Chapter 5
Five
Afew days later, Rosalie’s mother pranced into the library, where Rosalie had ensconced herself with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.
“How about Gunter’s, Rosie? Just you and me, like when you were a child,” Lady Winthrop proposed as she swept inside.
“I have an appointment in town today, and I have been promising myself a treat all week. The weather has finally settled.” She moved over to the windows and threw back the curtains.
“Do fetch your bonnet. We’ll take a walk. It will be so much fun.”
Rosalie stretched in her armchair by the fire. She had been reading since before breakfast and hadn’t realized the weather had turned for the better. The sun was so bright it burned her eyes. Setting down her book, she nodded and went to fetch her bonnet without argument.
Outside, she found the sun deceptively strong.
There was still a chill in the air as the month transitioned from February to March.
Mayfair was busy with riders and walkers around Grosvenor Square.
A black carriage rode past with a familiar crest, and Rosalie tensed at the sight of it.
It was not the Ashcroft coat of arms, but it might very well have been.
This was not the first reminder of him, but one of many over the last week.
A trip to Gunter’s is just what I need to remind myself there are other gentlemen out there to torment me, she thought half seriously, grateful for anything that promised a distraction after a week spent turning Vauxhall over in her mind.
She hadn’t wanted to see him again, but it had been a blessing in disguise—so she could deliver the carefully crafted lie she had come up with, about a gentleman suitor she had been hoping to make jealous.
“You are very quiet,” her mother said, tucking a hand into the crook of Rosalie’s arm as they walked, having reached Bond Street by that point. “I do hope you are not still fretting over that masquerade ball. We’ve been busy bees these last few days, and—”
“I am not fretting over the ball,” Rosalie said, and it was somewhat true.
“Good. Because I have a small confession to make, and I would rather you were not already cross with me when I make it.” Lady Winthrop’s tone was light, and it had the opposite of its intended effect on Rosalie.
“We are not only here for ices today. I have arranged for us to take a spot of luncheon... with a gentleman.”
Rosalie stopped walking, looking at her mother to make sure she wasn’t playing a trick on her.
“Now, before you say anything, hear me out. His name is Mr. Edmund Sinclair. He is six-and-thirty, a widower these three years, no children, very respectable, and very kind. Lady Simon-Downs assures me he has been wanting an introduction to a sensible young woman for some time, having grown tired of the... well, you know the sort of women wealthy widowers typically attract. And I do think you are very sensible, Rosalie. It is one of your finest qualities.”
Rosalie was still trying to wrap her head around what her mother had said. “You arranged this without telling me.”
“Partly. But I am telling you now, and that’s something, no?
” Lady Winthrop squeezed her arm, undeterred.
“I only did not mention it sooner because I knew you would spend the whole week working yourself into a state about it, and I did not think that was good for anyone, least of all you. It is only luncheon, Rosie. Nobody is asking you to marry the man at first sight. Just meet him and see how you feel. Nothing terrible can come from a meeting.”
Rosalie wanted to turn around and walk directly home.
But her mother’s face had that particular hopeful set to it that Rosalie had never been able to withstand.
It was the same face Lady Winthrop had worn at every ball for four Seasons running, growing more determinedly cheerful each year, as though enthusiasm alone could will a match into existence.
This wasn’t the first time she had set up a secret meeting with a prospective suitor for Rosalie.
But the few times had gone so poorly, she couldn’t believe her mother had wanted to try again.
Rosalie was quiet mostly, but she was a decent conversationalist when she met someone genuinely good and interesting.
The sort of poor man her mother dragged her to meet had never sparked anything more than fear in her.
If Lady Winthrop was back to old matchmaking habits, she must have been desperate.
But this may be for the best, Rosalie wagered inwardly.
If I am seen taking tea chaperoned with an unmarried man, news will make the rounds.
And the Duke of Hartmere might finally leave me alone, thinking my story was true.
Sighing, Rosalie nodded and let herself be steered toward the tea shop. “Have it your way,” she said. “But I cannot promise I will be very good company today. I am extremely unprepared. I have never even heard of this man.”
