Chapter 11

Rosalyn stared out of her bedchamber window. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and she should have been dressing for the duchess’ special afternoon tea party, but she could not focus. Her encounter with the duke, just a few hours before, played through her mind repeatedly. She recalled his gaze on her—so intense, so confusing—the way he talked so hesitantly, as though he was shy. She especially recalled the feeling of his fingers brushing against her own as she passed him the shawl. She could almost feel their brief, soft touch if she shut her eyes. It had been so swift, but it had seared through her nerve endings, making her body tingle.

“What is the matter with me?” she asked aloud. And, she wondered further, what was the matter with the duke? Since their meeting in the dining room at the ball he had been behaving differently. Less cold and silent, more attentive. The strange glances that he cast her way confused her.

She stood up, going to the wardrobe. She had to choose a dress to wear. As she opened it, a knock sounded at the door. She jumped, startled. Her nerves had been tightly strung since the morning.

“Yes?” she called a little shakily.

“Rosalyn! It’s me,” Georgina whispered in a particularly loud whisper through the door. “Can we come in?”

“We wanted to ask you about our dresses,” Isabel added, talking in a low voice.

Rosalyn opened the door and let them in. Georgina half-collapsed into the room from where she had been leaning on the wood. She had a mulberry-coloured gown in her arms. Isabel walked in behind her, carrying a very pale lavender blue gown. She shut the door behind them, and they stood awkwardly by the door, looking at Rosalyn.

“Are we disturbing you?” Isabel asked.

Rosalyn blinked and shook her head. “No. No, dears! Come in. I was just planning my own outfit. Come in!” she gestured them to the padded chair and the stool by the dressing table, the only two places to sit, besides the bed, in the room.

“I thought you mentioned you might wear brown?” Isabel asked attentively. Rosalyn nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I did. Or green?”

“Yes! Your beautiful sage-green day-dress. Do, do please wear it!” Georgina begged her.

Rosalyn went to her wardrobe uncertainly and opened it, taking out the gown. She had been unsure—it became her extremely well, but she had always felt a little self-conscious in it, since when she wore it in London it had drawn some stares. She took out the sage green gown and held it up against herself, studying her reflection in the looking glass opposite.

Her own hazel eyes stared back at her, seeming huge in her slender, pale face. She normally thought of her eyes as pale tawny brown, but when she wore the green dress, green flecks seemed to appear there, making them seem larger and striking.

“Oh, do wear it!” Georgina begged again. “It is such a becoming colour on you.”

“You do look very pretty, Rosalyn,” Isabel told her gently.

Rosalyn swallowed hard. She felt too shy to wear it—the last thing she wanted was to stand out. But if her sisters insisted, she could not refuse. Besides, she thought, her cheeks heating up, mayhap the duke would like it.

“I am going to wear this,” Georgina informed her, holding the dark red velvet dress up against herself. “You don’t think it clashes?” she gestured to her cinnamon curls.

“No. It suits you very well, Georgina,” Rosalyn assured her. Georgina did look very beautiful with her very pale skin and red hair shown up by the dark red gown. Her large caramel-brown eyes also showed up beautifully.

“I wondered about my hair,” Isabel informed Rosalyn as she held up the soft-blue gown. “I thought perhaps something similar to the chignon that you wore the other day? With a silver clasp? But mayhap that would be too formal for an afternoon event.” A frown creased her smooth brow, her slim face showing her worry. Isabel often worried about doing the right thing.

“I think that would be a good level of formality,” Rosalyn assured her sister gently. “You are a young debutante—dressing prettily could hardly be criticised in you.”

“Oh, Rosalyn,” Isabel said warmly. “You always make me feel at ease.”

“As you should,” Rosalyn told her softly. “As you should.”

She stepped behind the screen in the corner of the room to change into the green gown, and then her sisters were racing to take their turn. Time was in limited supply—they were expected to be ready by four o’clock, and they all still needed a ladies’ maid to arrange their hair.

“Now we had best hurry to our chamber,” Georgina said as she stepped out from behind the screen, the dark red dress hugging her curvaceous figure. Isabel was already dressed, waiting at the door, her black hair falling like water around her shoulders onto the pale lilac gown. Rosalyn’s heart twisted as it filled with love for her two younger sisters. They were so beautiful, so innocently full of joy and life. She smiled at them both.

“I shall meet you in the drawing room,” she said warmly.

They both hurried out of the door and into their own room, and Rosalyn shut the door behind them, smiling to herself. Let them keep that, she thought, a silent prayer. Please, let them keep their innocence.

She rang the bell to summon her maid to style her hair.

