15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

R osalind couldn't be sure what time she finally fell asleep, but she knew that it was not early enough for a restful night. She awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed and achy of head. As her maid arrived to help her dress for breakfast (Lord Harrington insisted that everyone dress for breakfast, no tea gowns or wrappers permitted), Rosalind winced every time a cabinet door or drawer was roughly closed. As the maid wound Rosalind's hair up into a simple bun at the back of her head, Rosalind stared longingly at her bed. She winced when about a hundred (or so it seemed) pins were jammed into her sensitive scalp.

Like an automaton, she made her way to the dining room, taking her place at the table. Without enthusiasm, she helped herself to some slices of cold ham and buns with currants. Her father, at his customary place at the head of the table, was using the opportunity to deliver a homily to the girls about the importance of marriage and their place in it. Listlessly, Rosalind only half-listened, pushing her food about her plate.

"...And of course, no one wants to marry a young lady that is induced to mindless chatter," he intoned. "Which, I am glad to see that you all have taken to heart."

Blankly, Rosalind looked across the table to Amelia, whose nostrils flared in amusement. Next to her, Rosalind could see Isabella clasp her hands under the table and look down at her lap. They all knew that Lord Harrington actually meant Rosalind, as Amelia had always been congenially serene, and Isabella generally kept to herself. Little did Lord Harrington know that Rosalind's unusual reticence was more to do with fatigue than duty, but no one seemed inclined to enlighten him to this fact.

"I trust you are paying attention, Rosalind," Lord Harrington responded.

"Yes, Father," Rosalind replied automatically, turning a smile vaguely in his direction.

A footman slipped into the dining room bearing a small silver tray. Rosalind could feel her father still watching her warily, clearly not trusting this newfound meekness. He lifted a card from the tray, turning it over in his hands. Even from her place down the table, Rosalind caught the glint of gold embossing on it. Her father stared at it for a moment, and then a triumphant smile spread across his face.

"Well," he said, "it seems that Rosalind has been paid a most generous compliment: The Duke of Somerton has requested the company of 'the charming Lady Rosalind Harrington and the rest of her family' at the Duke's salon tomorrow. Well, I confess that I had been worried that you would drive away the Duke with your overly modern ideas. I'm pleased to see, though, that is not the case."

Rosalind simply stared at her father for a moment, not fully understanding what she had heard. "The Duke has invited me to attend a salon?" she repeated slowly. Automatically, she glanced across the table to Amelia, who inclined her head contemplatively. Underneath the table, Isabella reached over and took Rosalind's hand. "May I see the card?" she asked, and Lord Harrington passed it down.

Rosalind stared down at the handwriting, the quick, confident shapes of the letters. She couldn't explain why, but she knew for a fact that Alex had written it himself–the letters weren't even or neat enough to be done by his secretary. She fancied that there was a significant kind of weight to his pen-marks where he wrote her name. Unable to help herself, she swiped her thumb across the writing, trying not to inexplicably smile.

"It's kind of him to include all of you in the invitation too," Rosalind said, still staring down at the card. "It will be all the more enjoyable for having you there with me." I can't do this without you, is what she really meant. Isabella squeezed her hand again as if she had understood Rosalind completely.

In spite of this reassurance, and knowing that she would be fortified by her sisters' presence, Rosalind had a kind of gnawing anxiety in her stomach. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, and the possibilities made her equal parts nervous and excited.

The Duke of Somerton was known for his quality salons, a tradition begun by his grandmother and carried on by him. They always had the best musicians, the most brilliant philosophers and writers. Rosalind had longed to attend one ever since her debut at sixteen simply because of the breadth of talent always on offer there.

If nothing else, I shall spend an afternoon in the company of some of Europe's best minds, she thought. Should the worst happen, then that will be my consolation prize.

It was not much of a comfort to her raw and aching heart.

The day was exceptionally fine, and it seemed as if the whole city were in bloom. The Duke's townhouse was framed by two cherry trees, which rained down delicate pink petals on the guests as they arrived. Rosalind had allowed her maid and her sisters to dress her and generally fuss over her. Although she was not ordinarily a vain woman, Rosalind was certain that she formed an exceptional picture as she walked slowly beneath the pink canopy to the open doors of the Duke's house.

Her red hair had been twisted up carefully but made to appear as if it might tumble down at a moment's notice. Green ribbon had been threaded through with delicate curls framing her face. Her dress was a white muslin with green vines embroidered on it, with a green and gold ribbon about the waist. The scent of almonds and vanilla followed her wherever she went, a gift from the scented pomatum that helped hold her hair in place. It had taken hours to get her ready to her sisters' satisfaction, which Rosalind hadn't been fully convinced was strictly necessary.

It proved entirely worth it, however, when the Duke, catching sight of them and coming out to greet them, laid eyes on Rosalind. He stopped in his tracks, handsome as ever in his dark green jacket and buff breeches. His dark eyes lit on Rosalind and seemed to go molten as he stared at her.

