Chapter 2 #2
With a frown, Rose remembered that it was winter and flowers were less available and varied . There were hothouses on her father’s estate, of course, but even so, she supposed she could not expect the exact arrangements as a summer wedding. Might it be better to wait until next summer, perhaps?
With a pang, Rose thought of her father in his sickbed at Westvale Park, and seeming increasingly unlikely to ever rise from it after that awful attack of apoplexy a year ago. No, a quick wedding would be better for everyone, she decided, even without her favorite flowers.
When Lord Gillingham looked up from his soup and noticed Rose gazing at him starry-eyed, he looked confused for a moment, but then returned his eyes to his plate and continued to eat without even returning her smile.
How shy he must be, Rose marveled! She wished they were seated closer so that she might strike up some conversation, but it would have to wait. Neither of them had personalities or manners that would allow them to shout so far along a table and across other people.
Returning to her own soup, Rose found that the Duke of Ravenhill was watching her again, with an amused gaze that made her briefly feel as though her body and soul were both bare to him.
Refusing to meet his eyes, she thought she heard a faint chuckle and blushed as brightly as the red roses she had been imagining in her fantasy wedding bouquet.
“Do you think Lord Gillingham is avoiding me, Josephine?” Rose asked the Duchess of Ashbourne as they returned together to the ballroom from the ladies’ retiring room. “He seemed such a nice man and yet, I cannot make him out.”
“Oh, Lord Gillingham avoids everyone, Rose,” her friend laughed.
“He is most unsocial and was only invited as a favor to Lady Susan and Sir Arthur. Why not talk to George Wilkins instead? He is a much nicer young man for you, if a little silly. Or talk to Benedict, who is always the best company in the world.”
“Perhaps Lord Gillingham is only shy,” suggested Rose, persisting in this belief despite Josephine’s assertion. “If I could only…”
At that moment, the Duke of Ashbourne appeared and swept his wife away to the dance floor with such mutual enthusiasm and joy that Rose felt doubly dejected in being left alone again, her questions unanswered and longings unfulfilled.
Striking up an acquaintance with Lord Gillingham had proved far more difficult than Rose could have guessed.
He had taken a long, solitary walk immediately after the luncheon where she had decided to pursue him, and proved equally difficult to pin down or engage in any real conversation the following day, or the day after that.
Or the day after that… In fact, the entire house party seemed to have passed by without any hint of progress in their association.
Rose’s tentative enquiries after Lord Gillingham’s health, his family, or his books met with monosyllabic answers.
He did not play cards, did not care for music, and absented himself entirely during party games, despite the entreaties of his hostess, his sister, and other guests.
What more could she do? On the dance floor now, she could see Lord Gillingham dancing an unwilling quadrille with his sister, looking as though he was counting the seconds until he could scuttle away.
Rose enjoyed dancing, but she supposed that someone who didn’t like music could not take the same pleasure. How unfortunate for him!
Rose lingered by a table near the supper room doors, where champagne stood in ice buckets and stands of tiny lemon tarts awaited footmen to carry them around the company.
The ballroom itself was a hum of music, chatter, and laughter, but it was a little quieter here at the back wall, partly shadowed by the large open doors.
A wallflower yet again, Rose reflected, alone with her thoughts…
Rose had declined earlier offers to dance from Benedict Emerton and two of his friends, hoping to keep herself free for Lord Gillingham.
That gentleman had not even asked her for a dance when she stood right next to him and tried to throw him a winning smile.
It was almost humiliating, and she wished that she could believe Josephine’s explanation.
“Another long but beautiful sigh, Lady Rose,” said the deep voice of the Duke of Ravenhill, seeming to come out of nowhere and cutting into her private reverie with his usual amusement and irreverence.
“It is criminal, however, for a lady as comely as you to be hiding among the pastries when the next dance will be a waltz.”
When Rose’s eyes managed to focus on the tall figure in black, he made her a small bow and smiled the handsome, rather wolfish smile that always made her heart flip in her chest despite her best attempts to avoid or ignore him.
He smiled like a man who was used to his smiles being returned in kind, but Rose was too wary of his easy charm to oblige.