Twenty minutes later, her hair styled in an elegant but simple chignon decorated with a ribbon in a similar green, she walked into the hallway. She went to check if her sisters were in their chamber, but as she lifted her hand to knock, she heard the sound of hurrying feet. She whipped round, as her sisters must be running over to her, but her jaw dropped as she saw that it was not her sisters, but the duke.

He was dressed in a navy-blue tailcoat—so dark that it seemed black—with white shirt and dark brown trousers. His hair was tousled and his eyes round. He saw her and stopped, cheeks reddening.

“Miss Rothwell,” he stammered. “I did not know that you were here.”

“I was looking for my sisters,” Rosalyn said, frowning. “Is something amiss, Your Grace?”

“One of the horses. An older mare. She is sick. I was running to find the butler,” he explained. “Someone needs to fetch the apothecary.”

“Is she coughing?” Rosalyn asked.

“Yes.” The duke nodded briskly. He had turned towards the stairs. “She was coughing all morning, the stable hand said. Intermittent coughing. She looks weary and frightened. I need to do something to help. She is not strong.”

He was walking down the stairs, Rosalyn keeping pace beside him. They reached the entranceway. The duke gestured to a footman who was hurrying past.

“Stratford? Where is Mr Morton?”

“He is outdoors, Your Grace,” the footman replied respectfully. “A cart of ale came in and he went to direct the unloading.”

“Oh, for...” The duke looked as though he was trying not to swear. He strode towards the door. “I will find him myself. I have to explain to him what to do.” He reached for his greatcoat and shrugged it on, and Rosalyn reached for her pelisse as he opened the door. The cold air cut her like a knife, and she gasped. She tugged on her pelisse, hesitating. She did not have to go outside, but the mare’s plight had awakened her interest and compassion, and she could not simply go to a warm, genteel drawing room and ignore it.

“The stable boy said the warmth improved it,” the duke continued to relate. “I told him to feed her warm mash. The apothecary should see her. He has cures for everything,” he stated, sounding worried. Rosalyn followed him down the steps and into the garden.

“I am sure she can be cured,” Rosalyn said gently. Her gaze held his.

“I hope so,” he said softly. His brow furrowed as he looked down. “She is...special.”

Rosalyn swallowed hard. She knew how he felt. She loved her horse, Marmalade, with every fibre of her. If Marmalade were to be coughing, she would be as worried as he was. All the horses were important to her, but Marmalade and Swallowtail, the old stallion with a white blaze in the shape of a swallowtail across his long, greying nose, were even more special than the rest.

“I am sure she can be cured. Horses can cough for many reasons. As you know,” she demurred. She respected the duke’s knowledge of his horses.

“I hope so,” he repeated. “Mr Morton!” He shouted to the butler, who was instructing a carter unloading a cart full of barrels. The butler came over at once. He bowed to the duke.

“Your Grace. May I assist you?”

"I need someone to fetch the apothecary. At once. Bring him here. Buttercup is ailing and needs some assistance.”

The butler inclined his head. “At once, Your Grace.” He strode off to summon a rider. Rosalyn stood with the duke. It was freezing cold, a chilly breeze tugging at her skirt. She shivered. She had no gloves with her, and she balled her hands into fists, trying to keep her fingers warm.

“You’re shivering,” the duke said softly. He was standing no more than the length of her forearm away. His grey gaze was troubled. He reached for her hand. “Your fingers are cold. Go inside,” he said gently.

Rosalyn stopped breathing as he clasped his fingers delicately around her own. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, and she stared into his eyes. His own grey gaze held hers. Her fingers tingled with his touch.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said softly.

His gaze lingered a moment and then he turned away.

He let her hand go and she hurried back up the stairs and into the house. The warmth seemed stifling after the intense cold. She shrugged off her pelisse and glanced in a looking glass, checking that her hair was still tidy. She tucked a curl behind one ear and hurried up the steps.

She turned at the sound of footsteps. The duke was hurrying up the stairs after her. The clock struck four as they reached the hallway and they increased their pace, rushing into the drawing room.

“And I...oh!”

The Duchess was standing by the tea table, inviting the guests who had already assembled there to help themselves. She turned and stared as Rosalyn and the duke stumbled in. Her gaze narrowed as she studied Rosalyn.

Rosalyn glanced at the duke. He glanced at her briefly and her heart almost stopped at the look in his eyes. Amused, rueful and tender, it drew her in.

She turned towards the guests, determined to face them all boldly and not to let them intimidate her. The duke walked beside her, and they slipped into the crowd together, determined to enjoy the afternoon.