Amanda McCabe (20 page)

A wager.
Rosalind did not like the sound of that. Wagers always seemed to cause trouble, especially for her brother. She frowned down at her clenched hands. “What sort of a wager?”

He shifted uneasily on the seat. “That some people need not follow all the rules in order to be accepted, even admired, in Society. In truth, I have no excuse for doing such a thing! I was simply tired of seeing people like Violet behaving like automatons. Yet if I had known that this was
your
book, I never would have spoken about it.”

Rosalind sat in silence for a long moment, absorbing all this strange—nay, ridiculous—information. So this was why her sales had fallen, the popularity of her rules waned, because of a wager. She could scarcely believe it. “So it was quite all right to do harm to someone when you did not know whose rules they were?”

“No!” he protested vehemently. “Of course not. I simply never considered that A Lady was a real person, with real needs associated with this book. Now I see that I was wrong about that. And I see what Lucas meant when he came to me…”

What Allen meant! Rosalind swung around to face him. “What did Allen come to you for? What did he say? I knew he wanted to visit you before returning to school, but surely he did not tell you…”

Michael held up his hand, as if to fend off her rapidfire
questions. “Nothing very great, I assure you! He was simply worried about you, and feeling ashamed of himself. He came to talk to me about his returning to Cambridge. He felt sorry for causing you trouble.”

Rosalind sank back a bit against the seat cushions. She rarely allowed her temper to get the best of her—she would not let it now, no matter how much she wanted to hit him over the head with her reticule. “Tell me exactly what you and my brother spoke of.”

“He simply told me he had been having some—difficulties lately, and he feared their effect on you. He told me he has a few debts, and you had been worried about them.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I simply tried to be his friend, to reassure him that these matters can be resolved, that no lives need be ruined over them. I certainly did not encourage him in running up those debts in the first place. Please believe me, Rosalind, I want only to help your brother—and you.”

Rosalind gave him a short nod. She knew he
meant
no harm. They had come to know each other better in these last few days, and she knew he had no evil in his soul. But he
did
have mischief, and he did not realize that his very behavior, his very presence at that club, could influence young men like Allen.

“I know that you want to help,” she conceded.

“Allen is young, though, and impressionable. He should not be prattling about our private family business. I’m sorry he burdened you, especially when you were so very busy breaking the rules.”

“He did not
burden
me!” Michael protested. “And I told you I was sorry about the blasted rules. They don’t matter. Please, Rosalind. Let me help you, if I can. Let me make some amends for my foolish behavior.”

Rosalind was confused and suddenly very tired. Her head was beginning to ache, with that telltale throb over her left eye. She did not know
how
she felt about all of this—about Michael, about all of the whirlwind
changes her life had encountered in the last few days. She was used to quiet and order, not wagers and confessions and idiot kisses! She needed to be alone, to think.

“I would like to return to Wayland House now, please,” she said.

He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but then shook his head. His fist clenched on the reins. “Of course, Mrs. Chase. But will you at least think of what I have said? Think of forgiving me?”

“Of course I will think about what you have said,” Rosalind answered. It was all she could say; her head ached in earnest now.

He nodded shortly, and pulled on the reins to guide the horses out of their shady shelter back into the bright light of day.

That had not gone as badly as he feared it might, Michael thought, as he steered the phaeton back onto the pathway. Yet neither had it gone all that well.

Rosalind was the most difficult woman he had ever met. Most ladies let him know, through means both subtle and decidedly not so, that they either appreciated his interest or just wished he would go away. With Rosalind, he was never sure. She was always so very still, so serene, so blasted
polite.
But sometimes her eyes would flash at him with a brilliant light, or she would stiffen in a fury of temper all too quickly contained.

Or she would kiss him with heated passion on a terrace.

