Chapter 23

Rosalyn sat on the end of her bed. Her stomach hurt, and her head ached. She was dressed in her red gown, prepared to attend the duchess’ planned music evening, but the thought of attending made her feel sick and Philippa’s insinuation that all the guests were watching her had not helped. She had always disliked having to perform in public—playing an instrument was not something she enjoyed, and she did not like to sing in front of people. While there was no pressure placed on any of the guests to perform, the young ladies would almost certainly be expected to, and it was one area in which she felt lacking. She did not want to perform in front of the judgmental, critical duchess.

She frowned as someone knocked at the door.

“Betty?” she called, thinking it was her maid. Instead, Georgina and Isabel answered her through the door.

“Sister? Sister! May we come in?”

“Of course,” Rosalyn said. She stood and opened the door.

“Sister!” Isabel called out. Rosalyn frowned. While her sisters usually came into her chamber to complete their outfits—seeking advice about their hairstyles or borrowing fans or shawls—they were always high-spirited. This time, though, their eyes were wide, faces pale and tense.

“Isabel? Georgina? Whatever is the matter?” Rosalyn’s heart thudded. Was one of them also feeling sick? Had something happened? Was their father unwell? A hundred thoughts raced through her mind.

Isabel looked at Georgina.

“Shall we...?”

“I don’t know...” Georgina said unsteadily in answer.

Rosalyn stared at them. “Sisters?” she asked, heart racing. “Please. Whatever it is, tell me. I want to know. I must.” Their father was ill, she knew it. Sebastian. Something had happened to Sebastian. Her hands clenched into fists, fear stiffening her entire body.

“We were walking in the hallway,” Isabel began. “And we heard...”

“He said it. He said he was going to marry someone else.” Georgina concluded in a rush.

“Who?” Rosalyn said carefully. “Who said what?” Her head pounded, the headache pressing in on her forehead like an iron fist.

“The duke,” Georgina blurted. “I am so sorry.” She was crying.

“We didn’t believe it,” Isabel said. “But his mother was there. It was her!” Isabel said angrily. “It is all her fault. She’s rude. She hates us. All of us.”

“I know,” Rosalyn said. Her voice was a whisper. None of it made sense. She could not believe it. She swayed, losing her balance. Georgina rushed forward, grabbing her, hauling her upright.

“Rosalyn! Don’t fall. Forget about him,” she said angrily, her voice rising. “He’s just horrible. And what sort of man listens to his mother when he’s...he’s...old,” she completed her sentence.

“He’s not that old,” Isabel protested.

Rosalyn shook her head. Part of her wanted to find their comments amusing and part of her even did. Yet the overwhelming majority of her felt as if she were trapped in a snowstorm of confusion and shock. What could have happened? Surely, her sisters were mistaken?

She hates us, Rosalyn thought, her heart twisting.

That was undeniable. The duchess had been rude and hurtful from the first moment that her family had met her. She had not once attempted to be friendly or caring—even being welcoming had seemed too much for her. She had accommodated them and made sure that they were taken care of, but she had never even spoken to Rosalyn, and she had made it clear that she found the company of other people more appealing than she did that of Rosalyn and her family.

“I want to tell him how horrible he is,” Georgina said angrily. “I think we should go and find him.”

“We cannot do that,” Isabel said quickly. “We are in his house.”

“Sisters...” Rosalyn said quietly. She was struggling to think, and their heated argument about whether or not to tell the duke was not making it easier. “Please. We shall do nothing,” she said quickly.

“But Rosalyn!” Georgina protested. “He cannot do that. It’s wicked! It’s wrong!”

“It is not his fault,” Isabel said. “It’s her. She’s wicked! The duchess, I mean.”

Rosalyn drew a breath. “We shall do nothing for the moment,” she said quickly. Her heart raced. “All we shall do is attend the musicale.”

She had not wished to go—she had felt too sick. But now, something drove her to do it. Even if she did have to perform and her performance was appalling, she did not care. The duchess already hated her. She had already decided that Rosalyn and her family were beneath her, and were worthless. It did not matter how bad Rosalyn was at playing the pianoforte and singing. It would make no difference to anything.

“You want to go?” Her sister demanded. “We should avoid everything that horrid woman plans!”

“It is for Rosalyn to decide,” Isabel said carefully. She looked at Rosalyn. “Sister?”

Rosalyn took a breath. “I wish to go,” she said, her heart filled with cold bitterness. There was nothing the duchess could do to hurt her. Nothing that would hurt her more than what she had done. There was no point in feeling shy or avoiding her.

Georgina gaped at her. Isabel lifted a hand, quelling whatever Georgina was about to say.

“If Rosalyn wishes to,” Isabel said carefully.

Georgina shrugged. “Very well,” she agreed. “But myself, I think we should tell the duchess that her silly musical evenings are not welcome. Nothing of hers is.”

Rosalyn smiled. Her heart was in more pain than she could imagine, her mind in such turmoil that she could not yet think to fathom what they had said. But they cared, and that touched her. She took a deep breath. Lifting her reticule, she went to the door, her sisters following her.

“Daughters!” Papa greeted them in the hallway. Rosalyn blinked. She looked away, trying not to cry, her father’s friendly manner touching her more than she could say. “Come! Let us go down. My, how beautiful you are!”

Georgina looked as though she might say something, but Isabel lifted a finger to hush her, and they all walked down the stairs together. Rosalyn walked beside Sebastian. She kept her back straight, her face stiff. She wanted to cry, to run away. But she could not. She was the Honourable Miss Rothwell. And she would not let the duchess heap more shame on her.

