That was what she resented most about him. If he had always been the cold, arrogant, demanding man that was his normal self, she could at least respect him for a certain integrity. Her emotions would not be placed in turmoil. But there had been too many interludes of passion, when they had both behaved as if they could not possibly live one moment longer without each other. She still flushed hotly with embarrassment when she thought of that morning at Broome Hall when she had almost given herself to him completely. She could not forgive him for using her so. And then, most confusing of all, were those rare occasions when he was gentle, almost tender. She had tried to forget the night of Sylvia's disappearance when he had kissed her brow, apparently in a gesture of comfort. But what about his behavior of this afternoon? All her defenses had come crumbling down with his gentleness, with the humility he had shown when talking about her talent. His kiss had almost destroyed her completely. She had wanted to cling to the lapels of his coat and pour out her heart to him just as if he were a normal man who would understand and sympathize. For a moment she had felt as if she had glimpsed a different man, a warm and compassionate human being.
It was clearer to her now, of course, why he had behaved so. He was a man who must have his way. For some reason that eluded her, he had decided that she must play at his concert, but she had almost thwarted him. He must have learned already that neither coldness nor anger would move her, and had consequently turned to other tactics. He was trying gentleness, humility, concern. Despicable man! She thumped the bed with her fists. How could he so coldly use the physical appeal that he must know he exerted over her?
She was almost resolved to refuse to play for him on Friday night. She could not give him the satisfaction of feeling that his blandishments had succeeded. Anyway, she could not possibly perform before a large and critical audience that would include the great Hans Dehnert. Even so, a little niggling thought at the back of her mind kept reminding her of one thing that he had said. His concert was very dear to him. He would not have asked her to perform if he did not truly believe that she was worthy. Whatever his personal feelings for her, he must consider her talented. And she could trust his judgment; he was one of the most respected patrons of the arts in England, she had learned since moving to London. She had a chance to play in the same concert as Hans Dehnert! The thought was overwhelming. Although she still believed that she would say no the next day, or, better still, give him no answer at all, part of her was glad that she did not have to make a final decision until the following day.
Rosalind got up from the bed and rang for a maid to bring her some fresh water. She had only a litde while in which to repair the damage her tears had done to her face before going down to dine with Cousin Hetty and preparing to attend the opera with Sir Bernard and a party he had invited.
Chapter 15
The Earl of Raymore was true to this word. Rosalind saw nothing of him between the time of their meeting in the music room and the concert on Friday evening. The day following her encounter with him she was still as undecided as she was the day before about what her reply would be. She wandered into the music room in the morning and played some music that she found undemanding. She sang a little. But she could not bring herself to even try the Beethoven. She wandered out again little more than a half-hour after she had begun.
In the afternoon she decided to pay a call on Lady Elise Martel. She had not seen her since before going into the country. They spent a pleasant half-hour exchanging news and cooing over the baby, whom Lady Elise had brought down from the nursery for her guest's inspection.
"I have a terrible problem," Rosalind said finally, "that I am hoping you can help me solve."
"Yes," Lady Elise said, "I have noticed that you are preoccupied. Trouble with Sir Bernard, my dear?"
Rosalind hesitated. "No," she said, "it does not concern him. It is that my guardian has asked me to play at his concert on Friday evening."
Lady Elise gasped. "You mean on the pianoforte?" she asked.
"Yes."
"He has heard you play?" Lady Elise continued. "You are that good?"
"I have never thought of myself as a very good player," Rosalind said. "I have always played to please myself, you see. I have always found that playing both relieves my emotions and helps me build self-discipline. It is challenging to play a difficult piece perfectly."
"But you must be good if Edward says you are," her friend assured her. "What is the problem, Rosalind?"
Rosalind pondered. "It is as if he intruded into the most private part of my life," she said. "He has been listening to me all these weeks, you see, without my knowing it. I am honored to know I could play on the same program as Hans Dehnert, but… Oh, Elise, I cannot allow him to just take over my life. I have to keep part of me for myself. I am not explaining myself very well, am I?"
Lady Elise absently stroked the curled hand of the child who slept on the sofa beside her. Her eyes were wide and fixed on Rosalind. "Oh, you explain yourself very well," she said. "Tell me, my dear, do you feel the same about Sir Bernard?"
"About Bernard?" Rosalind repeated, frowning slightly. "No, of course not. He has never tried to bore into my very soul."
Her friend nodded several times but said nothing. "Elise?" Rosalind queried.
"Have you realized that you love Edward?" Lady Elise asked quietly.
Rosalind could feel the blood draining from her head. "Love Edward?" she said, appalled. "Of course I do not love him, Elise. I hate him with a passion."
Lady Elise did not comment. She leaned back on the sofa and regarded her friend with gentle amusement. "And it just might be that your feelings are returned," she said. "Henry told me tbat Edward has been behaving strangely in the last few days. He dined here two nights ago, you know, and seemed quite happy to be here, though he was the only guest. He appeared almost reluctant to leave, in fact. Well, how famous!"
Rosalind leapt to her feet. "Please do not say such things," she said. "Oh, do not make sport of me. I detest the earl. Nothing will make me happier than to leave his house in two weeks' time knowing that I never have to return again."
"Please sit down," her friend said. "I am sorry, Rosalind. I did not mean to distress you. Come, I shall ring for tea. But before we drop the subject entirely, please do consider accepting Edward's invitation. It would be a shame to have the talent you must possess and not share it at least once with a discerning audience."
It was a piece of advice that Sir Bernard Crawleigh echoed a couple of hours later when he took Rosalind driving in the park. She did not mention to him any of the emotional overtones of her interview with Raymore the afternoon before, but merely told him that she had been asked to play and had to give her answer that day.
"I say," Sir Bernard said, "much as I dislike the man, Rosalind, I must respect his judgment on music. You must be good."
She shrugged. "He seems to think so."
"You must accept, you know," he said. "I must confess that I have been looking forward to the evening as a crashing bore, but knowing you are to play, I shall definitely be interested."
"What if I make a mess of it?" she asked doubtfully.
"I told you," he answered with a grin, "I respect Raymore's judgment. How does he know you are good, by the way?"
"He has been listening to me," she said, a thread of anger in her voice. "Without my knowledge, of course."
He grinned again. "I'll wager you were furious when you found out," he said. "I wish I might have seen that interview. Did you strike him, Rosalind?"