She’s not at all thinking about that print, and those lips, and—
“Do I have your full attention?”
She loves him, she hates him. But more, she and Catherine need him. “We should invite Amalie and Henrietta as well,” she says.
She hasn’t forgotten her promise to Christopher. He deserves his happy ending too. Amalie would hate to be left out anyway. And anytime she can get Henrietta an outing with Mr.Rile is a good opportunity.
“Perhaps we can get the two of you in one boat, and me and Amalie in the other. She and I can heckle,” Christopher says brightly.
“When did you become so devious?” Rosalie teases.
“I learned from the masters,” Christopher says, gesturing to Rosalie and then to the house.
“You’ll use your powers for good,” Rosalie insists. “Take charge of the Lords, make them pursue the betterment of society.”
“You sound a bit like Father,” Christopher says. It’s only then that she notices the other letter in his hands. He follows her gaze and taps the letter against his palm. “Another disgruntled entreaty to join him in London this season.”
“You could go,” Rosalie says softly.
“Nope. He can be mad all he likes, can say I’m squandering my time, but we both know differently.”
“Christopher,” Rosalie entreats.
“When we’re ready, you and I will build a better future for the whole of England, side by side. Father can wait until I’ve seen you settled.”
“I hardly think I’ll be of much help to anyone,” Rosalie says softly. She doesn’t like the idea of Christopher digging his heels in with Father, courting more disappointment.
“If you can build a life you want, you’ll be helping yourself, and any young women you know see there’s another path,” Christopher says immediately. “It’s important,” he adds when she lifts her eyes to his. They feel suspiciously wet.
“And Father’s daft if he thinks I can follow him all on my own. I will demand you help me once I’m in the Lords. You’ll need to help Amalie throw all my parties. And hopefully MissPine will be there to play pianoforte too.”
Rosalie wants to scold him for putting the cart so far before the horse, but the image is too tantalizing to refuse. “If you say so.”
“I really do,” he says, slinging his arm around her shoulder to bring her inside. “Now, talk to me loudly about how much Mr.Dean enjoys punting.”
When she’s rocking gently in a punting boat on the still-frigid River Avon three days later, Rosalie finds herself slightly less confident. The wind is brisk, and Mr.Rile keeps splashing her with the oar.
Catherine, Christopher, Mr.Sholle, and Amalie are ahead of them in the next boat, while Rosalie floats along with Mr.Dean, Henrietta, and Mr.Rile paddling. Henrietta and Mr.Rile have been talking quietly the whole time, leaving Rosalie alone with Mr.Dean, who, as usual, is simply staring off into the distance, thoroughly at ease and entirely uninterested in her.
Catherine’s boat, by contrast, is a riot of laughter and chatter. Mr.Sholle looks rather pouty, but Catherine, Christopher, and Amalie are having a wonderful time.
Meanwhile, her mother and Catherine’s mother are walking along the blooming riverbank, ten feet apart, chaperoning themfrom the shore. Mother keeps moving her hands, as if trying to send Rosalie a coded message,Talk to Mr.Dean, make the most of being in his boat. But she’s so far away, it’s hard to be entirely sure.
Were Rosalie in Catherine’s boat, she’d laugh at the absurdity of it all. But she’s not. Instead, she’s on the good ship flirty with Henrietta and Mr.Rile.
Catherine looks back at her, eyebrow raised, and Rosalie sighs. It’s clearly her turn to make a bad impression, she just needs to figure out how.
“It’s rather chilly,” Rosalie says loudly. She turns to Mr.Dean. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s nice and brisk,” he says.
“You can have one of my blankets, Rosalie,” Henrietta says, passing one over to her with the sweetest smile.
It’s hard to be mad when she looks so happy. But she’s really cramping Rosalie’s style. Still, she wraps the blanket over her shoulders, protecting her arms from the misting spray of Mr. Rile’s rather erratic paddling.
“I wish there were more sun,” she tries again, forcing her voice into an unnatural whine.
Mr.Dean glances at her. “Better to protect your lovely skin.”
