27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

T he warm spring breeze carried the fragrant scent of freshly bloomed roses through the immaculately manicured gardens of Lord Ashford's estate. Rosalind found herself surrounded by the very finest members of the ton, their delicate laughter and polite chatter filling the air as they mingled amidst the vibrant floral displays. The string quartet's soothing melodies provided a gentle backdrop to the scene, the powdered wigs of the musicians swaying ever so slightly with each movement of their bows.

Rosalind's gaze swept across the elegantly dressed ladies, their pastel gowns and carefully arranged flowers in their hair creating a picturesque vision of springtime beauty. Despite the idyllic setting and pleasant company, she felt hollow inside. It was a stark contrast to the joy and anticipation she had once experienced when attending such events on the arm of her beloved Alex.

Lord Ashford, Lord Ashford, her suitor, barely spoke to her all day, seeming distracted as he mingled with guests. There was no hint of affection or warmth between them, no illusion of love or even friendship to cling to. Rosalind found herself nodding and smiling politely at the conversations directed her way. However, the words fell upon deaf ears, her mind consumed by the memories of the past and the aching emptiness that now filled her soul.

Amidst the gathering, Rosalind felt like a shadow of her former self. The sharp contrast between celebration and heartbreak was almost unbearable. It was a cruel reminder of all that she had lost and the uncertain future that lay ahead.

The noise around her faded as Rosalind's gaze landed on Lord Ashford. Amidst trimmed hedges, he stood with silver hair illuminated by the sun.

Though there had been whispers and murmurs trailing in her wake ever since the disastrous end of her courtship with the Duke of Somerton, not a single word of gossip or judgement seemed to penetrate the pristine walls of Lord Ashford's estate. Rosalind enjoyed a peaceful silence, escaping from prying eyes and gossip after the masquerade ball..

A small, fleeting thought crossed her mind—had Lord Ashford demanded that his guests refrain from broaching such a delicate subject? If so, it was a small kindness, one that Rosalind found herself grateful for, even if it did little to alleviate the heaviness that weighed upon her heart.

Sipping slowly from her cup of lemonade, Rosalind allowed her gaze to linger upon the man who now held the fate of her future in his hands. Lord Ashford was undoubtedly a handsome man, his features bearing the distinguished lines of age and experience, hinting at the dashing figure he must have cut in his youth. Yet, there was a coolness to his demeanour, a detachment that Rosalind found oddly comforting.

He had not attempted to woo her with flowery words or romantic gestures, nor had he showered her with false promises of love and devotion. Instead, Lord Ashford had approached their courtship with a pragmatism that, while lacking in passion, offered Rosalind a strange sense of relief. At least with him, she did not have to worry about the possibility of her heart being broken once more, for there was no illusion of love to shatter in the first place.

He felt her gaze and quickly turned, his intense eyes meeting hers, taking her breath away. Still, Rosalind found herself compelled to obey, her feet carrying her across the neatly manicured lawn towards the man who now held such sway over her future.

"Lady Rosalind," Lord Ashford greeted her, his voice betraying no hint of warmth or affection. "Might I show you around the house?"

The request, though phrased as a question, carried the weight of an expectation, and Rosalind found herself nodding in acquiescence. As they turned and made their way towards the imposing manor, Lord Ashford spoke once more, his tone clipped and businesslike.

"I must admit, I am quite relieved to find that you know how to behave in society," he remarked, his gaze sweeping over her as if appraising her suitability. "The guests at this little gathering have assumed your silence to be the quiet attention of a well-behaved young lady, or an admirable amount of snobbishness."

Rosalind bit back the sharp retort that rose to her lips, swallowing her pride and offering a noncommittal murmur of acknowledgement instead. She could sense the unspoken judgement in Lord Ashford's words; the implication that her silence was a calculated performance, not just her own pain.

As they entered the grand foyer of the manor, Lord Ashford turned to her once more, his expression inscrutable. "Tell me, Lady Rosalind, do you find my house suitable?"

Rosalind's gaze swept over the opulent surroundings, taking in the gleaming marble floors and the ornate paintings that adorned the walls. "It is lovely," she murmured, her voice devoid of any real enthusiasm.

Lord Ashford seemed to take her lacklustre response in stride, nodding slightly as if satisfied. "I am glad to find that you are not a silly girl prone to bouts of sentiment," he remarked, his tone matter-of-fact. "You will be an acceptable wife."

Rosalind felt a flicker of her old spirit stir within her breast, a spark of defiance igniting in the face of Lord Ashford's dismissive words. "Are we to be married, then?" she challenged, her voice laced with a hint of irritation at his high-handed manner.

Lord Ashford met her gaze unflinchingly, his expression betraying no hint of surprise or emotion. "It suits both of our purposes, does it not?" he replied, as if the matter were already settled.

Rosalind found herself rendered momentarily speechless, her mouth agape as she struggled to process the audacity of his assumption. He had not asked for her hand, nor had he even truly proposed—he had simply informed her of his intentions as if her acquiescence were a foregone conclusion.

