Amanda McCabe (16 page)

“Not just any flowers. They are from Lord Morley, as is the box. And I have not even peeped inside, though I am aching to know what is there!” She deposited
the offerings on the counterpane next to Rosalind.

Rosalind stared down at the flowers. Now she
knew
she was still dreaming, if she was receiving gifts from Lord Morley before the household was even awake. She slowly reached out with one fingertip to touch the blossoms, half expecting to feel the warmth of his skin there. She felt only the cool lushness of a petal.

Georgina stretched out beside her, and for one moment Rosalind felt like a schoolgirl again. She and Georgina and Elizabeth Everdean had often stayed up late to talk and giggle, mostly over young men and imagined romances. But she had never known anyone like Lord Morley when she was fifteen. She had not even dreamed there
could
be someone like him.

“Well?” Georgina prompted impatiently. “Aren’t you going to open the box?”

Rosalind slowly pulled at the end of the satin ribbon and drew it off the box. She lifted the lid—and laughed.

“What?” Georgina cried. “What is it?”

“Cakes,” answered Rosalind.

Georgina scowled in disappointment. “Just cakes? No emeralds or anything like that?”

“Certainly not. Even Lord Morley is not so wildly improper as to send me emeralds. And cakes are fine enough, when they are marzipan-frosted cakes from Gunter’s.”

“So they
are
from Morley, then?”

“I believe so. No one else would be sending me flowers and cakes.” Rosalind was amazed that
Lord Morley
would send gifts. She was hardly his usual sort, she thought, remembering Lady Clarke and her daring, close-fitting gowns. But it was nice to receive them all the same.

She took one of the tiny, luscious cakes and popped it into her mouth. As she did this, she saw the neatly folded note tucked among the sweets.

“My dear Mrs. Chase,” it read. “I hope that you enjoy these—they are Gunter’s finest. And I hope they
recall to you our pleasant afternoon yesterday. Dare I hope you will allow me to escort you to the theater this evening? I have procured tickets to
The Merchant of Venice
, as my sister tells me you are very fond of Shakespeare. I will have my man call at Wayland House this afternoon for your answer.”

Rosalind heard herself giggle—actually
giggle!
—and she pushed the paper back into the box.

But Georgina’s eyes were sharp, and she saw the note before it disappeared amid the cakes. “What was that? A billet-doux?”

“Certainly not. It was merely a message stating that he—Lord Morley—hopes I enjoy the cakes, and asks if he might escort me to the theater this evening.”

“The theater!” Georgina bounced up onto her knees in excitement. “Oh, how perfectly
splendid.
How delicious!”

“Delicious? It is Shakespeare. Most edifying and uplifting.”

“Edifying and uplifting? Aren’t you just Miss Butter Wouldn’t Melt? You are such a sly puss, Rosie. Morley is sought after by every lady in the city, probably every lady in the
nation
, and here he is dangling after you. Of course it is delicious. It is marvelous!”

“It makes me feel queasy,” Rosalind murmured.

Georgina dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Naturally it would. There are no men like Morley in your quiet corner of the country, where you choose to bury yourself. You are one of the best people I know, Rosie—you always think of everyone but yourself, and you never see how lovely you truly are. You deserve a man like Morley. You deserve excitement, and love.”

Love?
Rosalind’s bewildered gaze shot to the gloating Georgina, then fell back to the box of cakes. Was this terrible ache, this complete oversetting of her sensible, careful life—love? She did not know. She
could
not know. Perhaps it was just a surfeit of sugar in the morning. “How does a person know when it’s really love, Georgie?”

Georgina gave her a smug, satisfied smile. “Oh, one just knows, Rosie. One just knows. I knew right away that Alex was the man for me, from the first moment I saw him. It just took him a little longer, the stubborn darling.”

This bewildering conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A maid came into the room, and dropped a quick curtsy. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace, Mrs. Chase, but Mr. Allen Lucas is in the drawing room for Mrs. Chase.”

Allen was here? Rosalind set aside the box and the flowers, and slid down out of the high bed. Practical family concerns had to push aside silly romantic flutterings for the moment. Allen had promised her he would go back to Cambridge—she prayed he was not in more trouble now. She deeply hoped she would not have to meet yet again with that reptilian banker.

