“Sighs often are long, Your Grace,” Rose retorted, surprised at how clearly and steadily her voice emerged, despite the quickening beat of her heart.
Glancing sideways in the hope that Magnus might intervene and divert this man’s unsettling attention, she saw that her brother was still caught up in his animated horse conversation. Rose did not like to interrupt him without cause and doubted Magnus would understand that it disturbed her to be studied in this way.
Why should the Duke of Ravenhill look at her like that? Rose was not at all sure whether she liked it, particularly since there had been no chance for formal introduction and he would not even know her name. Wasn’t the attention of so many other women around the table enough for him? Did Dorian Voss think Rose was one of his models or actresses? That idea made her feel unusually indignant.
Rose only hoped that the duke would quickly lose interest in her, as most gentlemen did once they realized how painfully shy she could be. Her non-committal reply, however, seemed somehow to encourage him.
“You sigh beautifully,” the duke observed, those black eyes still trained intently on her face. “Then, I am sure you do all things beautifully. I do not see how it could be otherwise.”
Rose had no idea how to respond to such a comment, unsure whether it was even a compliment, or something else more dangerous. An invitation? There was something in the intensity of his sculpted face that seemed almost predatory and she wished she could look away, or even better, run from the room. At one-and-twenty, however, proper behavior was expected from a young lady, even when discomposed.
“Could you pass me the butter please, Your Grace?” Rose asked after a few moments once she realized that Dorian Voss was still waiting for some sort of response from her, and knowing it would be rude to say nothing at all.
At this polite request, the Duke of Ravenhill laughed and acceded.
“Your wish is my command, My Lady,” he added as he passed the required dish, that unnerving smile still lingering at the corners of his too-handsome mouth although he thankfully said nothing further.
Rose took a sip of wine and then tried to occupy herself with the soup as various conversations rose and fell around her. She was particularly glad to hear Lady Lepford’s voice addressing the Duke of Ravenhill, praying that the charms of this acknowledged society beauty would soon eclipse whatever he might briefly have found interesting in Rose.
“Was your business in Chelsea concluded successfully, Your Grace?” asked the golden-haired dowager marchioness.
Lady Lepford was an elegant and shapely woman somewhere in her thirties, enjoying both the title from her long-dead husband and the considerable fortune of her own diamond mining family. Rank, money and beauty together gave her all the social cachet and independence she could want.
“Most successfully, Lady Lepford,” Rose heard Dorian Voss answer, his voice as deep and resonant as a rumble of distant thunder. “I trust your own recent visit to Edinburgh was equally felicitous.”
Lady Lepford laughed somewhat archly.
“Most felicitous, thank you. There is, however, always virtue and pleasure in returning to ones old friends, I find…”
Now the two of them laughed together at a joke Rose could not make out, although she was gathering that they must know one another well. Uncomfortable both with the Duke of Ravenhill’s presence and her own eavesdropping, she forced herself to focus elsewhere.
Rose raised her eyes cautiously to look around the table. If she wished to make Edwin happy, whom else might she seek to know from this party? Her gaze lighted on the Earl of Gillingham, a tall, thin man with light brown hair and silver-framed spectacles whom she remembered being introduced as a collector of antique books.
Lord Gillingham was an unassuming bachelor who had not engaged in last night’s games or fun, had gone to bed early,and had barely looked up from his newspaper at breakfast time. Rose gathered that he was there with his more sociable sister Lady Susan, and her husband Sir Arthur Golden, who were both determined to “bring him out of himself.” Was Lord Gillingham shy like Rose..?
An idea began to form itself in Rose’s mind as she contemplated the oblivious gray-suited man halfway down the table. In the present fever of her blood, the initial seed grew, bloomed and bore fruit quickly. Within minutes she had begun to see Lord Gillingham as an ideal husband – quietly-spoken, bookish and unlikely to ever wish to be the center of attention in a room.
How wonderful if she could strike up an acquaintance at this house party with a man who could so easily be her one true love. In her mind’s eye, Rose imagined walking together with Lord Gillingham in gardens and libraries, talking earnestly of everlasting love, promising their hearts to one another…
Then, she imagined winning the approval of her brothers, and seeing the joy of her father on discovering she was to marry such a suitable gentleman. Madeline and her younger sister and cousin could be Rose’s bridesmaids and they would all wear flowers in their hair, just as lovely as those worn at Josephine and Cassius’ wedding three months ago.
With a frown, Rose remembered that it was winter and flowers less available and various. There were hothouses on her father’s estate, of course, but even so, she supposed she could not expect the exact arrangements as a summer wedding. Might it be better to wait until next summer, perhaps..?
With a pang, Rose thought of her father in his sickbed at Westvale Park, and seeming increasingly unlikely to ever rise from it after that awful attack of apoplexy a year ago. No, a quick wedding would be better for everyone, she decided, even without her favorite flowers.
When Lord Gillingham looked up from his soup and noticed Rose gazing at him starry-eyed, he looked confused for a moment but then returned his eyes to his plate and continued to eat without even returning her smile.
How shy he must be, Rose marveled! She wished they were seated closer so that she might strike up some conversation but it would have to wait. Neither of them had personalities or manners that would allow them to shout so far along a table and across other people.
Returning to her own soup, Rose found that the Duke of Ravenhill was watching her again, with an amused gaze that made her briefly feel as though her body and soul were both bare to him. Refusing to meet his eyes, she thought she heard a faint chuckle and blushed as brightly as the red roses she had been imagining in her fantasy wedding bouquet.
“Do you think Lord Gillingham is avoiding me, Josephine?” Rose asked the Duchess of Ashbourne as they returned together to the ballroom from the ladies’ retiring room. “He seemed such a nice man and yet, I cannot make him out.”
“Oh, Lord Gillingham avoids everyone, Rose,” her friend laughed. “He is most unsocial and was only invited as a favor to Lady Susan and Sir Arthur. Why not talk to George Wilkins instead? He is a much nicer young man for you, if a little silly. Or talk to Benedict, who is always the best company in the world.”
“Perhaps Lord Gillingham is only shy,” suggested Rose, persisting in this belief despite Josephine’s assertion. “If I could only…”
At that moment, the Duke of Ashbourne appeared and swept his wife away to the dance floor with such mutual enthusiasm and joy that Rose felt doubly dejected in being left alone again, her questions unanswered and longings unfulfilled.
