Chapter 8
The orchestra had scarcely begun the opening strains of another waltz when Rosalind slipped through the terrace doors.
She had been at Lady Ashcombe's ball for barely an hour.
An hour of whispered conversations that stopped the moment she approached. Of sympathetic smiles that never quite reached people's eyes. Of wondering whether each glance carried pity... or curiosity.
The walls of the ballroom had begun to feel unbearably close.
She told her mother she only needed a little air.
The evening breeze was cool against her cheeks as she wandered slowly along the stone terrace, grateful for the temporary quiet. Beyond the balustrade, lanterns cast pools of golden light across the gardens, while the music drifted faintly through the open doors behind her.
She had scarcely taken a dozen steps when voices reached her from somewhere beyond the clipped hedges bordering the path.
Gentlemen.
She would ordinarily have turned back at once.
Then she heard her own name.
“…a dreadful business.”
“I daresay the poor girl cannot help it.”
“No, but that hardly alters the matter.”
Rosalind froze.
“There is scarcely a gentleman in London foolish enough to attach himself to Lady Rosalind Carlisle now.”
A second voice answered with quiet amusement.
“Would you?”
A brief silence followed.
“No.”
Another gentleman laughed.
“Nor I. Whatever became of the earl, the scandal alone is enough to ruin an otherwise excellent match.”
Someone muttered something she could not quite make out.
Then came the words she knew she would remember long after the evening had ended.
“She is the last young lady in London I would court this Season.”
The laughter that followed was neither cruel nor particularly loud.
Somehow, that made it worse.
Rosalind backed away before they could discover she had overheard them, scarcely noticing the path beneath her feet as she returned toward the ballroom.
She had known society whispered. She had known people pitied her. What she had never truly believed was that they had already decided her future.
To them, she was no longer simply the missing earl's daughter. She was a young woman whose prospects had vanished alongside her father.
For the first time since her father's disappearance, she wondered whether they were right. Whether every unanswered question had already cost her more than his presence. Whether, by refusing to believe he had abandoned them, she had been clinging to a hope no one else thought worth preserving.
She blinked hard against the sudden sting behind her eyes.
She would not cry.
Not there.
She drew one slow breath after another before stepping back into the ballroom, willing herself to smile.
Then her gaze found William.
He had only just completed a dance with Lady Sophronia Marsh.
Rosalind recognized the young lady immediately. Lady Sophronia possessed the sort of beauty that seemed designed to attract every gentleman's attention. Tall and exquisitely dressed, with glossy dark curls and perfect posture, she looked every inch the accomplished debutante.
William bowed politely as the music came to an end.
Then Lady Sophronia swayed.
A soft gasp rippled through those nearest the dance floor.
Before anyone else could react, William caught her by the waist as her knees appeared to give way beneath her.
“My goodness!” Several ladies hurried forward.
Lady Sophronia lifted one gloved hand dramatically to her forehead. “I fear…” she murmured weakly. “…the room has become terribly warm.”
Rosalind stood perfectly still.
William was kneeling beside her now, speaking with quiet concern while another gentleman fetched a chair.
She knew he was doing nothing more than any gentleman ought.
Yet after what she had just overheard, all she could see was a beautiful young woman surrounded by admiration... and the one gentleman she found herself wanting to trust at her side.
The thought was so unfair she almost despised herself for it.
Then William looked up.
Their eyes met across the crowded ballroom. Concern flashed across his face the instant he saw her.
That was all it took. The tears she had fought so desperately to contain blurred her vision.
Before anyone could notice, she turned and hurried from the ballroom, one gloved hand pressed against her mouth as she struggled to keep the tears at bay.
She scarcely noticed where she was going.
One corridor gave way to another, the music fading with each hurried step until it became little more than a distant murmur.
Guests wandered in small groups through the broad gallery overlooking the ballroom below, pausing to admire paintings or speak in quiet conversation, but few paid Rosalind any attention.
She continued until she reached a tall window at the far end of the corridor.
Moonlight spilled across the polished floor, silvering the gardens beyond the glass.
She rested one gloved hand against the window frame and drew several slow breaths, willing the tightness in her chest to ease.
“You chose the same refuge I did.”
Rosalind started.
