She dropped her gaze with a small sigh and continued to listen to Lady Folworth. “No, my Baldwin was once known for getting into terrible scrapes. Hence, Folly. For his life was full of it.”
“He is lucky you married him and set him to rights,” Felicity said, pretending seriousness.
“Iam the lucky one,” Lady Folworth said with a rather romantic sigh of her own.
Rosalinde noticed how some of the color drained from Celia’s cheeks at the display of affection. “It was a love match, then?” she whispered.
“Indeed, it was. Itis.” She shook her head. “We have gone off course considerably, though, talking about my husband and me. I meant only to say that certainly we shall become great friends, Miss Fitzgilbert, as the men spend a good amount of time together in London. And Gray joins us often when he is in Town.”
Celia was nodding, but Rosalinde froze at the panic that lit up her sister’s blue eyes. “I-I look forward to spending time with you, Lady Folworth,” she choked out. “I’m certain we will get along splendidly.”
Lady Folworth tilted her head. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Felicity leaned closer. “Your face is a bit flushed.”
“Yes, I’m warm. I think I will step out on the terrace for just a moment of air,” Celia said.
Rosalinde moved for her, hand outstretched. “Why don’t I take—”
Before she could finish, her sister backed away. “No, stay. I’ll only be a moment. Excuse me.”
She gathered up her skirt and all but ran for the terrace, leaving the women behind to watch her go. Lady Folworth turned back with a thin smile.
“I’m certain she must be nervous about the upcoming wedding. Such a to-do.”
Rosalinde forced herself to stop staring in the direction her sister had gone and nodded. “Oh yes. So many people to meet and preparations to meet.”
“Brides are always nervous,” Felicity said, but there was a stiff quality to her words. Rosalinde wasn’t certain if that came from Celia’s odd behavior, or her memories of her own wedding and the apparently very unhappy marriage that followed.
“But I know she will be fine,” Rosalinde lied. Lied because shedidn’tknow. Celia had always been the steadier of the two of them, despite being the younger. She’d never seen such abject terror on her sister’s face before.
“Of course she will,” Lady Folworth insisted. “Now, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, Mrs. Wilde?”
Rosalinde drew back a fraction. “Me?”
“Yes,” Lady Folworth pressed. “Not only did I have an immediate sense that you and I should be friends, but that was bolstered by Gray’s high opinion when he spoke of you tonight.”
Rosalinde let her gaze slide to the man in question yet again. He was still standing with his friends, but he was now outside of the conversation, watching her. Just watching, those dark eyes boring into her, filled with intensity and all the desire she knew hung between them. She shivered.
“He spoke of me? I’m surprised to hear Mr. Danford is so complimentary,” she whispered.
Felicity frowned. “He is a little hard on Celia,” she explained to Lady Folworth. “You know how protective he is.”
Lady Folworth paled, but she didn’t look surprised at Felicity’s assertion. Rosalinde clenched her fists. It seemed Gray’s disparagement of Celia had gone beyond just his family. And yet Lady Folworth was kind to Celia, at least.
“Indeed, I do know of Gray’s proclivity to ride to the rescue when it comes to Stenfax or you, Felicity,” the lady said. Her tone was tight, but when she spoke again, it was softer. “And yet whatever he thinks, he clearly does like you, Mrs. Wilde. Just before they started talking about Whigs and what’s going on in America, Gray was just telling us what a fascinating woman you are.”
Rosalinde felt heat flooding her cheeks. Heat that multiplied when Felicity turned her attention toward her. The viscountess had a certain expression on her face, but Rosalinde couldn’t tell if it was supportive or in upset.
“Fascinating?” Felicity repeated, still staring at Rosalinde as if she were seeing her for the first time. “That is interesting.”
“I—I’m sure, Mr. Danford is only referring to the fact that we have similar taste in literature,” she whispered. “We discussed it when—”
She broke off. Great God, they had discussed books the night they spent together at the inn. Now her cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“—we discussed it over supper one night,” she said, formulating words that somehow resembled the truth. She glanced toward the doors where her sister had departed. “You know, I ought to go after Celia. Make sure she’s all right.”
Felicity was still staring, but she nodded. “Of course.”