As she stood there, confronted by the stark reality of her circumstances, Rosalind found that she could not muster the energy to argue or protest. Perhaps this detached, pragmatic approach was better than the false promises and hollow sentiments she had once believed in. With a resigned sigh, she allowed her silence to speak for itself, and Lord Ashford seemed to take it as acceptance, his features betraying no hint of triumph or satisfaction.

For better or worse, their fates were now bound together, two souls united not by love or passion, but by the cold, harsh realities of their world.

***

T he moonlight cast long shadows across the walls of Rosalind's bedchamber, the silvery glow providing little comfort as she sat alone in the stillness of the night. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery of the gown that lay draped across her lap. A masterpiece of silk and lace that had been lovingly crafted for her upcoming nuptials.

Yet, as she ran her hands over the intricate stitches, Rosalind felt utterly detached from the garment and all that it represented. The gown, with its silver thread and delicate beading, was a symbol of her impending marriage to Lord Ashford, a union that had been arranged with little regard for her own desires or emotions.

As her mind drifted back to the events of the day, Rosalind felt as though she were merely an observer in her own life. She felt like a puppet whose strings were being pulled by forces beyond her control. She had endured yet another fitting, her body poked and prodded by seamstresses as they adjusted the gown to perfection.

Rosalind had moved through the motions with a sense of detachment, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She had responded to the questions and instructions with a polite, distant demeanour, her true feelings locked away behind a mask of indifference.

Now, in the solitude of her bedchamber, Rosalind allowed herself to confront the reality of her situation. She felt trapped, a prisoner of circumstance and societal expectations, her dreams and aspirations sacrificed on the altar of duty and obligation.

As her fingers traced the delicate lace of the gown, Rosalind's mind wandered to the memories of a time when she had dared to hope for something more than this life of dutiful submission. She thought of Alex, the man who had once ignited a fire within her soul, a passion that had burned brightly before being cruelly extinguished by the harsh realities of their world.

A tear rolled down Rosalind's cheek, a testament to her lingering pain. She had sacrificed her desires and dreams for her family. It had left her feeling oddly numb and hollow. All that she could truly say that she felt with any clarity was that she longed to escape, to break free. She would give anything to just run free, away from it all, her hair wild and loose, her feet bare as she ran across open fields.

Rosalind blinked, her surroundings slowly coming into focus. The scents of hay and leather filled her nostrils as she tightened the girth on her mare. A wave of confusion washed over her as she glanced around, unsure of how she had ended up here.

Her gaze fell upon her hands as they worked deftly to secure the saddle. Rosalind's brow furrowed, her mind a haze of uncertainty. She had no recollection of hastily throwing on a cloak over her nightgown or shoving her feet into her riding boots. It was as though her body had acted of its own accord, drawn to the stables by an inexplicable force.

A soft sound caught her attention, and Rosalind turned to see Isabella and Amelia standing in the doorway, their faces illuminated by the moon and showing their concern. Without a word, they moved forward, flanking her on either side as they stood beside the horse.

"You cannot talk me out of it," Rosalind croaked, her voice cracking with emotion. "I simply want to get as far away as possible."

Her hands shook as she reached up to adjust the saddle, her fingers fumbling with the straps. Isabella gently took Rosalind's hands in her own, drawing her into a warm embrace, wrapping her arms around her shoulders in a comforting gesture.

Wordlessly, Amelia untacked the horse, her movements calm and practised as she returned the bewildered mare to her stall. The sisters left the stable together, their footsteps slow and measured across the flagstones. As they stepped into the mews, a flickering lantern illuminated the figure of Lord Harrington, his face creased with suspicion. Clad in a robe and nightcap, he peered into the darkness, his voice stern as he demanded an explanation.

Amelia, ever the voice of reason, calmly replied, "Rosalind thought she saw a light in the stables, so we went to make sure a stable boy hadn't left a lantern burning."

Lord Harrington's gaze narrowed. "And? Was there?"

"No, it was only a trick of the moonlight," Isabella said coolly, her face all innocence. With a grunt, their father turned and left them, the shadows swallowing his retreating form.

In the sanctuary of Rosalind's bedchamber, her sisters gently removed her boots and brushed her hair with soothing strokes. They tucked her into bed, their presence a constant comfort throughout the night, a silent vigil to ward off the demons that threatened to consume her. Rosalind was grateful for them, for the way they anchored her to reality.

As much as she might wish to simply run away, maybe start a new life in Canada or Jamaica or anywhere else, she couldn't do that to her sisters. Their reputations would be ruined if Rosalind rejected another suitor, especially if she ran away. Besides, the engagement was announced—if she broke it, Lord Ashford would be within his rights to sue for breach of promise, and for all her frustrations with her father, she couldn't do that to him, either.

In the dark, without even opening her eyes, she extended her hand, searching out for the comforting grasp of another. She was answered by one of her sisters, which made her cry, and then she cried all the harder because in her heart of hearts, she still wished it was Alex's hand grasping her own.