12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

R osalind stood amidst the crowded exhibition hall, her senses assaulted by the hushed whispers and furtive glances of the gossiping ton. The once joyous atmosphere, filled with admiration for Isabella's stunning artwork, had taken on a sinister edge, the air heavy with the weight of scandal and rumour. She strained to catch snippets of their poisonous words, her heart sinking with each passing moment. Whispers of Alex's alleged indiscretions and secret rendezvous swirled through the room like a noxious fog, threatening to suffocate the very joy and accomplishment of the evening.

"I heard he's been carrying on with a married woman," one lady murmured behind her fan, her eyes glinting with a malicious delight. "The poor Duke, caught in such a sordid affair."

"And to think, he's here with that Harrington girl," another responded, her voice dripping with disdain. "I wonder if she knows the truth about the man she's been trying to net."

Rosalind's cheeks burned with indignation, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. How dare they spread such vicious lies about Alex, a man of honour and integrity? She whipped her head around to glare at the gossiping duo, her eyes burning. They were a matched pair, both of them powdered and rouged in the manner of the last century. One lifted a lorgnette to inspect Rosalind, and upon realising that Rosalind was staring right back at her, sniffed and turned her face away, her nose in the air.

It's petty gossip, the same as every season, fuelled by the jealousy and resentment of those who seek to tear others down to puff themselves up, Rosalind consoled herself. She had never been one to be cowed by society matrons, and she refused to give them the satisfaction now of thinking that they had succeeded in getting under her skin. Undaunted, she tossed her head proudly and sauntered to the table with punch and lemonade arranged in cut crystal cups as if there was nothing else on her mind but simple refreshment.

Yet, even as she silently fumed, Rosalind could feel the weight of their stares upon her, the smug expressions and knowing looks that followed her every move. She felt like all were staring at her, her every action and reaction scrutinised and judged by the merciless eyes of the ton.

She felt a rising tide of panic within her, a desperate need to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the exhibition hall. Her gaze sought out Alex, longing for the comfort and reassurance of his presence, but he was nowhere to be found, lost amidst the throng of gossiping aristocrats. She knew that she could not stand idly by and allow the poison of the ton to destroy their budding relationship, to tarnish the reputation of a man who had shown her nothing but kindness and respect.

With a deep breath, Rosalind squared her shoulders, her chin lifting in a show of defiance. Glancing across the room, she saw Isabella basking in the praise of her artwork, a radiant smile lighting up her features. Lord Tyrrell stood by her side, his eyes alight with admiration as he spoke animatedly about her paintings.

Isabella's cheeks flushed with a mixture of pride and bashfulness, her eyes sparkling as she listened intently to his words. Lord Harrington, who had viewed the whole enterprise with suspicion at best, stood just behind her, basking in the praise as if he himself had been the one to paint the pictures.

Nearby, Amelia was engaged in a hushed conversation with a young woman, who discreetly passed her a folded note, undoubtedly from Thomas. Rosalind watched as Amelia's hand trembled slightly as she accepted the letter, her eyes darting around the room to ensure that no one had noticed the exchange. A flicker of hope and longing danced across Amelia's face as she tucked the note into her beaded reticule, a secret treasure to be savoured in a moment of solitude.

The sight of her sisters' happiness momentarily eased Rosalind's troubled mind, reminding her of the sacrifices she was willing to make to protect them. She knew that her decision to accept Alex's courtship had not been made lightly and that she had weighed the consequences and the potential impact on her own heart and future. But as she watched Isabella and Amelia, their faces alight with joy and the prospect of love, Rosalind knew that she would endure a thousand scandals and face a million whispers to ensure their happiness. They were her sisters, her blood, the very beat of her heart, and she would move heaven and earth to shield them from the cruelties of the world.

Rosalind's resolve strengthened as she stood amidst the gossiping throng, her head held high and her spirit unbroken. She would not let the vicious rumours and malicious whispers of the ton tear apart the fragile threads of happiness that she and her sisters had fought so hard to weave.

Rosalind had ever been a woman of action, not one to simply stand by and let things happen to her. To be so trapped by the wagging tongues about her now was abhorrent to her, but she had no idea how to proceed. For all of her knowledge, she was ill-practised at manipulating the ton to her whims.

"I heard he's been seen in the company of a notorious courtesan," one woman murmured, her eyes glinting with a wicked delight. "Apparently, she's been his mistress for months, right under the nose of polite society."

"Well, it's hardly surprising, is it? We all know what the brother's like, after all," another replied, her voice dripping with disdain. "Poor thing, she has no idea what she's getting herself into."

"That's not even the worst of it," the first said, her face flushed with malicious glee. "I've heard that she's French," she said with relish.