“Capital,” Sebastian murmured as they reached the entranceway. It was crowded with guests and Rosalyn glanced up, knowing that her brother did not mean it as a compliment. They stood on the edge of the group while the duchess greeted her guests and invited them into the ballroom.

The ballroom was filled with chairs, and the pianoforte had—somehow—been moved from the drawing-room into the space. Trestles with refreshments had been set out further down the room, and there the guests stood and sampled the delicacies while exchanging polite conversation.

Rosalyn found a space at the far end of the room. Her mind felt empty as if frozen. She could not feel a thing—just a cold, blank void. She gazed out of the window at the evening snow, the hum of conversation and the laughter of the guests drifting past her, distant and muffled.

She spotted the duke staring at her across the room. She stiffened and looked the other way, turning her back on him to stare out of the window. She could not bear it. She could not look into those grey eyes and think of what he had said. He had not even had the decency to tell her himself. Her gaze fixed on the falling snow, and she tried to focus on the delicate flakes. If she could just trace their patterns, perhaps she could lose herself in them and forget everything else.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the duchess called. “Our musical evening will begin! If everyone could make their way to the chairs? I invite one of you to come forward to begin the entertainment for the evening.”

Rosalyn turned around and gazed straight at the woman. To her surprise, the duchess looked straight back. Her cold blue eyes held Rosalyn’s and Rosalyn was surprised to see their gaze widen, almost as if the other woman was afraid. Then the duchess turned away.

“Please, find a seat,” she called to the guests.

Rosalyn blinked and looked away.

“Come, sister,” Georgina said, appearing on her left.

“We will find a place to sit,” Isabel told her, gesturing towards the chairs.

Rosalyn allowed her two sisters to lead her to a chair. She was grateful for their presence—being in the room was only possible because of it.

“Ah! Lady Amelia! Will you go first? That is most kind,” the duchess was saying as Rosalyn looked away from studying the front of the room. There was a window there, and if she focused on it, she could watch the snow and forget where she was.

Everyone greeted the performer with polite applause. Rosalyn clapped, barely aware of what she was doing. Every part of her that was able to think was focused on the snow, while the rest of her was a whirling blank.

Someone was playing the pianoforte. If she listened to it, she recognised strains of the tune. Her mind refused to focus on it. It kept on repeating the words she had heard, while the rest of her tried to ignore it.

The crowd applauded and another young lady went up to play. Rosalyn wondered distantly if one of her sisters would play, but they sat resolutely still as one young lady after another went up to perform. Rosalyn watched them, seeing debutantes and ladies going up to perform. Her heart twisted. It felt as though they were part of a parade, each performance a reminder of her own weaknesses, her own inadequacies. You are not one of us , it seemed to scream. You are not one of us .

“Thank you for being so attentive, ladies and gentlemen!” the duchess announced, making Rosalyn blink. “I invite you all to join us for a brief interval. Please feel welcome to partake of refreshments.” She gestured to the tables on the other side of the room.

The murmur of conversation began, growing louder as people stood up, pushed back their chairs and moved towards the refreshments table. Rosalyn blinked. The room was whirling, and she felt sick and dizzy. She tried to stand up and stumbled backwards.

“Rosalyn!” Georgina cried out.

“Are you quite well, sister?” Isabel demanded, sounding concerned.

“I am well,” Rosalyn managed to say. She was about to cry. She could feel it and she did not want anyone to see. Not the duchess, not the ladies who had performed, and not her sisters—although for a different reason. “I just need some air.” She looked away, trying to hide her expression.

“We shall come with you,” Georgina said at once.

“I think Rosalyn might wish to go by herself?” Isabel asked, looking at Rosalyn. Rosalyn nodded.

“Thank you, sisters,” she said softly. “I would like to go alone. I am just feeling a little unwell. I shall only be a moment—just a moment,” she reassured them.

She walked as briskly as she could through the milling guests, heading to the terrace. A footman opened the doors, and she strode out, fleeing to the railing. She leaned against it, her shoulders shaking. Tears ran down her face, soaking it. She could not stop crying. It was cruel pain, as cruel as a knife, as the winter cold.

She sobbed again, unable to hold it back a second longer. She had tried so hard to contain herself. The pain had solidified, the confusion lifting and the impact of it hitting her full in the stomach. She sobbed and sobbed and gasped and sobbed again.

“Miss Rothwell?” A voice spoke behind her. It was quiet, middle-register, one she recognised, and it was not the duke. She spun round.

“Lord Winbrook?” she said, disbelief making her voice shrill. She hastily lifted a hand, batting away her tears. The last person she wished to see at that moment was someone who already made her feel weak and afraid.

“Miss Rothwell,” he said softly. “Why! My dear lady! Whatever is the matter?”

“I am quite well,” Rosalyn replied, hastily pulling a handkerchief from her purse and wiping her face. “Just feeling indisposed. That is all.”

“Oh, my poor dear lady,” Lord Winbrook said softly. He stepped close and, to her horror, his arms wrapped around her, drawing her close. “Allow me to offer you comfort.”

She went stiff. Horror rooted her to the spot. His closeness was so unwanted, so nauseating, so unexpected, that it froze her to the spot. She could not move or breathe or think, shock robbing her of words or action.

“I would like to help,” he breathed.

Rosalyn drew in a breath, trying to find words, desperate to think of a way of pushing him away. She did not know what to say, but as she tried to find the words, the door to the ballroom burst open.

“Oh! Your Grace!” Lady Philippa’s voice cried out in alarm.

Rosalyn whipped around in horror to see Callum and Lady Philippa staring at her.