30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

L ady Rosalind fought to keep her composure as the dinner party unfolded around her. The idle chatter and forced laughter grated on her nerves. She sat beside Lord Ashford, her new suitor, a man whose wealth and status had been deemed a suitable match for her by her father, but whose dull demeanour and vapid conversation left her feeling utterly uninspired.

As the discussion turned to the Enclosure Acts, a topic that stirred Rosalind's passions, she found herself leaning forward. She was eager to share her thoughts and engage in the lively debate. Before she could even utter a word, though, Lord Ashford fixed her with a withering glare, his eyes narrowing in disapproval.

"My dear," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "Surely such weighty matters are beyond the scope of a lady's interest. Would you not be better suited to contemplating matters of dress and decorum?"

His gaze swept over her scandalously daring gown, a modern French creation with short, puffed sleeves.Rosalind felt her cheeks burn with indignation, her mouth opening to deliver a scathing retort, but before she could speak, her father cleared his throat pointedly, silencing her with a single, sharp glance.

The evening wore on, and as the guests departed, Lord Ashford turned to Rosalind with a self-satisfied smirk. "I shall call upon you tomorrow, my dear," he announced, his tone brooking no argument. "We shall take a turn about Regent's Park, and I expect you to present yourself as befits the future Lady Ashford."

Rosalind seethed, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as she fought to maintain her composure. Lord Ashford's high-handed manner needled her, his casual dismissal of her intellect and opinions a bitter reminder of the constraints placed upon her by society. Anger surged through Rosalind, yet a spark of defiance emerged.

As she retired to her chambers, her thoughts turned unbidden to Alex, the Duke of Somerton, the man who had once seen her as an equal, a partner in intellect and wit. She remembered the way he had listened to her opinions, engaged with her in lively debates, and never once made her feel lesser for being a woman. Despite the pang of longing, Rosalind steeled herself against heartbreak.

She was not the same naive girl who had fallen so deeply for Alex's charms. The betrayal she had suffered had tempered her spirit, forging her into something stronger, more resilient. And as she gazed out over the darkened grounds of her family's estate, Rosalind felt a renewed sense of determination coursing through her veins. She would not be cowed by the expectations of society, nor would she allow herself to be diminished by the narrow-minded attitudes of men like Lord Ashford.

She was Lady Rosalind Harrington, and she would forge her own path, no matter the obstacles that stood in her way.

***

A s the maid's nimble fingers deftly styled Rosalind's fiery tresses, piling her curls atop her head in an intricate coiffure befitting a lady of her station, Rosalind felt a surge of rebellion well up within her. With a sharp shake of her head, she brushed the maid's hands away, ignoring the woman's startled gasp.

"No," she declared, her voice ringing with defiance. "Not today."

Ignoring the maid's protests, Rosalind reached up and tugged at the pins, loosening the elaborate style until her russet locks tumbled freely down her back in a cascade of untamed curls. She bound them loosely with a ribbon, allowing a few tendrils to escape and frame her face, lending her an air of wild, nymph-like beauty.

Next, Rosalind turned her attention to the gown laid out before her, a confection of delicate muslin in the latest French style, its neckline demurely filled with a chemisette to preserve propriety. With a mischievous grin, she plucked the offending garment away, leaving the neckline of her dress tantalizingly low, daring to bare the creamy expanse of her décolletage. If she wasn't careful, the upper edge of her stays would show.

As she slipped into the gown, the sheer fabric clinging to her curves in a way that would surely scandalise the ton, Rosalind felt a thrill of exhilaration course through her veins. For too long, she had allowed herself to be constrained by the rigid expectations of society. Her every move and thought dictated by the narrow-minded dictates of men like Lord Ashford.

But no more.

Today, she would meet her would-be suitor on her own terms, a defiant declaration of her refusal to be cowed or diminished. If Lord Ashford wished to court her, he would have to accept her as she truly was – a woman of intellect and spirit, unafraid to challenge the boundaries that sought to confine her.

With a final, rebellious toss of her head, Rosalind swept from the room, her dress floating along lightly as she nearly skipped down the stairs. She was Lady Rosalind Harrington, and today, she would embrace the untamed essence that burned within her, consequences be damned.

As she reached the foyer, she caught sight of Amelia waiting for her, eyes widening in surprise at her sister's daring appearance.

"Rosalind, what are you doing?" Amelia hissed, taking in the low neckline and unbound tresses with a mix of shock and concern. "Surely you don't intend to meet Lord Ashford looking so... unkempt?"

