie,” it said. “Psst! Rosie!”

  Rosalind shot up from her seat, glancing about frantically. “Michael! Where are you?”

  “Up here.”

  “Up—where?” She peered up into the sky, perplexed.

  “Here. In the tree.”

  She whirled around—and finally saw him. He sat on one of the thick, lower-hanging branches of a stout oak tree. His back was braced on the trunk, his legs dangling down.

  “Good evening,” he said, grinning at her.

  Rosalind choked on a laugh. “You ridiculous man! Whatever are you doing up there?”

  “Waiting for you, of course.” He leaned down and held his hand out to her, beckoning with his fingers. “Come up and join me?”

  Climb a tree? Rosalind inched a step back. There was probably not a rule against it, per se, but it could not be proper. And her skirts were far too cumbersome.

  It was impossible. Really. Truly.

  Wasn’t it?

  “Come on,” he coaxed, in a low, tempting voice. “It is very pleasant up here. Very—private.”

  “My skirts…”

  “This isn’t up very high. You won’t even have to climb, I’ll help you up.”

  Rosalind glanced back over her shoulder. There was no one in the garden. They were all alone in the dark.

  “Come on, Rosie,” he said. “It is easy.”

  Rosalind took one step closer, then another, and another. She reached up and clasped his hand.

  “Didn’t Eve get into trouble in just such a garden?” she murmured.

  “But I am so much better-looking than an old serpent,” he said with a laugh.

  “And not a bit conceited about it, either,” she answered tartly.

  “Of course not. I am modesty personified.”

  “Certainly. Now, how do you propose I get myself up there?”

  “Do you see that large knot in the wood there? Give me your other hand and then put your foot on it. On the count of three, push yourself up. One, two, three!”

  Rosalind pushed up on her foot, and felt herself pulled upward like a sack of potatoes at market. It was not an elegant procedure, but she quickly found herself seated on the branch beside him.

  She did not even have time to tuck her skirts beneath her before he took her into his arms and kissed her. She drew in her breath and caught him in her own arms, feeling his solid, reassuring warmth against her.

  When his lips released hers, her head fell back and she laughed from sheer exhilaration and utter relief.

  “Oh, Michael,” she whispered. “I am so glad you are here. When you weren’t by the fountain, I feared you had gone to fight Lord Carteret after all.”

  “I promised you I would not, though I must say it was a difficult promise to keep.”

  He still held her in his arms, and Rosalind leaned her cheek against his shoulder. It felt so warm, so safe.

  “I know. I was so very angry with Carteret! I don’t think I have ever been so very angry in my life. But Violet is fine now. I was worried about you.”

  “About me? Rosie, there is no need for you to worry about me at all. I am fine, too. More fine than I have ever been before.”

  Rosalind tilted back her head to stare up at him in the moonlight. Indeed, he did look fine—better than fine. All the anger, the tight rage was gone. He looked young, and happy, and free.

  “What has happened?” she asked suspiciously. “An hour ago you could have killed Carteret. Now here you are, happy, sitting in a tree as if you had no cares in the world. What could have happened in that hour?”

  “Oh, something very important indeed,” he answered lightly. “You see, Rosie, I have learned to follow the rules.”

  “The rules!” Rosalind was shocked. She did not know what she expected him to say, but
that—never. “What do you mean? If you intend to become a proper rule-follower now, I am not sure this is the way to go about it. Climbing trees, luring ladies out into the garden alone…”

  Michael laughed. “Oh, very well, so I will never follow all the rules. But I see now why you wrote them.”

  “Do you indeed?” Rosalind peered closely at him, seeking to see the truth in his eyes. Her rules had been misunderstood by so many people for so long. Never had she wanted someone to understand as much as she wanted him to. Yet she scarcely dared to hope. “Truly?”

  “Yes. And I know one rule I can happily follow now.” He reached inside his coat and drew out a ring, a wondrously beautiful circlet of gold set with a pearl surrounded by small, glittering diamonds. “Mrs. Rosalind Chase, will you do me the great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”

  “What…?” Rosalind gasped. She stared down at the ring in his hand. She feared her mouth was most inelegantly agape, but she could not quite close it. That pearl shone with the glow of the sea in the moonlight, an unearthly, beautiful thing. She had never seen anything like it before. This ring was too beautiful for someone like her.

  The man who offered it was too beautiful for someone like her. Yet here he was, holding the ring out to her like some tempting talisman, his angel’s face full of hope. She reached one trembling finger out toward the pearl, but could not quite make herself touch it.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  Michael laughed nervously. “A betrothal ring, of course. It belonged to my mother, and to my grandmother before her. She always said it would be mine one day, to give to my wife, and since she died it has been kept in the safe in the library here. I fetched it just now—to give it to you. I think you are the only woman in the world who should wear this ring.”

  Rosalind still felt numb, dumb. She usually considered herself to be a woman of some intelligence, yet she could not string three words together. This was all so unreal, like a dream! Surely she would very soon awaken in her own bed at the Seminary, to find that she had never sat in a tree with a handsome viscount asking her to marry him.