He left before he felt he could have outstayed his welcome. He could not go home. She would surely be there by now and he would be obliged to go to the drawing room to greet her and converse for a while. It was impossible. He did not feel like going to one of his clubs. Neither cards nor drink appealed to him tonight. He finally went to the theater, although he knew he would have missed at least the first two acts. Elise had told him that there was an impressive new actress playing Ophelia. Raymore was impressed, too. He wandered backstage at the end of the performance and easily attracted her attention away from other would-be admirers congregated in the green room. As he left her bed and her room in the early hours of the morning, he reflected that such a relationship was far superior to the one he had been thinking of for the last few days. This way he could walk away perfectly satisfied without putting any part of his real self at risk.
The following day Raymore had to be at home during the afternoon to greet Dr. Hans Dehnert, who wished to try out the earl's musical instruments. It was important to him, he said, to use the actual pianoforte he was to play and in the actual room in which he was to perform. Only four days remained until the concert.
Raymore came face to face with the ladies as he entered the house and they were leaving the dining room after luncheon. He removed his hat and bowed to them, keeping his eyes on Hetty. "Hans Dehnert will be here this afternoon," he told her. "You need not concern yourselves, though. I shall have him shown directly to the music room. I believe he will want use of the room for the next three afternoons."
"Oh, how I look forward to hearing him," Rosalind said warmly. "Maybe it is a good thing that Bernard is coming this afternoon to take me to Kew Gardens. Otherwise I might be tempted to seek out that anteroom you told me of, my lord."
He shot her a brief glance. She caught a flash of amusement in it, but he did not hold the look. He seemed strangely uneasy, she thought. He was soon striding to the staircase and mounting the stairs two at a time.
The afternoon at Kew was not a success, though Rosalind was hard put to it afterward to explain to herself exactly what was wrong. She had been delighted at the prospect of escaping from the house and the constant threat of coming face to face with her guardian. She had dressed very carefully, choosing a new dress of bronze muslin and matching parasol, and a chip-straw bonnet whose ribbons of orange and yellow complemented the outfit. Sir Bernard looked at her with frank admiration as she descended the staircase to join him in the hallway. He growled playfully into her ear before lifting her into the seat of his high-perch phaeton. The afternoon was perfect, a slight breeze and a scattering of fluffy clouds relieving the heat of July. The gardens were breathtakingly beautiful.
Sir Bernard teased her about the concert that she would be forced to attend. "Now I know why your cousin married in such haste," he said, grinning broadly at her. "She saw it as the only escape from an evening of boredom. You should have lured me to that island, my love. We might be safely in Shropshire, too."
She smiled back at him. "Ah, but you see," she said, "I would not miss the evening for worlds, so you have been made to wait, sir."
"Even when the entertainment has been arranged by your tyrant of a guardian?" he goaded.
Her smile faded. "But I cannot dispute that his taste in the arts is impeccable," she said earnestly. "I must feel privileged to be associated with him in that way."
They drove in silence for a while until Sir Bernard turned to her again with determined cheerfulness and began to talk on one of his favorite topics: the places he planned to take Rosalind on their wedding trip.
"Oh, shall we be able to see the art treasures at Versailles and the Louvre?" she asked with enthusiasm when he mentioned Paris.
He smiled indulgently. "If you wish, my love," he agreed. "I was planning to take you to all the leading modistes and milliners so that you might turn every head with envy when we return to London."
"So that everyone might notice me limp along?" she asked with a smile.
He frowned. She asked if they might go to Florence when they reached Italy. There were so many art treasures there that she had dreamed all her life of seeing for herself.
Sir Bernard chuckled. "Am I to have a bluestocking for a wife?" he asked. "I had thought to head for Venice, where we might ride in a gondola and I might fill your head with romance."
"That would be lovely," she agreed. "And St. Mark's is in Venice. Will we see it, Bernard?"
He sighed with mock exasperation. "Do you know, Rosalind," he said, "I believe I should deputize Raymore to take you on this wedding trip in my place. You and he would lap up all the dry dust of Europe and believe that you had shared a feast. But you may see any place you wish by day, my love, provided that your nights belong to me." He leaned toward her with a wicked leer on his face and tried to kiss her.
Rosalind slapped his wrist with her closed parasol and laughed. "Sometimes I think you are no gentleman, sir," she said with mock severity. But his words had given her a sickening jolt. The very idea of being on a wedding trip with Raymore! The thought made the bottom want to a fall out of her stomach.
Sir Bernard would not come into the house on Grosvenor Square with her, claiming that he had some business to attend to before dinner. Rosalind was not sorry. She was feeling unaccountably depressed. She wanted to be alone. Sbe was craving, in fact, a session alone in the music room. Although she had played the pianoforte at Broome Hall, she had done so only in the presence of other people. There had been no chance to play for herself. Now she needed the mental discipline of playing something that offered challenge, the emotional release of playing something full of feeling. Surely Dr. Dehnert must have left already.
She talked briefly with Cousin Hetty in the drawing room, then excused herself by saying that she needed to rest before dinner. It was not a total lie, she told herself. What better way to rest than to devote an hour to music? She made her way to the music room, listening carefully as she neared the door to make sure that it was not still occupied. She opened the door cautiously, then stepped inside and closed it behind her. Soon she was bringing Bach to life on the harpsichord.
By the time she moved on to the pianoforte to tackle the Moonlight Sonata, which she had not played for more than a week, Raymore was listening. He had not left the house after the arrival of the Austrian pianist, although he had left the musician alone in the music room. And he had stayed at home afterward, having decided that he would leave only in time to keep a dinner engagement. He had seen Rosalind return to the house while he was standing at the window of his own apartments. Instinct told him that she would soon seek out the music room. She was playing the harpsichord when he stopped outside the door. He let himself quietly into the anteroom.
Her playing was not good at first. The days without practice had affected her precision. Worse, she appeared to be in a mood of some agitation. She stumbled over phrases that should have given no problem; her timing was inconsistent. As the minutes passed, though, she became more absorbed in the exercise. She played the piece through without error. But more than that, she had put the whole of herself into the interpretation of the music.
Rosalind sat slumped over the painoforte, rubbing her eyes wearily, and finally looked up. The Earl of Raymore was standing in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. She jumped to her feet, pushing back the stool with such haste that it tipped over and fell to the floor with a clatter.