A wild smile curved Rosalind's lips as she met her sister's gaze, a defiant gleam sparking in her emerald eyes. "And why ever not, dear sister?" she countered, her tone light but laced with an edge of recklessness. "If Lord Ashford wishes to court me, he shall have to accept me as I am – a woman unbound by the stifling constraints of society's expectations."

Before Amelia could respond, the maid hurried forward, parasol in hand, her brow furrowed in disapproval. "Your parasol, my lady," she murmured, holding it out expectantly.

Rosalind's smile widened as she brushed past the maid without a second glance, leaving the poor woman gaping in her wake. "I shan't be needing that today," she called over her shoulder, ignoring Amelia's dismayed protests as she swept through the open door and out into the warm London air.

The warmth of the late spring day enveloped Rosalind as she strolled through the verdant splendour of Regent's Park, her skirts swishing lightly with each defiant step. From the moment Lord Ashford had laid eyes upon her, his gaze sweeping over her dishevelled appearance with undisguised disapproval, she had known this promenade would be a battle of wills.

His lips had tightened into a thin line, but Rosalind merely met his censure with a pointed smile, daring him to comment on her brazen defiance of propriety. To his credit, Lord Ashford remained silent, though the muscle twitching in his jaw betrayed his displeasure as he gestured stiffly for them to begin their walk.

As they ambled along the winding paths, Rosalind tuned out the droning monotone of Lord Ashford's voice. His words were a tedious litany of hunting exploits and other masculine pursuits that held no interest for her. It was about the time that he was describing shooting yet another buck in the Scottish Highlands that she completely gave up listening. Instead, she allowed her senses to revel in the beauty that surrounded them – the vibrant blooms nodding in the gentle breeze, the rich earthen scents mingling with the crisp tang of new foliage, the warmth of the sun's caress upon her bare shoulders.

"Don't you agree, Lady Rosalind?" he demanded suddenly, jarring her out of her reverie. "Is it not an exciting prospect?"

Rosalind blinked, her lips curving into a saccharine smile as she turned her gaze upon him. "Thrilling, my lord," she purred, her tone laced with barely-concealed sarcasm. "It's difficult to believe you haven't been married yet, with how fascinating your conversations are."

A strangled sound escaped Amelia's lips, and Rosalind could feel her sister's disapproving stare burning into the back of her head. She paid it no mind, her attention focused solely on Lord Ashford, watching as a flicker of surprise – and something darker, more predatory – kindled in his pale eyes.

"Indeed, Lady Rosalind," he retorted, his voice deceptively mild as he regarded her with new interest. "One might say the same about you. Though I must confess, I do so love a challenge." His gaze raked over her once more, lingering on the swell of her bosom visible above the low neckline of her gown. "Beautiful creatures are all the more alluring when they prove... difficult to tame."

A delicate shiver traced its way down Rosalind's spine, but she refused to allow Lord Ashford to see her discomfiture. Lifting her chin, she met his hungry stare with defiant eyes, silently vowing that she would never be merely another pretty bauble in his collection, no matter how he might try to break her spirit.

Rosalind felt the barbed words rising in her throat, a biting retort on her lips. She was mere moments away from unleashing her sharp tongue upon the hapless Lord Ashford when Amelia's gentle touch upon her arm stilled her. A pair was approaching them, walking along the same perfectly manicured path. The lady wore a walking dress in a startling shade of bright green, and the gentleman swung a walking stick by his side as if he owned that whole side of the path.

"Ah, Sir Browning and Lady Browning," Amelia greeted warmly, her voice a soothing balm amidst the rising tension. "How delightful to see you both."

Reluctantly, Rosalind turned to face the distinguished-looking couple, her rebellious ire momentarily dampened by the prospect of new company. As the pleasantries were exchanged, she found her attention drifting, dismissing their polite chatter as yet another tedious stream of gossip and meaningless prattle. Lady Browning favoured her with a disapproving glare in the direction of her exposed décolletage, but Rosalind ignored her, letting her mind and eyes wander.

That is, until a familiar name reached her ears, jolting her from her wandering thoughts like a bolt of lightning.

"...the Duke of Somerton, you see," Lady Browning was saying, her voice thick with self-importance. "There have been the most intriguing rumours about him of late."

Rosalind's heart skipped a beat and she struggled to breathe. "Forgive me, Lady Browning," she interjected, her tone strained despite her efforts to maintain an air of nonchalance. "But what precisely did you say about the Duke?"

