It felt like— But that’s absurd. Lady Rosalie wasn’t about to kiss her. Lady Rosalie can’t want to kiss her.
Catherine must be confused.
Chapter Eleven
Rosalie
“Does she prefer flowers, or shall I get her pastries? I know it’s not the most common, but my friends at Cambridge had much better luck with pastries than flowers. Granted, it was winter, so that might have had something to do with it. Would she like a good tipple, instead?”
“Breathe!” Rosalie chides, squeezing Christopher’s arm.
Christopher looks over at her, chagrined, his cheeks pink. Though that could be sun. It’s unseasonably warm and lovely outside, hence their walk through Sydney Gardens this afternoon.
Rosalie wanted to stay in bed all day, lamenting that Mrs.Pine walked in before Rosalie could take MissPine’s mouth and know how sweet she might taste. Grateful that she walked in before Rosalie went and made a terrible fool of herself.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” Rosalie lies. Christopher nudges her with his hip. “Take Amalie on a promenade to start, bring her daisies if you can get them—they’re pedestrian, but her favorite. And she likes macarons and marzipan.”
“Good, good,” Christopher says. “You’re sure?”
Rosalie forces herself to focus on her brother. “I am positive. Amalie will certainly be wooed if you follow my directions.”
“She wouldn’t prefer Mr.Fortes? He’s older, and more distinguished—”
“And she doesn’t want him,” Rosalie says firmly, tugging Christopher to the side of the walking path so they can stand beneath a weeping willow tree, out of the sun. She meets his eyes. “You are a catch, dearest little brother, all right?”
Christopher’s face splits in a slow smile. “Really?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
He laughs, his cheeks dimpling, and squeezes her arm into his side. “Thank you. That is high praise indeed.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she says gruffly, holding on to his cuff with her free hand as he guides them back out onto the path.
Rosalie tries to focus on places to suggest for their promenade—to bury herself in Christopher and Amalie’s impending courtship—and ignore all other concerning thoughts, feelings, and urges about a certain tall, willowy, beautiful—
“We should plan some outings so you too can spend time with your... person of interest,” Christopher suggests.
Rosalie glances up at him, wrinkling her nose. “Just call him Mr.Dean. He doesn’t suggest such... florid language.”
“Were I speaking of Mr.Dean, I would have called him your absentminded, reticent, interior, tall dark brood of a man.”
“Christopher.”
“Thatis florid language. I was merely trying to be circumspect, but if I must be blunt,” he begins, dragging her off the path yet again so they can loiter by the embankment down to the stream. “What are we planning to do to get you more time with the lovely, charming, statuesque MissPine?”
Rosalie freezes beside him. “I... don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” he asks, turning to look down into the stream, clearly giving her a moment.
Rosalie hesitates. It’s not that he’ll care. Or rather, not that he’ll be scandalized. He wasn’t the day he walked in on her and Jane kissing in the solarium four years ago. He simply said, “Oops,” and shut the door, standing guard until they settled themselves. Then he peppered her with endless questions for two weeks until Jane abruptly announced her engagement.
He let her cry on his shoulder for a fortnight, until she’d tucked her sorrow and confusion and anger into a little box in her head. Until she decided never to give her heart to someone who would leave her for someone else, someone better, someone more... acceptable.
She’s been doing a damn good job of keeping her heart and her desire safely tucked away for the past four years. Mr.Dean is safe. Mr.Dean is acceptable. Mr.Dean won’t leave her for a man, at any rate. And he’d certainly never suspect that her scrutiny of MissPine is anything other than comparative.
But Christopher doesn’t miss a trick. Still. Telling him is giving voice to the ridiculousness in her head.
