good. Lady Martel had been right. It did suit her to have it piled into complicated swirls and twists on the crown and back of her head. But the hairdresser had allowed enough loose ends to curl around her face and along her neck to give her a softly feminine look. The dresser had insisted on a little rouge to relieve the paleness of her skin. And it was so artfully applied, blended so carefully along the line of her cheekbone, that it looked natural.
Rosalind stood and examined her gown in a long mirror. One thing she had insisted upon during her reluctant fittings at Madame de Valéry’s. She was two and twenty. Although this was officially her come-out Season, she refused to behave like a debutante and wear pastel shades. They would serve only to accentuate her age and to emphasize the darkness of her coloring. She wore a deep rose-red gown of unadorned satin. The neckline was modest. Madame had cunningly fashioned the bodice so that it flared loosely from just beneath the breasts. The skirt was full but not ill-fitting. It swirled around her as she moved. Rosalind was not given to pointless longings, but she did catch herself thinking wistfully of being able to dance as she gazed at the rose-pink slippers that peeked beneath the wide hem of her dress. She gave herself a mental shake, drew on the elbow-length white gloves that the dresser was holding out to her, and turned to Sylvia with a smile. “Shall we go down,” she suggested, “before his lordship comes looking for us, breathing fire and brimstone?”
He was waiting for them in the drawing room, looking magnificent, Rosalind conceded reluctantly. Her eyes took in the dull-gold knee breeches and coat, the brown waistcoat and snowy white linen and lace at neck and cuffs. He was truly handsome from the neck down, but his face looked more like that of a man contemplating his own execution than of one about to host a ball for the ton.
He bowed unsmilingly and placed his empty glass on the mantel. “You are both to be complimented on your appearance,” he said. “Shall we join Hetty in the ballroom? Our first guests should be arriving soon.”
He offered Rosalind his arm, but she pretended not to notice and turned and limped out of the room ahead of both him and Sylvia. She would not allow him to treat her like an invalid.
In one of his few meetings with his wards in the previous few days, Raymore had instructed Rosalind on how she was to conduct herself at the ball. She had felt like an enlisted soldier taking orders from a general. He had not asked or discussed or coaxed; he had told. She was to stand next to him in the receiving line, with Sylvia on her other side. If she became tired of standing, she must take his arm and lean on him. When the dancing was to begin, he would lead her as unobtrusively as possible to a sofa close to the door, after which he would begin the dancing by leading out Sylvia.
He and Cousin Hetty would introduce her to various guests; she assumed he meant various young men. Her inability to dance would be attributed to the fact that she was somewhat lame. He had considered telling everyone that she had twisted her ankle, he told her frankly, but had decided that that would not serve, as she could expect to be in London for at least two months and she could not convince everyone for the whole of that time with the twisted-ankle story.
On no account was she to move from the sofa. If no one else offered to bring her a plate of food at suppertime, he would do so himself. All she had to do was smile and be charming to all who came to converse with her.
It was while he talked that Rosalind devised her plan to get even with this man whom she had come to detest. Only this enabled her to sit outwardly serene as he talked about her quite candidly as if she were a piece of spoiled merchandise that a buyer would have to be tricked into purchasing. She would show him!
The first part of the evening went as planned. The Earl of Raymore
Rosalind stood and examined her gown in a long mirror. One thing she had insisted upon during her reluctant fittings at Madame de Valéry’s. She was two and twenty. Although this was officially her come-out Season, she refused to behave like a debutante and wear pastel shades. They would serve only to accentuate her age and to emphasize the darkness of her coloring. She wore a deep rose-red gown of unadorned satin. The neckline was modest. Madame had cunningly fashioned the bodice so that it flared loosely from just beneath the breasts. The skirt was full but not ill-fitting. It swirled around her as she moved. Rosalind was not given to pointless longings, but she did catch herself thinking wistfully of being able to dance as she gazed at the rose-pink slippers that peeked beneath the wide hem of her dress. She gave herself a mental shake, drew on the elbow-length white gloves that the dresser was holding out to her, and turned to Sylvia with a smile. “Shall we go down,” she suggested, “before his lordship comes looking for us, breathing fire and brimstone?”
He was waiting for them in the drawing room, looking magnificent, Rosalind conceded reluctantly. Her eyes took in the dull-gold knee breeches and coat, the brown waistcoat and snowy white linen and lace at neck and cuffs. He was truly handsome from the neck down, but his face looked more like that of a man contemplating his own execution than of one about to host a ball for the ton.
He bowed unsmilingly and placed his empty glass on the mantel. “You are both to be complimented on your appearance,” he said. “Shall we join Hetty in the ballroom? Our first guests should be arriving soon.”
He offered Rosalind his arm, but she pretended not to notice and turned and limped out of the room ahead of both him and Sylvia. She would not allow him to treat her like an invalid.
In one of his few meetings with his wards in the previous few days, Raymore had instructed Rosalind on how she was to conduct herself at the ball. She had felt like an enlisted soldier taking orders from a general. He had not asked or discussed or coaxed; he had told. She was to stand next to him in the receiving line, with Sylvia on her other side. If she became tired of standing, she must take his arm and lean on him. When the dancing was to begin, he would lead her as unobtrusively as possible to a sofa close to the door, after which he would begin the dancing by leading out Sylvia.
He and Cousin Hetty would introduce her to various guests; she assumed he meant various young men. Her inability to dance would be attributed to the fact that she was somewhat lame. He had considered telling everyone that she had twisted her ankle, he told her frankly, but had decided that that would not serve, as she could expect to be in London for at least two months and she could not convince everyone for the whole of that time with the twisted-ankle story.
On no account was she to move from the sofa. If no one else offered to bring her a plate of food at suppertime, he would do so himself. All she had to do was smile and be charming to all who came to converse with her.
It was while he talked that Rosalind devised her plan to get even with this man whom she had come to detest. Only this enabled her to sit outwardly serene as he talked about her quite candidly as if she were a piece of spoiled merchandise that a buyer would have to be tricked into purchasing. She would show him!
The first part of the evening went as planned. The Earl of Raymore
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