“That is more than fair,” Lady Winthrop said, delighted, and she picked up her pace toward Gunter’s.
Mr. Edmund Sinclair turned out to be precisely as advertised: pleasant-faced and fair-haired, though graying early at the temples in a way that lent him a certain gravity.
He seemed so genuinely kind and polite that Rosalie found herself unable to summon a single legitimate objection to him.
He rose when they arrived, seated her mother first and then Rosalie.
She stared at him across the table, taking in the smile lines around his eyes.
This was a man who, while a widower now, had obviously led a happy life—or who was very good at pretending to be happy.
“How nice it is to meet you,” Mr. Sinclair said, beaming at her from across the table. “It has been some time since you and I have reunited, Lady Winthrop. Was it not at the art fair in Truro in 1813?”
“It was,” Lady Winthrop replied, gleefully. She set down her menu. “I promised you a dinner after we met you there, with your lovely late wife, but we never quite managed it, did we?”
“No,” Mr. Sinclair smiled. “I am afraid I have not spent much time in Cornwall lately. Instead, I have been shackled to London.”
“Would you rather be elsewhere?” Rosalie asked for good measure, though she didn’t raise her eyes away from her menu.
“Elsewhere than London, you mean? I must admit I would. My father died recently—”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” Lady Winthrop cut in.
“Yes, well. It was expected. He was ill for many years. With his death, I came into a house in Bretagne I have not visited since my childhood. I should like to go there, God willing, once the continent is safer.”
“That sounds like a lovely plan,” Lady Winthrop said. Rosalie felt her mother elbow her under the table, and she set down her menu, half-decided on the strawberry ice. “Perhaps we could all go, once it is safer. We love France, the baron and I.”
Her mother and Mr. Sinclair began swapping travel stories.
He was maybe not the most well-traveled man—there were few people in London who could compete with her parents in that regard—but he still had pleasant stories, and he was easy to like.
Rosalie tried very hard to like him as their ices arrived, and they tucked in.
“Your father’s last collection,” Mr. Sinclair’s was saying, “the one concerning the coastline... I confess I have read it twice through. There is a stanza about the tide at Fistral Beach that I have not been able to shake from my mind since I first read it.”
“He will be very pleased to hear that,” Rosalie said when her mother remained quiet on purpose.
As for Mr. Sinclair’s interest in Rosalie, it was impossible to say what her father would think.
That was likely why Lady Winthrop had organized the luncheon in secret.
Anna had made such a strong match all on her own that the baron couldn’t foresee a future in which the same didn’t happen for Rosalie.
But with Mr. Sinclair? It was not his fault that Rosalie did not as yet feel the same.
Any young lady in her right mind would have been listening to every word from him.
Unfortunately, Rosalie’s right mind had absconded somewhere around the time she’d glanced past his shoulder and spotted, three tables away, a familiar dark head bent toward a lady and gentleman she didn’t recognize.
He was speaking to them with his head resting on his hand, a pose that made Rosalie’s heart clench.
The Duke of Hartmere had not seen her yet.
Or if he had, he gave no sign of it, which was somehow worse.
Rosalie had only managed half a spoonful of her ice in response.
Her stomach had tied itself in knots, her eyes focused on the clock above the door, counting down the minutes until her mother’s appointment with the milliner —if the appointment even existed.
I am not going to look at him, she told herself.
She looked at him again almost immediately.
He was seated at an angle from her. He wore a rich blue velvet coat, and it made her think of his eyes.
Why was it so hard to look away? To focus on the perfectly nice gentleman in front of her? Why did she—
“Do you not agree, Miss Winthrop?”
“I’m sorry?” Rosalie, startled, returned her attention to the table, heat crawling up her throat. “Forgive me, I was... I was thinking about something else.”
Mr. Sinclair’s mouth twitched with something that might have been amusement or might have been the first flicker of understanding that he was not holding her full attention.
Rosalie felt a fresh wave of shame at having given him even that much reason to notice.
He was kind. He deserved better than a woman who could not keep her eyes off another man’s table.
“I only asked whether you preferred the countryside to town,” he said gently. “I find I do, myself, like I said, though I am told that is an unfashionable opinion.”