He had known, from the time he encountered her alone in her office, that there was much more to her than what she showed the world. Their time together in these last few days had only proven him right. She was fiercely protective of her brother, of her school and the girls who attended classes there. She was intent on being respectable and proper at all times, that was true, but there was also a yearning for
life
deep inside of her. He saw it in her eyes when they ate ices
at Gunter’s and watched the actors at the theater. She longed for excitement, for wonder, even though she would not admit that to herself.

She made Michael want to give her all of that excitement, to show her all the beauties that life and the world could hold. He wanted to share it all with her—and more.

He had guessed some of the secrets of her heart, it was true. Yet he had
not
guessed the one she had confessed today. He had never supposed, even for a moment, that she was the author of
A Lady’s Rules.

Michael almost laughed aloud now to think of it! He should have known. It now seemed so very obvious. Rosalind was so intent on following those rules, on making certain that everyone else did, too. She had even given
him
a copy! But he had always supposed A Lady to be some elderly spinster, dreaming up dictates in her stuffy chamber and sending them out for Society to be crazed over. He had never pictured her as a beautiful redhead.

Michael glanced over at her now. She sat beside him on the phaeton seat, her posture perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap, a pleasant half-smile on her face. He felt a great rush of pride for her, for her ingenuity in writing that book in the first place, for her courage in going out in Society to defend her principles. He himself found a creative saving grace in his poetry; she had found it in manners, and she had done what almost no one else could do—she had made the
ton
behave.

No matter how much he had, and still did, hate mindless rule-following, he had to admire her for that. And for a hundred other things, as well.

He
had
to make her forgive him for that stupid wager! He had to make her see that it meant nothing, had to undo any damage he might have caused. He had only just found her. It would kill him to lose her now.

He turned the phaeton around a corner and down the street where Wayland House sat. They had only
a few more moments. He had to secure her promise that he would see her again.

“Will you be at Violet’s soiree tomorrow evening?” he asked, slowing the horses to a mere crawl.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Of course. The duchess and Lady Emily also plan to attend. Lady Violet seemed so very excited about the event.”

“So she is. Our father rarely deigns to entertain, and as Violet is not yet ‘out’ she must take every advantage of any occasion. I would not wish to excite your anticipation about the amenities, though—our father’s cook concentrates only on what might charitably be called ‘plain fare.’ Trifles and cutlets and such.”

Rosalind laughed quietly. It was a beautiful sound, one he could have listened to for hours and hours. He would stand on his head, make funny noises, wear jester’s motley, do handsprings—
anything
to make her laugh.

Unfortunately, he had to keep his hands on the reins to keep them from crashing. But her one small laugh had already given him immeasurable hope.

“Oh, I can enjoy the splendors of haute cuisine every day at Wayland House, with Georgina’s French chef,” she said. “I look forward to your sister’s company, and to meeting your aunt, Lady Minerva Fielding. I am sure it will be an enjoyable evening.”

“If you are there, it shall be.” They drew up outside Wayland House. Michael thought he saw a curtain twitch at one of the upstairs windows, but he could not be sure. Probably Lady Elizabeth Anne spying again.

“Thank you for the drive, Mich—Lord Morley,” Rosalind said, excruciatingly polite. “The park was lovely.”

Michael could not let her go like this, with a proper thanks she would give to any stranger. Boldly, he took her hand, holding the warmth of it against the lapel of his coat, uncaring that she would feel the powerful thrum of his heart.

Rosalind stiffened, and threw a startled glance back
over her shoulder, as if to see if anyone was watching them. Her fingers jerked in his clasp, but she did not pull away.

“Lord Morley, what…?” she began.

“Mrs. Chase—Rosalind,” he said swiftly, aware that his time here with her was very short. “I am truly sorry about the wager, and about anything else I may have done to injure you. Please, I cannot be easy until I know you have forgiven me, or will at least
consider
forgiving me.”

She stared down at their joined hands, staring at them as if there must be some answer written there in their linked fingers. “I—I will think about what you have said,” she whispered. “Now I really must go.”