“Tell Mr. Lucas I will be down in a few moments,” she told the maid. The girl curtsied again, and hurried away.

Georgina watched from her perch at the foot of the bed as Rosalind pulled a morning gown and a pair of slippers from the wardrobe. “Do not think you have escaped me, Rosie,” she sang out. “We
will
talk of this further. I want to know
everything
about you and Lord Morley. You are livening up my dull life.”

Rosalind doubted very much that Georgina’s life was ever dull, but she wished she herself could know
everything
about this situation, she thought as she sat down to pull on her stockings. But she feared she knew nothing at all. And she so hated that feeling.

Michael paused before raising the brass knocker of the Waylands’s front door—and glanced up at one of the upper windows, sensing a gaze on him. Lady Elizabeth Anne stood there watching him, her long red ringlets falling over the bodice of her small velvet dressing gown. She waved to him and gave him a merry smile. He just had time to wave in return before a nursemaid came and fetched her away.

He laughed, and thought that a daughter of Mrs. Chase’s would also appear very much like that, with red curls and china-doll skin. Would she also be dangerously precocious, like Elizabeth Anne, or proper and rule-following? Either way, it would be a very fortunate man indeed who fathered such a child.

And then it hit him, like a lightning strike from the gods.
He
wanted to be that father. He wanted to be the man who took Mrs. Chase—Rosalind, Rosie—into his arms and his bed every night; who came home to find a tiny, redheaded imp running down the stairs crying “Papa!” He wanted to buy his Rosie gowns of silk and satin and glittering jewels, to take his family to Italy and Greece and watch them playing in the sun and the sea. He wanted to write odes to red hair and blue eyes like the sky, to pink lips that pursed in an adorably proper way.

He had thought he just wanted to flirt with her, to enjoy teasing her out of her propriety and her rules. But, when he was not looking, it became more than that. So much more.

He was falling in love with her. But she still thought him a silly ass, a reckless poet who ruined her life by leading her brother into trouble with rule-breaking.

How could he show her that it was not true, that he was not that person she thought him? How could he even begin to persuade her of his finer qualities? Did he even
have
finer qualities? He was not sure. But at least she had agreed to this theater outing. That was a start.

The front door opened so suddenly that he was forced to take a step back. He did not even remember knocking, yet there stood the Waylands’s butler, holding out a hand for Michael’s cloak and hat.

“Lord Morley,” the butler said. “Mrs. Chase is expecting you. She and Her Grace are in the drawing room, if you care to follow me.”

Expecting him, was she?
Michael thought as he stepped into the gilt and marble foyer. He could only hope that was truly so.

Rosalind peered one more time into the mirror, and smoothed the bodice and cap sleeves of her gown. She had worn one of her own garments this evening, her best gown of pale gray lutestring silk piped in black satin. It was a sort of armor; she felt protected in it, as she never could in Georgina’s dashing, brightly colored creations. But she had left off her cap, instead anchoring her piled-up curls with onyx combs.

She touched one of those combs, and wished for one of those caps.

“No, you may not go upstairs and put on one of those hideous caps,” Georgina called from over the high back of the settee where she lounged.

“I was not even thinking of caps!” Rosalind retorted. She dropped her hand down to her side.

“Of course you were.” Georgina serenely turned over a page in the fashion paper she was reading. “Since I have become a mother I have learned to read minds. I know when Elizabeth Anne is plotting mischief, or when Sebastian has a fever—or when you want to put on a cap. But you are lovely just as you are, Rosie, even if you would not wear the green satin. Come and sit down while you wait for Lord Morley.”

There was no time for sitting, though, or for going upstairs to fetch a cap. The drawing room door opened, and the butler announced, “Lord Morley, Your Grace.”

And there he was, as handsome as could be in an evening coat of emerald green velvet, another cravat of daffodil yellow about his throat. A square-cut emerald winked in its crisp folds.

Rosalind was very glad she had
not
worn the green satin gown Georgina offered, for then she and Lord Morley would have looked like a walking Irish meadow together. Of course, no matter what she wore, no one would glance twice at
her
when they could look at him. He was like some dark, pagan god, and his beauty only increased when he smiled at her and gave her an elegant bow.