Rosalind had never had a man look at her in this way. It made her feel warm and a little weak at the knees from the frank admiration, but also powerful. She blushed and ducked her head like a good young lady, but at such an angle to show her neck to advantage. He watched the movement with interest before seeming to remember himself and smiling warmly.

"Lord Harrington, ladies," he said, as bows and curtseys were exchanged, "I am glad that you are all here." He said these last words with his eyes fixed on Rosalind. He ushered them inward, pointing out a few of Lord Harrington's friends.

The guests were the toniest of the ton, with enough titles and peerages between them all to make up the lion's share of a copy of Burke's. Guests were free to come and go as they pleased, with a fragrant punch, coffee, tea, and wine on offer, as well as tables piled high with any number of delicacies to tempt the appetite. There was even a sugar sculpture of the Parthenon, with bits of gold leaf brushed onto it. The doors and windows were thrown open to the spring air, which wafted through the rooms pleasantly, carrying music and conversation from room to room.

Rosalind had assumed, perhaps naively, that since they were guests in the Duke's home that they might all be inclined to...well, perhaps if not kindness, then perhaps less unkindness. No one was overtly rude, and the gossips tended to ply their trade more discreetly.

Rosalind didn't overhear anything this time, but there was a strange kind of humming that seemed to follow her everywhere she went. Curious eyes watched her from every corner of the room. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her distressed again, so she tossed her head as grandly as an empress and glided about as if she had not a care in the world.

It helped tremendously that her sisters remained steadfastly by her side, an elegant bulwark against the wagging tongues. Rosalind had hoped to be able to converse with the Duke, as she still felt entitled to answers. At one point, she saw him from across a parlour in which an earnest young man was reading from his treatise on economics. All eyes were turned to the front of the room, except for his.

Rosalind met his gaze and felt as if the air in her lungs was suddenly not enough. She exhaled sharply through her nose, and then breathed in. All through this, Alex's face remained unreadable while he studied her, as if he were seeing her for the first time.

When the speaker had finished, polite applause swept across the room. In the noise, Rosalind saw Alex slip away, stepping backward through a doorway deftly. Excusing herself from her sisters' company with a murmured apology, Rosalind slipped away from the bustling room. Her steps quickening as she ventured into the house's corridors in search of Alex. The hallways stretched before her, their walls adorned with elegant wallcoverings and paintings that whispered of the Duke's rich family history.

As Rosalind navigated the winding passages, her footsteps echoed against the polished marble floors, the sound mingling with the distant hum of conversation and music from the salon. Though furnished in the height of modern elegance and taste, the house had been built in the century before, with the rooms all connected by doors. It was disorienting, and Rosalind had the sensation of stepping further into a maze.

Rosalind's eyes scanned every doorway and alcove, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alex's familiar figure. She paused at intersections, straining her ears for any sound that might indicate his presence. The corridors, though, remained eerily silent, save for the soft rustling of her dress and the pounding of her own heart.

As she turned a corner, Rosalind found herself standing before a pair of heavy wooden doors. The dark wood was polished to a high shine, but still showed the scars of decades of use. The handles were heavy iron, a relic of a time long gone. There was little doubt that these led to a decidedly masculine space, probably Alex's study or withdrawing room.

This is probably where he sits and works, where he writes, Rosalind thought with a start. It was undoubtedly not a space where the guests were welcome, so far within the house; it was private, something that was his alone. This sent a thrill up Rosalind's spine. She knew she shouldn't, it went against everything about good manners and good taste, but the notion of being able to find answers, to know him just a little better pulled at her. She hesitated, one hand reaching out to touch the iron door handle.

Rosalind, no , she chided herself. When has anything good ever come from snooping in such a manner?

She dropped her hand and was prepared to turn around and go back the way she came when there was a sound from within the room. Rosalind instantly whirled back around, pressing her ear against the door. She strained with her ear, willing herself to hear. The unmistakable sound of a man's voice floated through the thick wood, impossible to understand but familiar in its pitch and timbre–it sounded like Alex's! Another voice answered, a light and breathy laugh, undoubtedly feminine.

That settled it. With a deep breath, Rosalind grasped the handle and turned it, the door swinging open with a soft creak. She peered inside, her eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room, the heavy curtains drawn firmly against the sunshine. Her heart was pounding, angrily certain that she was about to find the answer to all the riddles, certain that she would find some trollop in Alex's arms. However, the sight that greeted her stopped her in her tracks, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief as she struggled to comprehend the scene before her.

There, in the softly lit room, Rosalind beheld a man who looked very much like Alex, slimmer and lighter but familiar all the same, locked in an amorous embrace with an unknown woman. Their bodies were entwined, hands grasping at each other with a fervour that spoke of a passionate moment stolen away from the watchful gaze of society. The air crackled with the intensity of their forbidden desire, a stark contrast to the propriety and decorum expected of their stations.

Rosalind stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat as she tried to process the implications of what she had stumbled upon. Her mind reeled, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions battling for dominance within her.