Chapter Nineteen
Rosalie
In any other world, if a man spoke to her the way Mr. Dean did last week, she’d never see him again. And yet here they are
in her parents’ foyer, smiling stiffly.
She’d entirely forgotten about the concert her mother agreed to nearly two months ago. Lord Dean has paid for an afternoon
of music at the Upper Rooms with a small string ensemble and a few opera singers. Father says it should be very good.
Which would be nice, after the bitter ending to the concert last week, if Mr. Dean wasn’t the one who ruined the afternoon,
and if he didn’t look so thoroughly unhappy to be escorting her today.
She should be celebrating the demise of his affections, but she can’t. Mother’s been worrying all week. Amalie’s mother and
two other society matrons swore that Mr. Dean has made nearly daily house calls to the Pine residence since the concert. He’s
gotten to be there every day, and Rosalie and Catherine haven’t so much as seen each other in the last week.
All she’s gotten are two rushed letters in Catherine’s tidy script. And no matter how lovely, and frankly dirty, they’re no
substitute for real time spent together.
If nothing else, the time apart and the constant yearning feeling that’s almost like a physical ache is proving to Rosalie that what she feels for Catherine is real, and lasting, and fervid. She thinks she’s feeling the way you ought to feel about your betrothed.
Which is wonderful, and terrifying, and altogether very confusing.
To be one hundred percent sure, she’d need to have time to spend with the woman, instead of being ferried about by Mother,
shopping and primping and listening to her constant worry about the betrothal Rosalie absolutely doesn’t want.
Mother was so excited about the concert today. About Rosalie’s big, important opportunity to win back Mr. Dean’s favor after
her deplorable behavior on the punting outing. Father even came back from London to attend.
Mother thinks Mr. Dean writing to confirm he would escort her to their previously agreed-upon outing is a good sign, but one
look at his pinched face and blank eyes proves otherwise. But a gentleman doesn’t go back on his word, so even if it’s clear
to everyone in the room that there won’t be another outing after this, here they are.
“I hear the ensemble your father has assembled is the best of the season,” Mother says, her voice unnaturally high.
“Father does have excellent taste,” Mr. Dean replies. Rosalie thinks he’s not even meeting her mother’s eyes. “He unfortunately
won’t be able to attend, however. He’s taken ill.”
“Oh, I do hope it’s not serious,” Mother says.
“No, no, the doctors are optimistic, but, given that he cannot attend, we should—”
“Quite right,” Father says, gesturing to Mr. Dean to lead the way out of the house.
The carriage ride is a stilted nightmare. And standing at the doors to the dance hall in the Upper Rooms, her arm looped through Mr. Dean’s as they bow and curtsy to an endless line of acquaintances, is somehow even worse than she imagined.
“What a lovely couple you make,” Lady Hanting says, smiling as she steps up to them.
Mr. Dean doesn’t even acknowledge the statement, merely bowing his head.
“Thank you, Lady Hanting,” Rosalie says softly, hoping her voice comes out calm and polite. “We hope you enjoy the concert.”
“Oh, I always enjoy an event thrown by the viscount. So sorry to hear he won’t be in attendance. But I’m sure he’ll be very
proud of his son, and his potential new daughter-in-law.”
“Thank you, Lady Hanting,” Mr. Dean says curtly.
Lady Hanting blinks, glancing between them, before she gives Mr. Dean her own false smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Dean. Lady
Rosalie,” she adds, her eyes a bit narrowed, as if in pity.
Rosalie watches Lady Hanting walk away, feeling a weight come off her shoulders. For so long, she’d been preparing herself
for a calm, vaguely disinterested life with Mr. Dean. To find that the only emotions beneath his apathetic facade are ugly
and rude, abrupt and mean-spirited—she has more to thank Catherine for than she realized.
“Mr. Dean, may I borrow my daughter for a moment?” Mother asks, appearing at Rosalie’s elbow.
How many people has she greeted while thinking about Catherine? Lovely, beautiful, just-arriving Catherine. She can see her
at the end of the receiving line, wearing a lovely green dress with lace gloves, her hair braided delicately over the top
of her head, tendrils falling against her sharp cheekbones.
“Are you intentionally trying to lose his favor?” Mother hisses, yanking Rosalie away from the doors.
Rosalie tears her eyes away from Catherine. Mr. Dean’s still greeting people as if she hasn’t moved. Like she was nothing but a column beside him this whole time. Rosalie turns to Mother, pushing confidence to the front of her mind. Yes.
“Not at all. I was simply greeting guests.”
“He hasn’t so much as spoken to you this entire time, and the guests inside are saying he’s angry with you.”