“Your Grace,” she said, acknowledging his presence with a polite curtsy. “I thought I was alone."
Despite Rose’s lack of encouragement, Dorian Voss lingered, as he had done in her presence several times that week. She now even recognized the faint scent of his cologne with notes of cedar and sandalwood, and felt irritated by the unsought familiarity of it.
Why could he not go and find Lady Lepford, or any of the other women who actively enjoyed his attentions? Did he enjoy discomfiting Rose? Or was there something about her manner or appearance that intrigued him? If so, she wished she knew what it was so that she could change it.
“So, are you hiding from someone? Or do you merely choose your partners with great discrimination?” he asked her with a raised eyebrow.
Now, Rose’s heart was thumping. Partners? What did he mean? Surely he must mean only dance partners, but his voice always seemed to imply something else too, something perhaps inappropriate but still thrilling, just beyond Rose’s understanding.
“I have no need of dancing partners tonight, Your Grace,” she declared with cool dignity that belied her inner turmoil.
“That is a great shame, since you are the only lady in the house party with whom I have not danced,” the duke told her with grave humor. “I had hoped I might claim you for a dance tonight.”
Rose shivered at these words, sensing that the Duke of Ravenhill had taken in her full expression and figure as he spoke, even though it felt as though his eyes never left hers.
While he could never be accused of leering or any openly disrespectful expression, he did look at people very intently, seeming to miss nothing, especially when he looked at women.
Rose felt deeply self-conscious under his gaze, although her pink silk gown was hardly revealing.
It was certainly less so than many other ladies, including Lady Lepford, presently cutting a graceful figure in the dance.
Rose’s fine cream wool shawl might have made her feel more shielded, but pulling it up around her now felt like admitting the effect of the duke’s eyes.
She would not give him the satisfaction.
The dowager marchioness was also in pink tonight, Rose noted, although her dress was cut low in the French style and set off with gold stitching and fabulous diamond jewelry.
Rose’s only ornament was a simple string of pearls, gifted by her grandmother.
Overall, Rose knew that she must appear very unsophisticated and inelegant in comparison to Lady Lepford.
She had observed this week that the older woman rather resembled the Duke of Ravenhill in style and energy, if not coloring.
Lady Lepford drew the eyes and interest of men and liked it, just as the duke drew the eyes of women.
Rose had a sense that both of them reveled in their unnerving charismatic powers.
“As you have said, Your Grace, you have many other willing dancing partners here at Ashbourne Castle,” Rose told him, remaining politely evasive. “They will doubtless match you better and I would not presume keep you from them.”
The duke’s smile only deepened.
“There is no other woman here more lovely than the pearls that adorn her perfect skin, Lady Rose,” he told her, apparently picking up the thought of her pearls from her mind, this almost supernatural burst of intuition only stirring Rose’s confused emotions further.
“Or do you not know how to waltz? If so, I would be honored to be your teacher in this tonight.”
These words made Rose’s heart skip several beats, and she almost choked on her reaction.
Dorian Voss had shamelessly, if indirectly, confessed that he had been contemplating the lustrous jewels that rested on the curve of her half-covered bosom and found the sight pleasing.
The offer to teach her to waltz also carried some indefinably indecent undertone. Or was she imagining this?
The duke had not used any words that could be construed as reprehensible or improper, and Rose knew she must reply politely. Oh, why could he not just go away?
“I thank you for your compliments, Your Grace, but I am not seeking any dancing partners tonight,” Rose repeated, pleased that her voice sounded firm after she managed to force it out.
Amusement and curiosity flickered in the Duke of Ravenhill’s dark eyes at this negative reply. Rose, with dread, expected him to tease or cajole her further. Then, with unexpected grace, he bowed to her respectfully instead.
“In that case, I must respect your wish for solitude, Lady Rose, and I shall console myself where my attentions are more welcomed.”
His eyes darted briefly towards the dance floor where the quadrille was ending. Rose perceived the silent contact made with Lady Lepford, whose head gave a slight nod of acquiescence to whatever request she had seen in the duke’s eyes.