The Earl of Raymore did not dine at home. He had decided to keep his promise to Rosalind to the letter. He had not set eyes on her since that afternoon in the music room. He stood at the entrance to the music room now, greeting his guests as they arrived. The room was lit brilliantly by chandeliers that held hundreds of candles. Gilt chairs to accommodate the guests were set out around the room. He was nervous. Never had he succeeded in presenting someone of quite the caliber of Hans Dehnert at one of his concerts. He hoped that the setting would be to the man's liking. But it was Rosalind who caused his feeling of trepidation. He did not doubt her skill, but he knew her to have a somewhat volatile temper. How would she stand up to the strain of such an occasion? Had he pushed her too far?
He longed to see her again. Yet he dreaded it, too. It would be the last time, except possibly for the farewell he would take of her next week or the week after. He doubted that she would want him to attend her wedding, and indeed he did not wish it himself.
She finally appeared on the arm of Crawleigh. He recalled then that her fiance had been engaged to dine at the house. She was looking pale, but there was a determined set to her jaw. She wore the same rose-pink gown that she had worn to her come-out ball. Her dark hair was piled in intricate swirls around her head, a few tendrils carefully curling over her temples and along her neck. She looked the picture of beauty to the man on whom her eyes were riveted.
Rosalind hardly knew how she had reached the music room. She knew that she was leaning rather heavily on Bernard's arm and that she was limping more than usual. She was in the grip of a blind terror. She could not go through with it, she thought. She would be sick. Every moment she thought she would have to tell Bernard to turn back. Then she caught sight of the Earl of Raymore standing inside the doorway of the music room looking reassuringly cool and confident. He had told her she could do it. And he did not appear worried now that he had made an error. She fixed her eyes on him and felt some of the warmth returning to her body.
He looked back at her, smiled, and bowed. "Rosalind," he said, taking her hand in a steady, warm one, "how are you feeling? Crawleigh?"
She made a grimace that passed for a smile. "Terrified," she admitted.
He placed her hand on his arm and led her to an empty chair in the front row. Sir Bernard followed them. "I should be worried if you were not," Raymore said softly. "You will play magnificently, I promise you."
"Will I?" she asked, looking up at his reassuring smile.
Hans Dehnert arrived soon afterward. There was a stir among the assembled guests as he crossed the room and seated himself at the pianoforte. Rosalind stared in surprise. She had expected someone seven feet tall. Could this slim little man with the receding hairline and nervous hands be the great pianist about whom she had heard so much?
After Raymore had introduced him and he began to play, Rosalind could understand his fame. He brought Mozart alive with his playing. One almost immediately forgot the player and saw, heard, and felt only the music. For a half-hour she sat enthralled as he played first the pianoforte and then the harpsichord. But the coldness began to creep back. Soon it would be her turn. How would she be able to get up and cross the expanse of floor to the instrument? How would she be able to play? How could she follow such a performance as this? She could not. She must somehow signal to Raymore her change of heart. Without knowing it, she began to clench and twist her hands in her lap.
Sir Bernard covered them with one of his. "Steady, love," he murmured. "You will be good."
His reassurance did not help much. By the time she joined in the applause for Hans Dehnert, she hardly knew what she was doing. When Raymore got to his feet, she stared at him as at a lifeline. He looked back.
"We shall hear more from Dr. Dehnert later, after refreshments," he told his guests. "I am sure you feel the same delight as I do that there is more to come. In the meanwhile, I wish to introduce to you a new talent that I discovered under my own roof. Miss Rosalind Dacey is a true musician, in the sense that she plays for the music alone, not for an audience. However, she has consented to play for us this evening. In a few moments you will all share with me the honor of hearing her perform. Rosalind?"
He was standing before her, his hand outstretched. Rosalind placed her own in it and rose to her feet. She had not taken her eyes from his. Raymore resisted the temptation to draw her arm through his and pull her close to his side so that her limp would be somewhat disguised. Rosalind Dacey did not need to disguise one defect when there was so much beauty in her. He led her to the pianoforte and seated her.
She could not begin. Her fingers would depress the wrong keys. She would not be able to move her fingers; they were cold and stiff. She could not remember the music. She stared at the keyboard for a moment in blind panic. Where was he? Where had he gone?
She looked up and locked eyes with the Earl of Raymore. He was not smiling. He was sitting very still. But there was a look in his eyes that she had not seen there before. It warmed her and calmed her completely. He believed in her. She would play for him. She would show him that he had not made a mistake.
She lowered her fingers to the keys. For the first few bars she played correctly but somewhat tensely. She was playing to the Earl of Raymore. But soon her eyes closed and she forgot everything except the music that was creating itself beneath her hands. She was surprised at the end of it when the sound of applause interrupted her thoughts, prolonged applause that was more than merely polite.
Raymore was not applauding. My God, he thought, she bas improved almost beyond recognition in four days. He rose to his feet only when he saw her slightly bewildered face. He crossed the room and bent over her. "You were magnificent," he said. "These people will want an encore, Rosalind."
"An encore?" she echoed. "Oh, no, please. I have not practiced anything else."
"Will you sing?" he asked, still bent over her, speaking for her ears only.
"Sing?"
"Will you sing the song about the rose?" he asked. "For me, Rosalind?"
She looked up at him, startled. "You mean the one by Mr. Burns?" she asked.
"Is that who wrote it?" he said. "That Scottish fellow, Robert Burns? Will you, Rosalind?"
She had no time to think. The audience had quietened down. "If you wish," she said.
"Miss Dacey has agreed to sing an encore," Raymore told his guests. "It is a song by Robert Burns that I have grown to love."
Rosalind followed him with her eyes until he sat down. The song about the rose. He had called her his rose on that morning at Broome Hall. She had thought it a shortened form of her name. Had he been referring to this song? Had he listened to her sing it and did he think of her as Mr. Burns had thought of his Jean, or whoever the girl was who had inspired the poem?
She sang the song, her contralto voice soft and rich in the hushed room. But she was aware only of the man who sat looking at her, his face expressionless, his eyes full of that new look that she now wondered more about. And before she had finished singing, she knew the truth. She did love him. He had become as essential to her being as the air she breathed or the music she played. She watched her hands during most of the song. When she did raise her head, it was at him that she looked, growing wonder in her eyes.
It is unlikely that many of the invited guest noticed. They were enjoying the novelty of hearing a simple love song after the intense music that they had been hearing for more than an hour. But Lady Elise Martel noticed and exchanged a triumphant smile with her husband. And Sylvia Broome noticed and darted a look of wonder at Nigel. He appeared engrossed in the song. And Sir Bernard Crawleigh noticed.