Rosalind rose to her feet and glared up into his face, and that is another thing," she said. "I believe you have commanded us to have new clothes. I thank you for Sylvia, my lord. She is most excited at the prospect. I need nothing new. I am quite satisfied with the clothes that I have."
“You do not have to look at yourself wearing them," be sneered. "A sack would become you as well as the gown you are wearing now. Look at you!" He rashly reached out a hand and grasped a handful of fabric at her waist, startling himself when his knuckles came to rest against the shapely curve of a hip.
Rosalind jumped back, slapping at his hand and colliding clumsily with the chair as she landed on her weak leg."Don't touch me!" she hissed.
He stood staring at her for a moment, his hand still outstretched. Rosalind turned and limped her way to the door, uncaring that her hasty progress merely emphasized her ungainly motion. His voice stopped her as she grasped the door handle.
You will accompany Mrs. Laker and your cousin this afternoon," he said, "and you will purchase the garments that I have instructed Hetty to help you choose. If you fail to do so, Miss Dacey, I shall take you shopping myself tomorrow."
Rosalind, seething, had no doubt that he meant what he said.
Madame de Valery, to whom Cousin Hetty conducted her charges as one of the most fashionable modistes on Bond Street, was a busy woman. A demand to have two new evening gowns designed, made, and delivered by the following afternoon was one that she would not normally have complied with. But when Mrs. Laker dropped the name of the Earl of Raymore, she thought that perhaps she might oblige if her seamstresses could be prevailed upon to work through the night. Madame did not personally know the earl. He was unmarried and did not keep mistresses, as far as anyone knew. But he was enormously wealthy. If it suited his fancy to rig out these two young ladies-even the crippled one-in the height of fashion, she would go out of her way to please him.
The younger of the two was every dressmaker's dream. Petite and very pretty, she also had enough interest in the clothes that were to be made to stand through the tedious business of being measured and to point out designs, fabrics, and trimmings that she liked. She was also flatteringly willing to take advice. With her coloring, did she not agree that the spring-green satin would make a more dazzling underdress for the white lace that she had chosen for her come-out ball? Oh, yes, Lady Sylvia Marsh thought that was a splendid idea.
The older one was a different kettle of fish altogether. She had the most unfortunate limp, which would surely ruin her chances of cutting any sort of dash. But she need not be such a dowd. She had fine hair-a trifle dark for fashion, of course, but thick and shiny. She made it quite clear to her long-suffering chaperone, though, that she would not have it cut and styled just to please his lordship. It suited her very well the way it was. Her figure, too, was good. Madame de Valery learned this after winning a battle in which she insisted that she could not make miss's clothes by measuring the ones she wore. She must measure miss herself. Miss Dacey stood with set jaw and angry eyes while Madame discovered that beneath the loose, ill-fitting walking dress was a figure that many an actress or opera dancer would have killed for: full breasts, tiny waist, generous hips, and long slim legs-though, of course, there must be something wrong with them to cause her to walk the way she did.
The young lady took almost no interest in the styles that were chosen for her, but she did plead with Madame when her cousin and Mrs. Laker were out of earshot to please make the gown loose-fitting. She did not wish to display herself to the gaping ton. The poor dressmaker protested that her professional reputation was at stake. She would lose half her patrons if it were seen that she had outfitted the protegee of the Earl of Raymore in a sack. She did, however, agree to necklines that were more modest than she favored, and to high-waisted gowns with skirts a trifle less figure-hugging than most young ladies desired.
Rosalind had to be satisfied with the small victories she had won.
It was only the following afternoon that Sylvia and Rosalind discovered the reason why one gown each had had to be delivered that same day. They were to attend the theater, it seemed, with their guardian and his friend Sir Henry Martel. The great Edmund Kean himself was to play Shylock.
"Oh, I do think it kind of his lordship to arrange entertainment for us so soon," Sylvia said to Cousin Hetty, her eyes shining. "I feared that he did not like us, that we were a nuisance to him, as he paid only that one brief call on us two days ago. But he has arranged this for us, and the ball next week."
"Cousin Edward is not accustomed to having ladies around him," Hetty explained, attempting to tie a bow in the red ribbon that she had placed around the neck of one little poodle. "He does not know quite how to behave in female company, I believe. He is shy."
"Oh, do you believe so?" Sylvia asked, her eyes large with sympathy. "I had not thought of that. We must make an effort tonight to set him at his ease, Ros. Shall we?"
Rosalind smiled fleetingly. "I must disagree with Cousin Hetty," she said. "The man is not shy. He is arrogant and he is a tyrant."
"Oh, I do not feel you should speak that way about his lordship," Cousin Hetty said, flustered. "Hold still, Pootsie, my love. After all, my dear, he has invited each of us into his home and has seen to it that we have every comfort."
Rosalind did not reply. She had no wish to begin an argument. She was relieved to find during the conversation that ensued, though, that the earl was to dine with his friend and that the two of them would return in time to escort the ladies to the theater. During the play she would be able to direct her attention to the action on the stage. Only during the carriage ride would she be forced to make conversation with that horrid man. She dreaded seeing him again. Her interview with him the previous morning had convinced her that he was the kind of man she most disliked. To him women were not persons at all. They were mere chattels who were made to be seen and not heard, who were to kiss with gratitude the ground before the man who deigned to notice them. Rosalind had never been a rebellious girl. She had been used to living her own very private life while sharing a home with relatives she loved and respected. But she neither liked nor respected the Earl of Raymore, and she had no intention of allowing him to rule her life. She had decided the previous day, after her meeting with him, that there could be nothing but open warfare between the two of them. She would cross him at every opportunity that presented itself.
The earl himself was having similar thoughts. He had avoided meeting his wards after that first formal introduction. He had no wish to exert himself in making the kind of polite and inane conversation that women seemed to enjoy. And he did not wish to give that Italian spitfire a chance to cross swords with him again. He knew now beyond a doubt that she was trouble, but he would handle her. He had been pleased to learn from Hetty that she had attended a modiste along with his young cousin and had been fitted for all the garments that would be necessary during the Season. Perhaps she had learned that it was pointless to argue with him. But Raymore doubted it.
When he entered the drawing room of his own home after dinner with Sir Henry, he was pleasantly impressed. His cousin Sylvia now looked perfect for her part. Her hair had been trimmed so that the blond curls molded her head and trailed down a very delicate neck. She wore a gown of the palest blue that appeared to be a perfect match for her eyes. She would do very well. This evening's appearance would whet the appetites of those men who were on the lookout for a beautiful heiress. And who was not? he thought cynically.