Amanda McCabe (13 page)

He feared that one of the residents of the house would not be nearly so welcoming, though. In fact, he would be quite fortunate if Mrs. Chase did not toss him down those front steps on his backside. He was not her favorite person in the world—he knew that from the cold stare she had given him in the Portmans’ ballroom last night, but that did not change his own feelings. He wanted to see her; he
had
to see her, no matter in what state he found her this morning, even if she shouted at him and
did
throw him out.

The image of the dainty, proper Mrs. Chase pushing
him onto the pavement like some avenging etiquette goddess made him smile. That smile faded when the front door opened and a black-coated butler appeared. Michael would
have
to go in now that he had been spotted.

He handed the reins to a footman who appeared beside the phaeton, and jumped down to the walkway to enter the house.

“Good morning, sir,” the butler said, holding out a small silver card tray.

“Good morning,” Michael answered. He dug out a card from inside his coat and deposited it properly upon the tray. Even Mrs. Chase would have to approve. “I am calling to see if the duchess and Mrs. Chase are at home.”

“I will endeavor to ascertain that, Lord Morley.” The butler bowed, and retreated into a room off the foyer, shutting the door behind him.

Michael was only alone in the marble and satin silence for a moment. He had tilted his head to examine a painting on the wall, a sweeping Italian landscape bearing the duchess’s own signature, when a voice said from behind him, “Who are
you
?”

He turned to see the redheaded moppet he had glimpsed in the window. Now she stood on the grand staircase, peering down at him from over the carved balustrade. She could not be more than about four, a tiny doll with long curls and freckles. She picked up the trailing streamers of her pink satin sash and popped them into her mouth.

Michael grinned, and gave her his lowest, most elegant bow. “I am Viscount Morley. And to whom do I have the great honor of speaking? A fairy princess, surely.”

The little sprite giggled. “I am Lady Elizabeth Anne.”

“How do you do, my lady.”

She took a step down. “I have a brother. His name is Sebastian, but he’s only tiny and can’t talk. Mama says it will be a long time before he can play with me.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“He is utterly useless.” She gave a deep sigh.

Michael laughed. Surely it was the story of brothers everywhere, to be found useless by their sisters. He had the feeling that Violet would agree with Lady Elizabeth Anne. “I am certain he will prove more, er, useful when he is a bit older. Infants do grow quite quickly, you know.”

She shook her head, her curls bouncing. “No. It will not be soon enough.” She took another step, and gave him a speculative glance that quite belied her tender years. She was the very image of the duchess. “You look as if
you
could be useful. I need someone to tie a rope from that chandelier.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“So I can swing from it, of course.”

Michael tilted back his head to stare up—
far
up—at the Venetian glass chandelier that hung from the domed ceiling.
The little minx.
She had only known him for two minutes and she was already trying to break his neck. It was surely a harbinger of what he could expect from the ladies in this house.

Before he could answer her, the door the butler had disappeared behind opened. Michael turned, expecting to see the man there now.

Instead he saw Mrs. Chase herself. She stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the wooden frame. Gone was the sea green clad siren of the night before; gone was her wealth of red hair, the sheen of pearls against white skin. She again wore one of her caps, a hideous white muslin affair, and a morning gown of gray and black striped muslin. A plain white chemisette was tucked into her neckline, and covered her almost to the chin.

Michael almost groaned at the acute sense of loss that pierced him at the sight. For one moment, one sublime second, in Lady Portman’s corridor, he had glimpsed the
real
Rosalind, a woman of great allure and an untapped fire that could burn as bright as her glorious hair.

At least, he had hoped,
desired
that that was the true Rosalind. But perhaps this woman before him now was truly her, the woman who stared at him with no expression at all on her face. Her gaze was cool.

“Lord Morley,” she said, her voice equally expressionless. Her gaze slid past him, and a warm smile curved her lips, illuminating her pale face. “Elizabeth Anne, whatever are you doing here?” She swept past him and up the stairs to take the child by the hand.