“I don’t know how they’d know,” Rosalie says honestly. Sure, they’re not talking, but how different is that from their old
normal, really?
“Well, fix it,” Mother insists. “Before that Pine girl reaches him.”
“I don’t think there’s any fixing it,” Rosalie hears herself say, watching the way Mr. Dean notices Catherine at the end of
the line. That perpetual look of annoyance melts off his handsome stupid face. He’s standing straighter, his face brighter—
“Go,” Mother says, practically shoving Rosalie toward the doors.
Rosalie goes, slipping back in beside Mr. Dean. But he doesn’t even glance at her, or acknowledge Mr. and Mrs. Leon, thanking
him and his father for hosting the event.
Rosalie’s relief curdles into dread the closer Catherine and her parents get to the entryway. Rosalie’s free of Mr. Dean,
regardless of what happens next. But Catherine’s not free yet.
Whether she and Catherine figure out a way to live together forever, or for a time, or whatever they want—forever, Rosalie thinks, unbidden—Catherine surely cannot marry this man.
This man who so openly regards another woman while standing next to the one he’s courted for a year, grinning as Catherine and her parents step up to them, the last in line, everyone else already inside and seated for the concert.
Given how smug Mrs. Pine looks, Rosalie wonders if that wasn’t her plan all along.
“Miss Pine, Mr. and Mrs. Pine, how wonderful of you to join us. Come, I have seats all saved for us,” Mr. Dean says.
“So lovely to see you,” Rosalie says quickly, smiling at Catherine.
“And you as well,” Catherine agrees, her smile forced but eyes bright. “Mr. Dean, thank you for the invitation,” she adds,
turning her head a moment after her words, like she’s having trouble looking away from Rosalie.
“We ought to go in,” Mrs. Pine says. “Wouldn’t want to delay the performance.”
“Of course,” Mr. Dean says, stepping away from Rosalie to offer his arm to Catherine.
Catherine glances at Rosalie askance. He really is just going to abandon Rosalie in public like that. Walk into the hall with
a different woman on his arm. A full, emphatic dismissal.
Rosalie wouldn’t mind. But Mother’s jaw has dropped.
“Let’s all go in together,” Catherine says quickly, stepping to the side to take Rosalie’s arm.
Mother’s jaw snaps up, Mrs. Pine glowers, Mr. Dean looks surprised and not much else. And Mr. Pine . . . well, Mr. Pine is
chuckling into his handkerchief.
Catherine’s arm is warm against hers, skin to skin, both of them in small kid gloves. Catherine starts walking, forcing Mr. Dean
to hurry ahead to lead them inside.
“Catherine,” Rosalie hears Mrs. Pine hiss as they follow him.
Catherine holds fast to Rosalie’s arm. “Can you believe him?” she whispers.
“You made a late entrance,” Rosalie hears her mother say.
“And you a very early one,” Mrs. Pine counters.
“Well, we arrived with Mr. Dean,” Mother replies. “He escorted my Rosalie.”
“Only because my Catherine is too polite to let him make his preferences plain,” Mrs. Pine says quickly.
“Dearest, let’s focus on the concert,” Mr. Pine pipes up as they walk toward the waiting sets of chairs facing an erected
podium where a small string orchestra waits.
He really was planning to leave Rosalie to walk all the way through the audience after he’d escorted Catherine inside.
“What a jerk,” Catherine whispers as they sit down, Catherine next to Mr. Dean on the aisle, Rosalie on her other side.
Rosalie withholds a laugh, reluctantly letting go of Catherine’s arm so they can get settled. But Catherine stays close, their
shoulders pressed together while Mother sits on Rosalie’s other side.
Rosalie doesn’t know where her father is, and Catherine’s parents have settled across the aisle from them. What a tableau
they must make to the ton. At least there’s an hour of music and Catherine’s wonderful warm presence between her and that
pathetic public scrutiny.
Mother’s leg jiggles beside her. Rosalie looks over at her and finds her jaw tight, eyes shining. She’s twisting her hands
together in her lap hard enough for her gloves to go taut. She keeps turning her head, glancing back into the rest of the
audience.
Rosalie does the same and realizes mothers all over the room are glancing at them, speaking behind their fans, more focused
on Rosalie and her mother than the beautiful concerto.
Rosalie knew getting Mr. Dean to forsake her would be a challenge, and she rose to the occasion. But now there’s a price being
paid that she didn’t consider.
What there is of Mother’s social life might hang in the balance of her own happiness. She’s so proud of their position in Bath. And in one short boating trip Rosalie totally upended the careful balance her mother has spent her life achieving.
“My mother looks deranged,” Catherine whispers against Rosalie’s ear.
