“No!” The word burst from Rosalie’s lips. Not that she cared all that much, but she knew that if her mother did the choosing, she would wind up buckling under the weight of all the frills. “I will endeavor to do better.”
She managed to get through the appointment, then declined her mother’s offer to stop at Gunther’s for ices on the way home. The duchess narrowed her eyes suspiciously, because usually, stopping at Gunther’s was the only part of an excursion to the dressmaker’s that Rosalie enjoyed. But she said nothing.
Once they arrived home, Rosalie cornered the footman who opened the door. “Is my father at home?”
“I’m afraid you just missed him, my lady,” the footman, Charles, replied. “He just headed out to his club.”
Rosalie tamped down a scream of frustration. Striving to hold her voice steady, she asked, “Did he receive any visitors while I was out?”
Charles looked startled. “I couldn’t say, my lady. Cook had me hauling water for most of the morning. Shall I ask Mr. Stephens?”
“No, thank you.” Stephens was too perceptive by half. If he got wind of the fact that Rosalie had been asking after Lucian, he would put two and two together. And she couldn’t risk her mother finding out what was afoot before she had the chance to speak with her father. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
The afternoon passed in a haze. Rosalie opened books only to shut them in frustration twenty minutes later, having not comprehended a single sentence. She paced her bedroom. She paced the downstairs corridor until she started to get odd looks from Charles. Finally, she plunked herself down in her father’s study, but the duke did not appear, and that was where her lady’s maid found her some two hours later.
“Lady Rosalie, there you are!” Bernadette exclaimed. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere. We must hurry if we’re to get you ready for the Bloomfield ball!”
For once, Rosalie submitted to her maid’s poking and pinning without complaint. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to be doing, given her inability to focus on anything worthwhile.
Papa did not join them in the carriage. Mama informed her that Parliament was holding a late session and that he would arrive at the ball separately.
As soon as they entered the Bloomfields’ town house, Rosalie craned her neck in every direction, searching for Lucian. But his glossy dark head was nowhere to be found.
The first dance began. A portly baron asked Rosalie to be his partner, and she assented. Thank goodness it was a country dance she had performed so many times she could do it while hopelessly distracted, because that was the state she found herself in.
By the supper that marked the midpoint of the ball, there was still no sign of Lucian. Where on earth was he? Last night, he had seemed eager to see her again. Had his affections already waned? Afterone day? She knew he was the worst sort of rakehell, but she hadn’t thought to set the bar quite this low.
Indeed, Lucian did not appear at the ball that night, and although Rosalie was surrounded by people, she had never felt more alone.
The next four days passed in a similar haze of agitation. She scarcely saw her father, and when she did, it was always in the presence of her mother. He was always dashing out the door, off to negotiate another provision of the Appropriation Act, and she was never able to ask him if Lucian had called. Nor did she see Lucian at any of the entertainments her mother dragged her to night after night.
By the fifth day, Rosalie was starting to wonder if she had hallucinated the whole episode in the garden. It seemed so unlikely in the harsh light of day that Lucian Deverell, of all people, had wanted to marry the likes of her!
That day, her mother forced her to attend a Venetian breakfast hosted by Mrs. Parkhurst. Rosalie filled a plate and then headed toward the gardens, hoping to find an isolated spot where she could eat her food in peace, when someone seized her elbow.
Before she even looked up to see who it was, she recognized Lucian’s spicy rum cologne.
“Lucian!” she gasped. She looked up, and there he was, not a hallucination after all, and every bit as handsome as she remembered him.
He did not look at her as he was busy scanning the guests assembled on Mrs. Parkhurst’s lawn. Satisfied that no one was looking their way, he jerked his head to the side. “Come with me.”
He led her to the orangery. The door was unlocked. “Let me make sure there’s no one here,” he murmured, then left her standing alone by the glass door.
Rosalie set her plate down on a garden table. Her fingers were trembling with all the pent-up emotions she had endured over the past five days.
It took Lucian only a moment to return, as the orangery was not overly large. “We’re alone,” he confirmed.
Rosalie started to fling herself into his arms, but he caught her hands, staying her.
She gave a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry. I suppose I should be more circumspect, as there are four dozen people out on the lawn. I’m just so happy to see you.”
“Are you?” He accompanied the question with a smile, but it wasn’t the fond smile he had given her that night in the garden. This one was amused. Which didn’t seem like a bad thing, but it was sharper, somehow.
As if he were amused at her expense.
She shook herself. What a silly thought! “Did you speak with my father?”
Lucian arched a brow, his expression sardonic. “What do you think?”