“I wanted to see our visitor,” Elizabeth Anne said, hugging close to Mrs. Chase’s skirts. “He is going to tie a rope to the chandelier for me to swing from.”

Mrs. Chase shot him a hard glare, as if she believed him capable of hurtling infants through the air. “I am sure he is
not
, dear. Now, why don’t you go into the drawing room and see your mother and Aunt Emily. I will be there in just a moment.”

“Is
he
going to stay, too?” Elizabeth Anne asked. “When there is a caller, cook sends up tea and almond cakes.”

“We will see, dear. Now run along, and remember—no more nonsense about swinging from ropes.”

Elizabeth Anne peeped up at Mrs. Chase. “Because it would be against
A Lady’s Rules
, Aunt Rosalind?” Before Mrs. Chase could answer, the child hopped down the remaining steps and dashed across the foyer to disappear into the drawing room.

Michael stared after her, stunned. So now
babies
had to follow the rules? It was too much. Surely even swinging from a rope would be preferable.

But he could not think of that now, could not allow himself to become angry. He had come here to apologize. Arguing with Mrs. Chase about rules would not smooth his way at all.

She still stood there on the stairs, looking down at him. The glow that had animated her features when she spoke to the child had faded as if it had never been.

“We did not expect to see you today,” she said, ever so politely. “If you would care to come into the
drawing room, I am sure the duchess would be happy to receive you.”

“I actually came to see
you
, Mrs. Chase,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “To see
me
?”

“Yes. I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize? For encouraging my brother to make some sort of drunken raid on the Portman ball?” Her eyes were not ice now—they burned with a deep blue fire. She stepped gracefully down to the foot of the staircase, her fingers clenched on the stone balustrade.

“For urging him once again to behave in a most irresponsible manner?”

Michael could feel the entire situation slipping out of his control. Of course he had wanted to inquire after Lucas after his little “adventure” last night, but really it had not been such a great thing. When Michael left the ball, Lucas’s escapade had been all but forgotten. And he had certainly never
encouraged
such a thing!

“I fear I had no prior knowledge of your brother’s plans at all, Mrs. Chase,” he said tightly. “You can be assured that if I had, I would have done everything in my power to discourage him.”

Her frown spoke volumes of doubt. “Then what
did
you come to apologize for, Lord Morley?”

“I came to apologize for—monopolizing your time at the ball last night.” That seemed the most polite way to say
for cornering you in the dark.
“And to return this.”

He drew her folded fan from inside his coat and held it out to her.

“My fan,” she whispered. She moved closer to him, and took the scrap of satin and lace from his hand, careful not to let her fingers brush his. She spread it wide, staring down at its glistening expanse. It seemed some sort of artifact from the lost beauty of the night before, held so gently by the woman who had buried that beauty beneath layers of gray muslin.

But he could see now that she was not entirely submerged. She stood so close to him he could see the
shadow of pale golden freckles under a dusting of rice powder, could smell the fresh green springtime scent of her perfume. As he watched, a faint pink flush spread across her cheekbones.

It was as if she, too, remembered their moments alone last night. Maybe she also felt the unmistakable draw between them now, his temptation to take off that absurd cap and let her hair spill down…

She darted a quick, startled glance at him from beneath her lashes. “Thank you for returning this,” she said. Her voice was still tinged with coolness, but he fancied marginally less so than it had been when she first saw him here. Or perhaps that was just his own wishful thinking. “Would you care to come into the drawing room?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I do so enjoy—almond cakes.”

Her blush deepened to a rose tinge, and she brushed past him to hurry back to the drawing room.

Oh, yes
, Michael thought. He was assuredly making progress with her.

She was
not
glad to see him. She was merely being polite. It would never do to quarrel with the wicked man in her friend’s home.

That is what Rosalind told herself, anyway, as she led Lord Morley into the drawing room. She tried to forget the tiny, excited skipping beat of her heart when she saw him standing there in the foyer. It was probably only dismay that he had dared to appear so soon after the disaster of the Portman ball. Or it was the marmalade from her breakfast tray disagreeing with her.

