“Poppy. Forget the clothes! What does he look like?”
“Handsome,” Poppy summed up unhelpfully.
“Poppy!”
“Oh, fine. He’s just over six feet, and not a bit of him fat. Broad shoulders and all that.”
Rosalind had sensed that part already. “Yes, I know he’s tall. But what color is his hair? Eyes?”
“His hair is dark brown, with a little red in it. And his eyes are very green, like Aunt Gertrude’s emeralds. Do you remember them?”
“Oh, yes.” As a young girl, Rose had frequently stared into the emeralds of a necklace that her mother owned, mesmerized by the shifting deep greens. It was one of her strongest visual memories.
Poppy went on, “I’m sure most women would agree that he’s got a nice smile too. He was practically laughing when we met, and he returned you to us. I think he was enjoying himself immensely.”
“Immensely,” Rose echoed, smiling at the lingering memory of the kiss she’d received from him. It had been worth it, she decided, even if it meant she had to endure Hynes’s attempt to humiliate her previously.
It was even worth enduring her mother’s litany of complaints about the dissolution of all good manners among the ton. The ride back home last night had been taxing to say the least.
In the carriage, Rose answered her mother’s hysterical questions about the Viscount Norbury and his behavior over the few minutes he’d been with her. Rose dutifully related the story of Hynes’s disappearance and Norbury’s rescue with little embellishment. (Though, not being a fool, she left out the kiss in the garden. That decision turned out to be a wise one, considering her mother almost succumbed to the vapors as it was.)
At home, the girls were sent to their bedroom immediately. Rose kept her hand on the varnished railing, automatically counting the steps (fourteen, and the third from the top always squeaked). But once in their room, they had no intention of sleeping, and Poppy insisted on hearing every detail over again as they changed into night shifts and loosed their hair for brushing.
“What did Mr. Hynes do, exactly? I know you didn’t tell Auntie everything.”
Rosalind related the prank in full (her cousin not being known for fainting), and heard Poppy gasp with indignation.
“What an awful man! And he seemed so polite when he spoke to us all.”
“Well, first impressions do not always hold true,” Rosalind said. She thought again of Norbury. Her first impression of him was that he was something of a knight for stepping in to help a girl he didn’t even know.
But apparently he, too, was not what he seemed to be. She sighed. At least she understood his kiss now––a rake wouldn’t think twice about playing with a woman’s affections. In fact, he probably hadn’t even realized he was doing it. But Rosalind couldn’t forget his touch. It was just as well, she thought, that she would never meet him again. He was a walking scandal; she was a proper young woman. But in the darkness, sleep eluded her, and her thoughts were not proper at all.
Luckily, a new day brought new life, and Rose was in a good mood as she and Poppy walked downstairs to the breakfast room after they finished the letter to Daisy.
The elder Blakes were there already. Rose smelled the strong coffee her father favored in the mornings, and heard the rustle of the early newspapers as he flipped through them in search of items of interest.
“There’s our girls,” Mr. Blake said as they entered. “Looking as lovely as ever!”
“Morning, Papa,” Rose returned as she went to her usual seat. “I assume you have heard what happened last night.”
“You mean the little event that nearly destroyed your poor mother’s nerves? Why yes, I did hear something about that.” He chuckled, evidently not too concerned about the ramifications. Mr. Blake was a barrister, and it took a lot to rile him up. Arguing before the bar tended to sharpen one’s ability to take bad news in stride, considering there was always someone on the other side working to undermine your own efforts.
“It’s not something to take lightly, Dillon,” her mother said from her own chair. “That man is nothing more than a stack of scandals with a title.”
“What sort of scandals, exactly?” Poppy asked, eagerness in her voice.
“I told you both last night in the carriage,” Mrs. Blake replied. “He’s a rake. A rogue. A…”
“Rapscallion?” Poppy supplied, putting a plate with toast in front of Rose.
“Rascal,” Mr. Blake added.
“Reprobate,” Rose said.
“Oh, good one, darling,” her father noted.
Mrs. Blake huffed out in frustration. “None of you are taking this seriously.”