William's mother stood only a few paces away, half concealed beside a marble column where the corridor widened into a small alcove furnished with a pair of chairs and a narrow table. An open book rested forgotten in her hands.
For one dreadful moment, Rosalind considered apologizing and retreating.
Instead she managed an unsteady smile. “I beg your pardon. I did not realize anyone was here.”
The dowager smiled gently as she closed the book.
“My dear,” she said, stepping toward the window beside Rosalind, “I suspect you were not looking where you were going.”
Rosalind looked away, embarrassed. “I am sorry.”
“There is nothing to apologize for.”
Only then did Rosalind realize she had hastily brushed at her eyes.
She hoped it had gone unnoticed.
Judging by the dowager's expression, it had not.
Instead of pressing the matter, the older woman simply turned to look out over the moonlit gardens beside her.
“I spoke with your mother earlier this evening.”
Rosalind lowered her eyes.
“She is very worried.”
“She always is.”
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
The dowager folded her hands over the closed book resting in her lap. “She also surprised me.”
Rosalind looked up.
“I asked your mother why she seemed so willing to believe your father had chosen to leave.”
The question settled heavily between them.
Rosalind had wondered the same thing herself. “And?”
“She told me she does not truly believe it.” The older woman sighed softly. “Only that it is easier than imagining something worse.”
Rosalind lowered her gaze to her clasped hands.
Her mother's words from the day before returned with painful clarity.
I choose to believe whatever allows me to wake each morning.
“She said much the same to me.”
The dowager nodded, as though that answer saddened rather than surprised her.
For a few moments neither woman spoke.
The silence felt companionable, the sort shared by two people mourning the same man in different ways.
At length, the dowager smiled faintly. “I sometimes forget how many years have passed.”
Rosalind looked at her.
“Our families spent so many summers together that it is difficult for me to think of your father without also remembering two little boys forever trailing after him.”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at Rosalind's mouth. “That sounds rather like William.”
“And Algernon,” the dowager said quietly. “Though in very different ways.”
Something in her tone made Rosalind's smile fade.
“I do not know whether William ever mentioned it, but when the boys were young, Algernon suffered from a dreadful stammer.”
He had never mentioned it.
She found herself trying to imagine the proud, reserved duke as a frightened little boy unable to force the words from his mouth.
The image simply refused to fit.
“It was quite severe,” the dowager continued. “My late husband was... a very different father to Algernon than he ever was to William.”
She paused, her gaze settling somewhere beyond the window.
“He loved them both, of course. But parents do not always understand each child equally well.”
Rosalind sensed there was more to the story than the older woman intended to tell.
Or perhaps more than she could.
“My husband became convinced that drawing attention to the stammer only made it worse. He believed Algernon needed firmness more than sympathy.”
A faint, wistful smile touched her lips.
“Your father disagreed.”
Rosalind looked at her.
“He tried, more than once, to persuade my husband that the boy needed patience instead of correction. That confidence could not be forced.”
The dowager's smile faded.
“But when he realized my husband would not be convinced... he simply stopped arguing.”
“What did he do?”
“He stepped in himself.”
Warmth settled quietly in Rosalind's chest.
Of course he had.
“He spent hours with Algernon,” the dowager continued. “Reading aloud. Walking through the gardens together. Inventing games that encouraged conversation without making him feel self-conscious.”
Rosalind could picture it with startling clarity.
Her father slowing his own pace without drawing attention to it. Waiting patiently while a frightened little boy searched for the next word.
Never finishing the sentence for him. Never pretending not to notice. Simply waiting.
It sounded exactly like him.
“Eventually the stammer improved,” the dowager said. “Though I have always believed the confidence your father gave him mattered far more than the speech itself.”
Rosalind sat quietly with that thought.
She had known her father was kind. She had not realized the depth of his influence upon another family. The realization made his absence seem somehow even larger.
The dowager gave a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. “I am not certain why I am telling you all this.”
Rosalind looked at her. “Because you miss him too.”
For a heartbeat, the older woman's composure faltered. “Yes.”
The dowager gave Rosalind's hand the gentlest squeeze before letting it go. “The Season is nearly at an end.”
Rosalind nodded.
“When London empties, society will find another scandal to occupy itself. People always do.”