“Good evening, Duchess. Mrs. Chase. You are both very elegant tonight.” His gaze lingered on Rosalind, warm and admiring.

She could think of nothing to say, not even the little politenesses she wrote about so often. Her throat was dry, closed.

Thanks heaven for Georgina, who never lost her social aplomb. She laughed and said, “You flatterer, Lord Morley! I look like an old ragpicker, since I am settled in for a quiet evening at home. But Rosalind
is
elegant, as always.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Lord Morley,” Rosalind finally managed to say. “You are too kind.”

“Oh, I am merely truthful, Mrs. Chase. Shall we depart? I have heard that Kean is quite fine as Shylock, and it would be a shame to miss the opening curtain.”

“Of course.” Rosalind picked up her gray satin shawl and handed it to him. He swept an errant curl from the nape of her neck before slowly, ever so slowly, sliding the smooth fabric over her shoulders. His fingers lingered at her bare skin for just an instant longer than was proper.

Rosalind almost forgot to breathe. “I—I do so enjoy Shakespeare,” she gasped.

“As do I,” he answered, a hint of laughter in his brandy-dark voice. “And I think I will enjoy the old Bard of Avon tonight more than ever.”

He stepped around to her side and offered her his arm. She smiled up at him, and slid her fingers over the rough softness of his velvet sleeve.

“Good night, you two!” Georgina called gaily as they left the drawing room. “Do not stay out too late.”

The theater was crowded with merrymakers when Rosalind stepped into the box Lord Morley had reserved. Every box glittered with jewels and opera glasses and silks, though it seemed no one was paying heed to the pre-Shakespeare farce playing on the
stage. The level of conversation and laughter was so high that Rosalind could not hear the dialogue at all.

Not that she could have paid it much heed, anyway. Not with Morley beside her.

The box was one of the smaller in the theater, so their gilt chairs were placed close together. Rosalind fussed with her shawl, and with taking her opera glasses from her reticule.

“Are these seats to your liking, Mrs. Chase?” he asked. “There was not much choice to be had when I went to procure tickets. It seems to be a fine vantage point, though.”

“It is quite fine,” answered Rosalind. Fine for people to see
them
anyway, she thought, watching as numerous gazes turned their way. She lifted her chin and ignored them, focusing her attention on the stage. “I have not been able to attend the theater as much as I would like since coming to Town. I was very happy to receive your invitation.”

“Were you, Mrs. Chase?” he asked, his voice oddly intent. Almost as if he truly
cared
about her answer.

Rosalind glanced at him, but it was shadowed in their box. A ray of light slanted over his brow, his sharp cheekbone, but his eyes—the windows to his thoughts—were in darkness.

But she could not turn away.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “I was. I did so enjoy our afternoon yesterday. Lady Violet is looking well. Sometimes, when she returns to the Seminary from her times at home, she seems rather—tired.”

“She was excited to see you. You are her idol, you know. Everything with her is Mrs. Chase this and Mrs. Chase that. One could hardly blame her, of course.”

Rosalind gave a startled laugh. “Her
idol
? I am a poor choice for that.”

“No, indeed, Mrs. Chase. I think you are the finest choice she could have made.”

“I am glad, of course, if I have been of some help to her. I become so very fond of the girls who pass through my school.”

“You enjoy teaching, then?”

Rosalind relaxed a bit. Here was a topic she was truly comfortable with. “Oh, yes. Mr. Chase and I never were blessed with children. I suppose these girls are a bit like—well, like substitute daughters. I am fond of them. Most of them, anyway!”

“I envy you, Mrs. Chase, having a life’s work you love so.”

“Do you not love your own work, Lord Morley?” Rosalind asked in surprise. “Your poetry is so very glorious! You must put so much of yourself into it.”

“Have you read my poetry, then?” he asked, that dark, intent note in his voice again.

“I—yes. A few poems.” In truth, she had gone secretly to a bookseller when she first arrived in London and purchased all three volumes of his work. She found his verse intoxicating, exhilarating. Only someone who truly loved what he was doing could write so very passionately. “I found them to be—interesting.”