"Oh, how unseemly," the second tutted. She put a handkerchief to her nose as if the very idea had produced a noxious odour. "It's one thing to be a rake, but an unpatriotic rake, that takes the biscuit."

Unable to help herself, Rosalind sidled up closer to them. "That's not even the worst of it," she said, staring directly into their faces. "I've heard that he's hiding a pair of horns beneath that rather fabulous head of hair," she said. "The doctor said they were brought on by indulging in too much gossip." She punctuated this with a sickeningly sugary smile, staring at each of the ladies in turn until they excused themselves, faces red.

"Harpies," Rosalind muttered. She knew realistically that she could not address each and every gossip, but it was a tempting prospect. In the hopes of avoiding further upset, she retreated further into the house, near the sitting room that had been designated as the gentlemen's smoking retreat. Not even here was safe, however, for Rosalind overheard a group of gentlemen, their voices low and conspiratorial.

"They say he's been gambling away his fortune at the gaming hells," one man whispered, his brow furrowed with disapproval. "Apparently, he's in debt up to his ears and is only courting the Harrington girl for her dowry."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's planning to abandon her at the altar," another chimed in, his tone laced with a cruel amusement. "After all, what use does a man like him have for a wife when he has his pick of London's most beautiful mistresses? Mark my words, she'll be packed off to the countryside and never seen or heard from again."

Rosalind's heart clenched at the words, a sickening feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to believe the lies they were spreading, the vicious rumours that painted Alex as a man without honour or integrity. Yet, Rosalind couldn't help but wonder if there was any truth to these rumours.

It wasn't as if the notion of a husband stealing his wife's fortune and leaving her in some reclusive house was unheard of, after all. Countless stories abounded of men shipping their wives off to convents or asylums once their usefulness had come to an end.

Though the rooms were large and spacious, Rosalind felt the walls closing in, the air growing stifling as the rumours swirled around her, threatening to consume her. The once grand and elegant exhibition hall now felt like a cage, trapping her within its confines and subjecting her to the merciless scrutiny of the ton.

Rosalind's feet carried her swiftly through the exhibition hall, her silk gown rustling as she wove her way through the crowd. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet the eyes of those who sought to draw her into their web of scandal and deceit.

With each step, the need for escape grew stronger, the desire to break free from the confines of the hall and the suffocating weight of the rumours. The room was too warm, too loud, and Rosalind's heart beat wildly in her chest.

By the time she reached the front doors, thrown open wide to welcome in the guests, she was nearly running. She could feel the eyes of the ton upon her, their gazes heavy with anticipation and cruel delight, eager to witness her downfall. Some part of her knew that she was giving them exactly what they wanted, creating a scene that would be taken as confirmation of the rumours.

Rosalind refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her crumble. With a deep breath and a silent prayer for strength, she slipped out into the cooler London night air. Carriages continued to pull up and disgorge guests, fur and diamonds on parade. Her stomach flipped at the idea of further socialising, so silent as a shadow, Rosalind clung to the shadows and made her way to the back of the house.

Thankfully, the gate to the garden was unlocked and untended, and Rosalind stepped through with only a slight groan of the iron hinges to give her away. The cool night air washed over her like a soothing balm. She took a deep, steadying breath, her hands trembling as she grappled with the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. The weight of the whispers and stares from the ton still clung to her like a heavy shroud, the echoes of their malicious gossip ringing in her ears.

She walked deeper into the gardens, seeking solace in the darkness and solitude. The further she ventured, the more the lights and sounds of the exhibition faded away, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of crickets. Rosalind welcomed the embrace of the shadows, finding comfort in the anonymity they provided. Unusually, Lord Tyrrell's grand house boasted quite a sizable garden, a rare luxury in London.

It was like an oasis of peace and quiet. Unsurprisingly, however, it was packed with statues and fountains, all of them lovely to behold. The marble gleamed brightly in the moonlight, and even in her unsettled state, Rosalind had to admire them.

As she wandered along the winding paths, her mind raced with thoughts of Alex and the rumours that seemed to follow in his wake. She wanted to believe that all of them were lies. The seeds of doubt had been planted, though. Now, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling of uncertainty that gnawed at her heart.

Rosalind found herself in a secluded corner of the gardens, far from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the ton. She leaned against a stone bench, her fingers gripping the cool surface through her thin silk gloves as she tried to steady her breathing and calm her racing thoughts.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approaching from behind shattered the tranquillity of the moment. Rosalind's heart leapt into her throat, her body tensing as she whirled around to face the intruder. In the darkness, she could barely make out the silhouette of a figure drawing nearer, their features obscured by the shadows.