MissPine’s hair frames her face perfectly beneath her bonnet. Rosalie has to stop herself from reaching out to move a stray piece back behind her ear.
Oh, God. Where did that impulse come from?
“It’s certainly atmospheric,” Rosalie says, meeting MissPine’s eyes. It’s time to reestablish her position. “I’m looking forward to the poetry reading on Tuesday, nicely indoors. Will you be attending?”
She knows MissPine won’t be. Henrietta’s mother arranged the whole event, and the guest list is exclusive.
“Oh, we haven’t been invited,” MissPine says softly, looking rather unperturbed.
“Yes we have, dearest,” Mrs.Pine cuts in. Mother glares at her and Rosalie looks over, surprised. “Mrs.Raught was kind enough to invite us at last week’s ball. However, we already have dinner plans with Lord and Lady Smith, and therefore will have to miss it.”
Mother’s eye is twitching. The baron and baroness are only in town for two weeks, and Mother hasn’t managed an invitation yet for tea, let alone a dinner.
“Will you be at the Teppling tea next Wednesday?” Rosalie asks.
“I don’t believe so,” MissPine says, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mother says, stepping closer with a smirk that’s far too transparent. “We’ve got the poetry reading,the tea, dinner with the Howleys—such a busy week after Rosalie’s concert this Friday.”
MissPine and Mrs.Pine exchange a look. The whole exchange makes Rosalie’s skin crawl. The four of them, fighting over a man who can’t even be bothered to show up on time.
Thankfully, Mr.Dean and Mr.Sholle appear around the corner together not a moment later.
“So sorry we’re late, ladies,” Mr.Dean says, smiling down at all of them. It makes her height difference with him seem even more glaring, setting her teeth on edge.
She doesn’t usually mind being so short, but with the past five minutes of guarded competition, even her height seems a disadvantage.
“That’s perfectly fine, dearest,” she says, ignoring the way Mr.Dean’s head tilts at the endearment. “Shall we?”
She takes his arm and gestures toward the park, forcing MissPine and Mr.Sholle to fall in behind them, order restored.
Mr.Dean pats her hand in the crook of his arm as they walk down the path past Sydney House toward the interior of the park. This early in the season, the trees are only just beginning to bud, the bushes devoid of flowers. The grass is at its dullest, and the gray overcast sky doesn’t help. But what the gardens lack in splendor, they make up for in silence, at least for the moment.
For all his faults, Rosalie does appreciate Mr.Dean’s ability to simply be. She loves her mother, but her constant stream of conversation can grate on a person, and after the tense exchange just now with the Pines, she appreciates some peace.
Of course, it doesn’t last very long.
“What is your favorite flower?” Mr.Sholle asks behind them.
“I’m rather fond of violets,” Miss Pine replies. “Though I know they’re not the most ostentatious of flowers.”
Rosalie chances a glance back over her shoulder and watches the way Mr.Sholle is staring at MissPine. He certainly looks a little smitten by her beauty.
“They are a remarkable color,” Mr.Sholle agrees. “What is your favorite meal?”
“I don’t get to know your favorite flower?” MissPine asks.
Rosalie listens to their back-and-forth, silently cataloguing MissPine’s favorite food (roast duck), favorite color (violet, again), favorite sonnet (William Shakespeare’s 130), and favorite piece of music (Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G Major, Prelude). Mr.Sholle’s answers don’t interest her in the least.
Her plan is working, but it’s left her with a simmering feeling in her belly, like she’s won a battle but might be slowly losing a greater war. Mr.Sholle has taken more interest in MissPine in the last ten minutes than Mr.Dean has taken in her in over a year.
MissPine must be convinced that Mr.Dean is out of reach and utterly devoted to Rosalie.That’swhy Rosalie’s bothered that Mr.Dean isn’t talking all of a sudden, and that he hasn’t ever asked her such questions. It’s because it looks bad.
Not at all because MissPine’s genuine curiosity in Mr.Sholle’s answers is making Rosalie feel squirrelly inside for reasons she’s can’t quite name.
“Are you looking forward to your hunt next weekend?” Rosalie asks Mr.Dean, desperate for a way to shut her mind up and prove his interest all at once.
“Mr.Laghtley’s lake is exceedingly well stocked and his land is full of grouse. I expect it to be an excellent weekend,” Mr.Dean says, smiling off at the foliage.