Yes!
she thought, seizing on that excuse. Her queasiness, her nervousness, had nothing to do with this man at all. It was marmalade.

Even if he did appear rather handsome this morning, the dark waves of his hair in disarray from the wind, his face bronzed from the sun…

No!
Rosalind curled her hands tightly into fists and
pressed them against her skirt. It was merely that marmalade, disagreeing with her again. All would be well once she had a sensible meal.

Or once Lord Morley took himself off and left them in peace.

The scene in the drawing room was peacefully domestic, and its very ordinariness helped Rosalind to catch her breath. Georgina and Emily were seated next to the small fire that burned in the grate against the morning chill. Emily worked on a piece of embroidery, while Georgina was bent over her sketchbook. On a footstool by her mother’s side, Elizabeth Anne wielded a stick of charcoal over her own tiny sketchbook, all thoughts of swinging from the chandelier apparently forgotten for the moment. Lady Kate slept in her velvet dog bed.

Georgina looked up, and gave their guest one of her charming smiles. “Lord Morley! What a pleasant surprise to see you here this morning.”

Rosalind seated herself on one of the brocade settees, watching as Michael bowed to Georgina and said, “I trust I have not called at an inconvenient time. I wanted to see how Mr. Lucas fared.”

“Of course it is not an inconvenient time! You have saved us from a very dull morning. And I believe Mr. Lucas is quite well. He just rang for some wash water and coffee, so I am certain we will see him down here soon. Would you not say so, Rosalind?”

Rosalind, who was trying to concentrate on little Elizabeth Anne and
not
on staring at Lord Morley, glanced at Georgina in surprise. “What? Oh, yes. Indeed.”

“So you see,” Georgina said to Morley, “no harm done at all. I see you also found Mrs. Chase’s fan.”

Rosalind stared down dumbly at the fan she still held, clutched in her fist. She had forgotten it was there. “Yes, Lord Morley very kindly returned it to me. I must have—have misplaced it last night.”

“I thought you might be in need of it, Mrs. Chase,” Lord Morley said quietly.

Rosalind glanced up to find him watching her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. There was no hint of his usual teasing grin, the laughing gleam in his eye. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Georgina smiled radiantly, as if a great dark cloud of tension did not hover over her elegant drawing room. “Won’t you please be seated, Lord Morley? Elizabeth Anne, dearest, why don’t you ring for some tea?”

Elizabeth Anne leaped to her feet in a flurry of ribbons and curls. “And almond cakes, too, Mama? Please?”

Georgina laughed. “Very well, my darling, almond cakes, too. Though Nanny will be furious with me for letting you have sweets in the middle of the morning.”

Lord Morley sat down on a chair uncomfortably close to Rosalind’s settee. She resisted the urge to pull her skirts closer, to tuck herself away for some measure of safety. She so hated it that whenever he came near, whenever he was even in the same room, she became someone who was—was not herself. Not sensible Rosalind, who had taken care of herself and her family with no assistance for so many years, who was always calm, always competent. Always the one her friends and pupils looked to to provide an example of propriety.

When she was near him, as she was now, she became someone she could not know and did not like. Someone who felt foolish and fluttery, and very young. Which was silly in the extreme, since she was lately turned thirty, and he was probably younger than her by some years. A young man who wrote romantic poetry about love and passion and the physical world, who brazenly flirted with women in ballrooms and school drawing rooms.

Rosalind resolutely put the satin fan down on a nearby table and folded her hands in her lap. She was very glad that she wore one of her own serviceable garments, and not one of the colorful frocks Georgina
was always pressing on her with the excuse that she had ordered them from the mantua-maker and now did not like them. Even if Rosalind did not
feel
like herself, she could
look
like herself, and perhaps that would be enough to fool the people around her.

If only Lord Morley would not stare at her so intently! It was as if—as if he tried to look past the yards of plain gray muslin and see into her very heart.

Rosalind thanked heaven for Georgina, who kept up a steady stream of polite chatter, and for Elizabeth Anne, who insisted on serving the tea herself and caused a great distraction by spilling it on the inlaid chinoiserie tea table.