Rosalie nearly jumps in her seat. Mother glances at her and Rosalie fakes a shiver with a tight smile. Mother doesn’t react,
her eyes a little glazed over.
Rosalie turns in the other direction, looking over toward Mrs. Pine and Mr. Pine. Mrs. Pine does look a bit triumphant, almost
maniacal.
“Going swimmingly, isn’t it?” Rosalie whispers back.
Catherine’s lips twitch up and Rosalie goes back to watching the concert, trying to enjoy the brief respite of Catherine against
her.
She hopes she’ll come up with something clever to protect her mother’s reputation, to save Catherine from a terrible marriage—to
give herself the chance to spend a potential forever with her lover. But when the concert ends, Rosalie’s no closer to a mastermind
plan. All she has is a desperate urge to somehow fix everything.
“Lady Rosalie, might you fetch yourself and Miss Pine a refreshment?” Mr. Dean asks as they step away from the chairs so the
attendants can clear the hall for mingling.
A month ago, Rosalie would have balked, but now she goes gratefully, exchanging a look with Catherine, who rolls her eyes,
her head turned away from Mr. Dean even as he takes her arm. Short of Catherine throwing food on Mr. Dean, Rosalie’s not sure
what they can do to deter him. Even Mother wanders away from Mr. Dean, hopefully in search of Rosalie’s father, since everyone
seems to be giving her a wide berth.
Rosalie grabs a plate and a few finger sandwiches and pastries, enough to share with Catherine and Mr. Dean. He may be publicly dissing her, but she’s not about to leave him alone with Catherine.
It’s only when she’s walking back to the two of them, now standing in a group of Mr. Dean’s friends, does Rosalie notice that
not one person has stopped to talk with her. It’s the first time she’s crossed a room without interruption . . . ever. She
doesn’t know if she’s relieved or concerned.
She steps gratefully into the circle on Catherine’s other side. Everyone in the circle gives her a confused look.
“The cucumber is on the left,” Rosalie tells Catherine.
Mr. Dean reaches across Catherine and grabs that exact sandwich without even looking at her, which raises more than one eyebrow
around them.
“Thank you, Lady Rosalie,” Catherine says, a little overloud. “Very generous of you to think of both of us.”
“Of course,” Rosalie says with a bright, forced smile. “Good to see you all, gentlemen,” she adds to the circle.
A hoarse, loud cough startles everyone. Rosalie looks over to find Mr. Dean’s eyes wide, his hand scrabbling at his throat.
The greedy, rude jerk is choking on a cucumber sandwich, how gauche.
Then his eyes start bulging.
“Mr. Dean,” Catherine says, grabbing what’s left of his sandwich and shoving it back onto Rosalie’s plate while everyone else
just stands there. “Mr. Dean, can you breathe?”
Mr. Dean shakes his head, his cheeks going red as he coughs to no avail.
“Call a doctor,” Rosalie hears herself say.
WHACK. Catherine’s hand comes down on Mr. Dean’s back, forcing him to bend at the waist. He coughs, but nothing comes out. Catherine
whacks him again, her open-palmed slap ringing around them as everyone in the room turns to watch.
Rosalie looks to the grown men across from them, just staring at Mr. Dean and Catherine, eyes wide, disgust and confusion
smattering their useless faces.
“One of you go call a doctor,” Rosalie insists.
She’s asking for help, and no one’s doing anything. There’s just the horrible sound of Catherine thumping Mr. Dean, and the gurgling of his rasping breath—
Catherine brings her fist down on his back with a mighty thwump and Mr. Dean finally coughs out his bite. It falls with a splat as he gasps in air, Catherine’s hand still on his back, his
face almost purple.
“Oh, Mr. Dean, are you all right?”
Mrs. Pine’s voice rings around the silent hall. She appears on his other side, her hand falling to rest next to Catherine’s,
her other hand grasping his arm.
“Catherine, thank goodness for your quick thinking,” Mrs. Pine continues.
Rosalie watches Catherine stand stiff in shock, her eyes large and bright. Rosalie loosens her own grip on her plate. Mr. Dean
slowly stands up, leaning into Mrs. Pine and Catherine.
“Yes,” he says, his voice rough, breath still ragged. “Miss Pine, I owe you my life. How can I ever thank you enough?”
Catherine looks at Mr. Dean askance, cheeks going pale. “I—I simply did what anyone would—”
“Let’s find you a seat and some water, Mr. Dean,” Mrs. Pine interrupts, looking far too smug. “Come, Catherine, dear, help me get him settled.”
Rosalie watches, helpless, as Mrs. Pine brings them across the room to a bench on the far side, fawning over Mr. Dean the
whole way. Catherine glances back at Rosalie, looking just as stricken as she feels.
What now?