“That is all I can ask for.” Michael lifted her hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. They trembled in his, like some wild, frightened bird. “Don’t fly away from me,” he begged.

He placed her hand carefully back in her lap, then leaped down from the phaeton and came around to help her alight. She backed away as soon as her feet touched the pavement, not looking into his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Lord Morley,” she said, and hurried up the front steps to the door. All too soon, she had vanished behind the grand marble façade of Wayland House, more secure and distant than any vault.

But all was not lost, Michael vowed, as he climbed back up onto the phaeton. Not by a long distance. He had waited for too long to find Rosalind. He was not going to lose her now.

“So you are back!” Georgina called from beyond the half-open doors of the drawing room. “Come in and tell us about your drive in the park, Rosie.”

Rosalind, her foot already on the first step of the staircase, cursed inwardly. She had so hoped to slip away from everyone, to escape into her chamber and nurse her headache—and her uncertainties—in solitude.

Now that was not to be. She would have to escape from Georgina first, which was no easy prospect.

Rosalind pasted a bright smile onto her face, and stepped past the drawing room doors. She did not go far beyond the threshold, though. That would just be inviting trouble, and she would never escape.

Georgina and Emily were playing a game of cards at a table by the window, while little Elizabeth Anne played nearby with her dolls. Georgina gave a smug little smile that Rosalind suspected had nothing to do with the hand of cards she held.

“How was your drive?” Georgina asked again. “Pleasant, I trust.”

“Most pleasant,” Rosalind replied in her most noncommittal tone. “The park was not yet overcrowded.”

“And the weather most congenial, I am sure,” Emily said. Her words were all that was innocent, but the smile that curved her lips was decidedly less so.

Rosalind feared Georgina’s influence was rubbing off on the poor young lady. Rosalind thought she had best take her leave from the drawing room before it infected her, as well. She already felt enough like someone not herself.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “The weather was very agreeable. But it
was
rather tiring to be out so long, so I think I will go to my chamber and rest before tea.”

“An excellent notion,” replied Georgina. “Alex procured tickets to the opera for us this evening, so you must keep up your strength. I do think that…” She paused, her eyes widening dramatically. “I just had a notion! Perhaps Lord Morley and his sister would care to join us.”

“It is Mozart,” Emily said. “
Idomeneo.
Most edifying.”

Not Michael, not tonight!
Rosalind thought in a near panic. Being in his presence made her feel so muddled, so unsure. Rather like drinking a bit too much champagne and feeling the room spin about, the floor tilt. It made her want to laugh, to dance.

She loved that feeling. And she hated it. She did
not yet know what to do with such new sensations. Right now, she just wanted to lie down in her darkened room and try to figure out what to do with all the things they had talked about today. Her own confessions, his silly wager, the feel of his kiss on her hand…She could never sort all of that out if he was next to her in a dim theater.

She could not show that to Georgina, though. It would only urge her on in her mischief. “I think he said he and Lady Violet already had an engagement,” she said. She lied, of course; they had spoken of nothing so mundane.

“Oh, that is regrettable,” said Georgina. “But we will see him tomorrow evening at his father’s soiree.”

Oh, yes.
Rosalind had forgotten about that for five minutes. At least it was not until tomorrow. That should give her some time to decide what to do next. “I think I will just go upstairs now.”

“Of course, Rosie dear. I will send up some tea. You look rather pale.”

Rosalind smiled at her, and turned to go. Before she could make her escape, though, she heard Elizabeth Anne’s little voice pipe up.

“Aunt Rosie,” she called. “Are you going to marry Lord Morley? You really should. He is
very
handsome.”

Georgina and Emily burst into laughter, and even Rosalind could not entirely contain a smile. “No, Elizabeth Anne. I am not going to marry Lord Morley. I am too old for him.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth Anne sounded very thoughtful. “Well, then, perhaps I will marry him. I am not too old for him.”