Amanda McCabe (24 page)

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.

She choked on an hysterical laugh, and pressed her hand to her lips.

Michael appeared so very puzzled and bewildered, as if he was not sure what to make of her reaction or what to say next. He peered down at the ring in his hand. “If you do not care for it, I’m sure I could find something else. A sapphire, or a ruby…”

“No!” Rosalind cried. She reached out and folded her hand over his, holding the ring between them. The stones pressed through her thin kid glove into her skin. “It is a beautiful ring, Michael. The most beautiful ring I have ever seen.”

“Then it is the suitor you object to?”

“No, of course not.”

His face brightened, like dawn breaking over the London grayness, and a smile spread slowly across his lips. “You will marry me, Rosie?”

Her head was spinning. She could not think straight, and that was a terrible thing at this moment, when she was faced with the greatest decision of her life. “Oh, Michael, I just do not know.”

“Is it because of that wager? Because of my behavior in the past? I promise you, Rosie, that it is all behind me now.” His other hand came up to clasp hers beseechingly and he leaned closer to her. “I am perfectly respectable now. A changed man, I vow!”

Rosalind smiled, and laid her palm against his cheek. The faint prickliness of his evening whiskers tickled through her glove. “Michael, I do not
want
you to
be a changed man. You are perfect just as you are. You know that I—care about you.”

“Do you care enough to accept me as your husband?”

Oh, yes.
If he was a farmer and she was a milkmaid, she would accept him in an instant. But things were so much more complicated than that. “I just do not know, Michael. Everything is so uncertain.”

“My feelings for you are
not
uncertain. I love you, Rosie. You are like no other woman I have ever known.”

He
loved
her? Rosalind’s vision blurred with tears, forcing her to look away from him, to release his hand and brush away the moisture with her fingertips. When had someone last said they loved her? Never. No one had ever said those wonderful words. Not even Charles, or Allen, or her parents. And she had never said it to them. It was as if they were dangerous words, frightening words. Yet they did not scare Michael. He declared his feelings so very openly, to all the world.

It made her dare to be brave, too. Dare to be brave—even though she was shaking in her slippers. “You l-love me?” Her tongue twisted at the word.

“Of course I do. How could I not? You are so beautiful, so very courageous. How many people could run a school as well as you do,
and
write books,
and
look after your brother? And you have done it all by yourself. But I do not want you to be by yourself any longer. I want to be with you, helping you. Please, Rosie, please let me.”

Oh, that was so very tempting. To not be all alone, to have someone to walk with her, to make her laugh. To make life into a marvelous adventure, as he always did.

“I just do not know,” she said. “I am so confused!” “Here,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Wear the ring for a few days, a week. Look at it, wear it on your finger and think about what I have said.” He slid her glove from her arm, her hand, and placed the ring
carefully on her finger. The gold band fit perfectly, as if made to go just there. “We can be so happy together, Rosie. Just give me a chance to show you that.”

Michael bent his head to press a kiss to her bare fingers. Rosie laid her other hand lightly on his dark curls, felt the silk of them twine over her kid glove.

She knew so very well that he could make her happy. He filled her with such an unimaginable joy just by being near. But could
she
make
him
happy? She knew she was not an exciting woman. She had lived a quiet life, she enjoyed home and hearth and family. He loved her now, but could his poet’s heart love her in five, ten years? And his family and circle would judge their match to be a terrible misalliance. He did not care for such things now, yet he very well might later.

It would devastate her to know the warmth of his love, only to lose it later in the chill of regret and contempt.

But still she yearned for him, for that sweet life they could have! A life she had never dared to dream of before.

He raised his head, peering hopefully at her from his beautiful dark eyes. “Will you think about what I have said, Rosie?”

The sensible side of her shouted at her to say no, to turn him away now, to retreat back into her old life. Yet the ring glowed at her, calling to her, whispering that it belonged to her. “Yes,” she murmured. “I will think about what you have said, and I will give you my answer very soon.”