25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

R osalind sat by the window of her bedroom, her gaze fixed upon the stables behind the house. It had been days since her world had come crashing down around her, since the revelation of the Duke's betrayal had shattered her dreams and left her heart in tatters.

Her eyes felt dry and gritty, the aftermath of countless tears shed in the wake of that fateful night at the masquerade ball. She had cried until it seemed as though she had no tears left to give, her body wracked with sobs that tore at her very soul.

Her mind wandered to the hours spent at the stables, finding joy in riding and the sound of hooves. It had been a place of respite, a place where she could escape the constraints of society and the weight of expectations that seemed to press down upon her from all sides.

Horseback riding through St. James's Park feels distant and uninteresting to her now. The stables were a reminder of a freedom she once had, now out of reach.

Rosalind's fingers traced the embroidery of the cushion she clutched, her mind replaying the conversation with her father over and over again. She could still hear the disappointment in his voice, the steely resolve that left no room for argument or compromise.

A new courtship, he had said, with a suitor of his choosing. A man to help manage her "wilder inclinations," as if her spirit and her intellect were something to be tamed and subdued, rather than celebrated. Rosalind felt a heavy sense of dread at the thought of her future being decided by others. She had sacrificed everything for her sisters and family honour. Even that selfless act had been rendered meaningless, her efforts reduced to naught in the face of the Duke's deception.

Rosalind's gaze drifted back to the stables, her heart aching with a longing for the freedom and solace they had once represented. As she observed the stable hands, she realized the sanctuary she once found there was forever tainted by betrayal and heartbreak.

A soft knock at the door startled Rosalind from her reverie, and she saw Amelia standing in the doorway, her face a study in concern and worry.

"May I come in?" Amelia asked gently.

Rosalind nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and watched as her sister crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under their combined weight. She reached out to Rosalind, who reluctantly stood and allowed herself to be pulled down next to Amelia.

She reached out and took Rosalind's hand in her own, her fingers warm and comforting against Rosalind's clammy skin. "I'm worried about you, Rosie," she said softly, her eyes searching Rosalind's face for some sign of the vibrant, spirited girl she had once been.

Rosalind looked away, unable to meet her sister's gaze. She felt Amelia's arm slip around her shoulders, drawing her close, and for a moment, Rosalind allowed herself to sink into the comfort of her sister's embrace, her eyes fluttering closed as she breathed in the familiar scent of lavender and rose.

Amelia pulled back slightly, biting her lower lip a little in a familiar gesture of unease. She reached into the pocket of her calico day dress and withdrew a stack of letters. "These are from the Duke," she said quietly, holding them out to Rosalind with a hesitant hand. "He's been writing to me, trying to enlist my help in convincing you to see him. He wants to explain himself."

Rosalind stared at the letters, her heart twisting painfully in her chest as she imagined the Duke's words, the excuses and justifications he must have offered, the pleas for forgiveness and understanding. His seal, used to hold the letters folded closed, stared back at her. She shook her head, her voice barely more than a whisper as she said, "I don't want to ever hear from him again."

With a sudden, violent motion, Rosalind knocked the stack of letters from Amelia's hand, sending them scattering across the floor in a flurry of white and cream. The tangible evidence of the Duke's betrayal was too much for Rosalind, who couldn't help but cry and bury her face in her hands.

It wasn't just the fact that the Duke had a past, that he had loved another before her. It was the fact that he hadn't trusted her enough to share it with her, that he had kept such a vital part of himself hidden away, like a shameful secret to be buried and forgotten.

Amelia sighed, rising from the bed to gather up the scattered letters, her movements slow and deliberate as she collected each one and added it to the stack. Once they were all accounted for, she turned back to Rosalind, her face tinged with a sadness that tugged at Rosalind's heart.

"Even though it hurts now," Amelia said, "you might be glad to have them later."

She placed the stack of letters on the nightstand beside Rosalind's bed, her expression a little forlorn as she smoothed her skirt and settled back down beside her sister.

Rosalind felt guilty for being self-absorbed and unaware of her sister's struggles. She reached out, taking Amelia's hand in her own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Are you well, Amelia?" she asked, her voice thick with concern. "You seem troubled."

Amelia hesitated, her eyes darting away for a moment as if weighing the wisdom of voicing her worries. Finally, she took a deep breath and met Rosalind's gaze once more.

"It's Thomas," she confessed, her voice trembling slightly. "I haven't received a letter from him in quite some time, and I fear that something may have happened to him."

Rosalind felt ashamed and self-absorbed. She wallowed in misery while her sister feared for her loved one's safety.She squeezed Amelia's hand tighter, her eyes still burning from all of her crying as she chided herself for not noticing her sister's distress sooner. How could she have been so blind, so wrapped up in her own pain that she failed to see the anguish etched onto Amelia's face?

With a deep, steadying breath, Rosalind pushed her own heartache aside, burying it deep within herself as she focused all her attention on her sister's plight. She would not allow herself to be consumed by her own sorrow, not when Amelia needed her strength and support more than ever.

Rosalind reached out and took Amelia's hand in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze as she met her sister's worried gaze. "You shan't face this alone, dear sister," she said, her voice low and reassuring. "Whatever the future may hold for Thomas, we shall weather it together, as we always have."

A weak smile tugged at the corners of Amelia's lips, but before she could respond, there came a soft rap at the door. Both sisters turned as the door swung open, admitting one of the household maids, her face flushed and her eyes downcast.

"Begging your pardon, m'ladies," the maid murmured, bobbing a quick curtsy. "But Lord Harrington wishes to see you in the drawing room, Lady Rosalind. You've a visitor waiting."

Rosalind felt her heart skip a beat, a flicker of hope igniting within her breast despite her best efforts to quash it. Could it be...?