Lady Browning's eyes widened slightly at Rosalind's sudden interest, but she was clearly too delighted at the prospect of sharing her salacious gossip to question it. "Why, I was merely commenting on the rumours that the Duke has been seen about London with a most peculiar woman – a widow, they say, of some French nobleman or other. The whispers are that he intends to make her his wife!"

The world seemed to tilt beneath Rosalind's feet as the implications of Lady Browning's words sank in, a leaden weight settling in the pit of her stomach. So the Duke had well and truly moved on, it seemed – and with remarkable swiftness, if the gossipmongers were to be believed.

Dizziness overcame her, blurring her vision and causing a cold sweat. Distantly, she was aware of Amelia's concerned voice calling her name, but it sounded as if she were speaking from the other end of a long tunnel.

"Rosalind? Rosalind, are you quite well? You've gone terribly pale..."

Before she could muster a response, Lord Ashford was at her side, his arm extended in a silent offer of support. Though every fibre of her being rebelled against the thought of accepting his aid, Rosalind found herself grasping his proffered limb, her slender fingers curling around the crook of his elbow as she fought to remain upright.

"Perhaps we should make our way back," he murmured. His tone laced with a strange sort of gentleness that seemed at odds with the predatory gleam she had witnessed in his eyes mere moments ago.

Too proud – and too shaken – to protest, Rosalind could only nod mutely, allowing Lord Ashford to guide her away from the Brownings and back along the path that would lead them home. The weight of her situation grew with each step, leaving her adrift in despair.

The Duke had moved on. And now, it seemed, so too must she.

***

R osalind felt a heavy weight with Lord Ashford beside her on the way back to Harrington House. She longed to retreat to the solitude of her bedchamber, to find some quiet corner where she might curl up and shut out the world, if only for a few precious moments. Alas, it seemed the day's torments were far from over.

No sooner had they crossed the threshold into the manor's grand foyer than Lord Harrington swept in to greet them, his jovial tones grating against Rosalind's frayed nerves. "Ah, there you are! I trust you enjoyed your walk in the park?"

Before Rosalind could muster a response, Lord Ashford spoke up, his voice carrying an undercurrent of finality. "Indeed, it was most...enlightening," he said, his gaze flicking briefly towards Rosalind. "In fact, I believe it would be prudent for us to settle the matter of our marriage with all due haste."

Rosalind's heart stuttered in her chest, her eyes widening as Lord Ashford's words washed over her like a crashing wave of icy water. Marry him? So soon? Panic gripped her, her throat constricting as she fought to draw breath.

"I have already applied for a special licence," Lord Ashford continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress. "And I would like us to be wed within three weeks' time."

Three weeks? The room seemed to spin around Rosalind, her vision blurring at the edges as Lord Harrington's muffled agreement reached her ears. She opened her mouth to protest, to beg for more time, but the only words that emerged were a feeble, "Surely such a short engagement will only add fuel to the gossip fires?"

Lord Ashford fixed her with a pointed stare, his expression hardening. "On the contrary, my dear," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "A prolonged engagement would do neither of us any favours. It would be best for you to be settled sooner rather than later." He offered her a condescending smile that sent a shiver of revulsion down Rosalind's spine. "Once you have born a few children, I daresay your mind will be sufficiently occupied."

Rosalind recoiled as if he had struck her, feeling a mixture of humiliation and outrage rising within her. How dare he speak to her in such a manner, as if she were nothing more than a broodmare to be bred and put out to pasture?

Yet even as her pride stung beneath the weight of his callous words, she found herself powerless to resist. She was raised to believe that a woman's value hinged on her fertility – a truth she once resisted, but now couldn't evade.

With a curt nod, she excused herself from their company, retreating to the sanctuary of her bedchamber with as much dignity as she could muster. Once inside, her composure crumbled, and she sank onto her bed, overwhelmed by despair.

She had thought herself prepared for this moment, had steeled her heart against the inevitability of a loveless match. Yet now, faced with the harsh reality of her situation, she found herself adrift in a sea of hopelessness, her dreams of a life filled with passion and purpose slowly slipping away.

Rosalind drew in a shuddering breath, her eyes drifting towards the window and the world beyond. Perhaps, she mused, her new position might afford her opportunities to make a difference, to use her influence for good. It was a hollow comfort, but one she clung to nevertheless, a feeble light in the darkness that now seemed to stretch endlessly before her.