The Earl of Raymore was also not making any great effort to get ready for dinner. He had gone to the library after leaving the drawing room and still sat there.
He had a problem, there was no doubt about it. The cousin was all right, at least. She was lovely and appeared not to be unduly shy. Raymore had not taken too much notice of what she had to say during the few minutes he had sat talking to her, but he was sure that she would take well. She would probably have a large following of eager bucks within a few days of next week's ball. All that would be required of him would be to choose the most eligible without delay.
But the other! What was he to do with her? His first instinct had been to send her back where she had come from. But that would not answer. He was responsible for her until she was married. He would never be able to forget about her, never be free of her, if he admitted defeat at this point. He would have to think of some way of getting her married. Surely there was someone »ho would be willing to take her off his hands, someone who really needed a wife and did not much care what she looked like or how she walked. Not that the girl was exactly ugly. If she dressed more becomingly and did something with her hair, she would be presentable, at least. He did not like her, though. She had been almost willing to argue with him about playing the pianoforte, and he had not liked the way she had looked dorectly and defiantly into his eyes when she had told iim about her lameness. The girl did not know her place, he guessed. He would have to remind her, if neccessary, of who was the guardian and who the ward.
The earl thought with distaste of the ball that was planned for the following week. He frowned. That was too long to wait. He must begin the campaign before then, especially for Miss Dacey. She would certainly not show to advantage at a ball. He made a mental note to speak to Hetty the next morning and instruct her to take the girls to a modiste to have new wardrobes made and to a stylist to have more fashionable hairstyles. They must be ready with at least one outfit apiece by the following day. He would take them to the theater and let them be ogled from the other boxes. A limp was not apparent when one sat at a play.
Raymore rang the bell at his elbow. When the butler appeared, he was informed that his lordship would not dine at home. White's Club was a more congenial setting for this particular evening than his own home.
Chapter 3
The Earl of Raymore entered his house late the following morning and made his way, as usual, to his secretary's office to examine the morning's post. He was feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had his promised talk with Hetty earlier and she had been most eager to comply with his demands. She had been delighted at the prospect of preparing her charges for a visit to the theater. Henry had just agreed to join the party, provided there had been no further developments in his wife's delicate condition by the following evening. And, best of all, Raymore had just thought of Sir Rowland Axby. A middle-aged man of unprepossessing appearance and totally lacking in personality, he had nevertheless succeeded in finding a bride fifteen years before and fathering a brood of six youngsters before his wife died. His efforts to find himself a new mate were fast becoming a standing joke with the ton. Miss Dacey would be perfect for him. Axby would want a wife who would be prepared to rusticate with the children. His ward would doubtless be grateful to have her future settled and to be removed from the embarrassment of a public setting. He instructed Sheldon to send an invitation to Sir Rowland to attend his ball the following week.
"Miss Dacey has asked to- speak with you on your return, my lord," Sheldon said.
"Eh?" said Raymore, looking up from a letter that he held in his hand. "Has she not gone shopping with her cousin and Mrs. Laker?"
"I believe they have postponed the outing until after luncheon, my lord," the secretary replied.
Raymore put the letter down on the desk in irritation and frowned at Sheldon. "What does she want?"
"She did not say, my lord."
"Send word that she may attend me in the library at once," the earl directed and strode from the room. The infernal chit! He had known she would be trouble.
Rosalind assumed a confidence she did not quite feel as she waited for a footman to open the library doors for her. Her guardian was seated behind a heavy mahogany desk at the far side of the room, sunlight streaming in from the window behind him, making a halo of his blond hair. She felt that he had deliberately placed himself there so that she would be forced to undergo the ordeal of limping across the room toward him while he watched her steadily. His elbows were on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Alistair with a stony expression!
"Have a seat, Miss Dacey," he said, motioning to a straight chair at the other side of his desk.
Rosalind sat down, her back straight. He did not initiate any conversation. He sat and stared at her.
My lord, will you please allow me to return home?" she blurted, and watched his eyebrows rise haughtily. She had not intended to broach the subject quite so bluntly.
"Home, Miss Dacey?" he queried, ice dripping from each word. "You are at home, ma'am. This is your home as long as I choose to make it so."
Rosalind blushed and bit her lip. "I mean to Raymore Manor, my lord," she said. "Indeed, I appreciate your fondness in inviting us here. For Sylvia it is a dream come true to be in London during the Season. But you did not know when you invited us here that I am disabled. I cannot mix with society, my lord. My presence would merely be an embarrassment to you and to myself. I am sure you must agree."
"Must I?" he asked quietly.
Rosalind paused, uncertain of his reaction. His eyes gave no clue. "Will you allow me to return?" she asked.
"No, I will not," he replied.
Rosalind swallowed. "Why not?"
His eyebrows rose. "Because I choose not to allow it, Miss Dacey," he said. "This is reason enough."
Her jaw clenched. "You have given no reason at all," she snapped unwisely. "Kindly make yourself clearer, my lord."
His palms lowered to the desk and he rose to his feet without hurry. He did not remove his gaze from Rosalind's face. "I shall make myself clear, ma'am," he said very softly, coming around the desk to stand towering over her, "crystal-clear, I trust. I am your guardian. Until you marry, you are my responsibility. I shall choose what is best for you and you will not question my decisions. Perhaps my uncle allowed you to question him and dictate your own terms. You will not find me so amenable. I tell you now that you will remain in London until the end of the Season or until I have found you a husband. At the end of the Season I shall tell you where you will be going. You do not need to concern yourself with the matter. You will not be consulted. Do I make myself understood, ma'am?"
Rosalind had sat crimson-faced through most of this icily delivered monologue. Now she looked at him with an expression of incredulity. She laughed scornfully. "You speak like a character from a gothic romance," she said. "I am two and twenty, my lord, a grown woman. Do you believe you can browbeat me as if I were a child? You have it within your power, I suppose, to keep me here against my will. I am reminded that the place I call home is in reality your home now. But this idea of totally ruling my life as if I were a mindless imbecile! I would remind you, sir, that we moved out of the Dark Ages a significant time ago."
His jaw clenched. "By God, ma'am, you will learn who is master here," he said. "If you must speak with a shrewish tongue, you may do so, but not with me as an audience. And you will remain in this house at my pleasure and do as I bid you. You have a ball to prepare for next week, and I believe that at the moment you are delaying a shopping expedition."