"A visitor, you say?" she asked, her voice betraying a hint of the anticipation that coursed through her veins. "Do you know who it is?"

The maid shook her head. "I'm afraid not, m'lady. A lord of some sort, from the look of him, but you might want to make yourself a bit more presentable, if you'll pardon my saying so."

Rosalind glanced down at her rumpled day dress, the fabric creased and wrinkled from hours spent lying abed. Realizing her disheveled appearance, she blushed and felt ashamed at the idea of greeting a guest.

Amelia, ever the practical one, sprang into action, rising from the bed and crossing to the wardrobe. "Here, Rosie," she said, withdrawing a cornflower-blue cotton dress and laying it out on the bed. "This should do nicely."

With Amelia's help, Rosalind slipped out of her crumpled day dress and into the fresh cotton frock, revelling in the way the soft fabric caressed her skin. Amelia then produced a pale pink ribbon, which she tied in a neat bow about Rosalind's waist, accentuating the narrowness of her waist. Amelia caught Rosalind's eye in the mirror, and gave her a disapproving look—the days of skipping meals had caught up with Rosalind, rendering her unfashionably thin.

The maid worked quickly, helping Rosalind with her shoes and retrieving a small vial of rosewater from Rosalind's dressing table and dabbing a few drops behind her ears, the sweet, floral scent mingling with the faint hint of vanilla that still clung to her skin and twisting her hair up quickly and efficiently.

By the time they were finished, Rosalind felt almost like her old self again. The weight of her sorrow temporarily lifted by the simple pleasure of being fussed over and primped. She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass, her cheeks flushed and her hair tamed into soft, glossy waves and pinned at the back of her head, and felt a flutter of nervous anticipation in the pit of her stomach. Though her cheeks were not as full as she might have liked, her eyes were alight for the first time in days.

With a deep breath to steady her nerves, Rosalind turned and made her way towards the door, her steps light and almost buoyant as she descended the stairs towards the drawing room. As she drew nearer, she could make out the low murmur of voices, one of them unmistakably her father's, the other deeper and more resonant.

Pushing open the door, Rosalind stepped into the drawing room, her gaze immediately seeking out the figure of the visitor. As her eyes fell upon the man standing before the fireplace, her heart sank, the flicker of hope that had burned so brightly mere moments ago snuffed out in an instant.

It was not the Duke who stood before her, but a stranger, a man she had never laid eyes upon before. He was tall and well-built, with a shock of silver hair and a weathered, aristocratic countenance that spoke of wealth and privilege.

"Ah, Rosalind," her father said, his voice clipped and formal as he gestured towards the stranger. "May I present Lord Edmund Ashford. Lord Ashford, this is my daughter, Lady Rosalind Harrington."

The man inclined his head, his eyes sweeping over Rosalind in a perfunctory manner that sent a chill down her spine. There was no warmth in his gaze, no spark of interest or admiration, only a cool detachment that made Rosalind feel as though she were being appraised like a piece of livestock at market.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Lord Ashford murmured, his tone flat and disinterested.

Rosalind felt her stomach churn as Lord Ashford turned his gaze towards her father, his expression one of cool detachment as he addressed Lord Harrington directly, as though she were little more than a piece of furniture in the room.

"A vivacious young lady, to be sure," her father said, his voice dripping with forced joviality as he clasped his hands behind his back. "And an accomplished hostess, well-trained in the running of a household."

Lord Ashford's eyes flickered towards Rosalind for the briefest of moments, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he took in her appearance. "And her... wilful nature?" he asked, his tone laced with thinly veiled disdain. "Her reputation for embracing more... modern thinking? Will that prove to be a problem?"

Rosalind felt indignant, resisting the urge to interject against condescension. How dare they speak of her as though she were little more than an errant child in need of discipline?

But before she could open her mouth, her father was speaking once more, his voice low and reassuring as he sought to assuage Lord Ashford's concerns.

"A mere phase, I assure you," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "A young lady's fancies, nothing more. With the firm hand and guidance of an established gentleman such as yourself, I've no doubt that any... untoward tendencies will be swiftly corrected."

Lord Ashford's gaze settled upon Rosalind once more, his eyes narrowing as he appraised her in the same manner one might examine a horse before making a purchase. Rosalind stared down at the toes of her brown leather shoes, focusing on them instead of the men discussing her.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Lord Ashford gave a curt nod, his features betraying not a hint of emotion as he turned back to Lord Harrington.

"Very well," he said, his tone clipped and businesslike. "I shall call upon Lady Rosalind again in the coming days. For now, I bid you good day."

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the door, pausing only to offer the briefest of nods in Rosalind's direction before disappearing through the doorway, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

Rosalind felt as though she had been holding her breath, her chest tight with the effort of keeping her emotions in check. It was only when her father turned towards her, a self-satisfied smile playing about his lips, that she felt the first stirrings of outrage begin to well up within her.

"There now, you see?" he said, his voice tinged with a paternal smugness that made Rosalind's skin crawl. "You're already behaving in a far more becoming manner. The Duke, for all his charms, was entirely too passionate and temperamental to ever hope to control your... wilder impulses."

Rosalind wanted to respond, but couldn't find the words, overwhelmed by despair. What was the point in protesting, in railing against the injustice of it all? Her fate, it seemed, had already been decided. Her future plotted out like some grand chess game in which she was little more than a pawn to be manoeuvred and sacrificed at will.

As her father turned and strode from the room, his steps light and buoyant, Rosalind sank despondently into an armchair. She was trapped, her spirit crushed by societal expectations and familial duty.. In that moment, as she stood alone in the drawing room, the echoes of Lord Ashford's disdainful gaze still burning in her mind. Rosalind felt utterly, completely alone, and hopeless.