Page 54 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“A lady should know how to embroider. Didn’t you listen to anything Miss Burns tried to teach you?” the duchess exclaimed, shaking her head.
Miss Burns had been Rosalind’s governess. She was a strict woman, devoid of humor, and against whom Rosalind had rebelled whenever the opportunity had arisen. A refusal to learn needlework had been one of the ways she had done so, and now she was finding it impossible to follow the pattern her mother had provided her with.
“I prefer to paint, mother,” Rosalind said.
The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to be going at half its normal speed, the morning dragging on interminably. The drawing room was stifling, and Rosalind wished she was anywhere but in her mother’s company.
“Yes, well, you won’t be doing anymore of that, Rosalind. This has all gone far enough. I blame myself, of course. I thought I was encouraging you when you were younger. I even told your father that a young lady should paint a little. It’s good for her. Little did I know what it would lead to,” she replied, tutting and shaking her head.
Rosalind sighed. Her mother’s mind was made up, even as Rosalind had no intention of stopping her nighttime activities. If her mother discovered the paintings hidden beneath her bed, she would be horrified, especially given the subject matter.
But Rosalind had no choice but to endure her mother’s criticisms, and as the morning dragged on, her thoughts turned to Sebastian. She did not know when she would see him again or if her mother had anything to do with it. The thought brought with it a cloud of melancholy.
“Perhaps we could take our embroidery out into the garden, mother,” Rosalind said, as the sun shone on her through the morning room window, causing her considerable discomfort in her thick skirts and petticoats.
Her mother looked up from her embroidery, as the clock struck midday.
“We’re expecting the Duke of Northridge any moment,” she said, and Rosalind’s heart sank.
She wondered when the duke would make an appearance. Would he be angry with her for the events at Somerset House, or would he simply pretend nothing had happened, and carry on as before? It was not long before the butler announced his arrival.
Setting aside her embroidery, Rosalind rose to her feet, meeting the duke’s gaze as he entered the room, and bobbing into a short curtsey.
“Ah, Rosalind, I see your mother’s instilled some discipline in you,” he said, and Rosalind blushed, angry at how he presumed to speak to her.
There was no gladness expressed at seeing her well, no attempt to flatter or compliment her. It was as though he was visiting his stables to see a prized mare, and now Rosalind’s mother thanked him for coming.
“It’s very good of you, your Grace, and I hope we can overlook the matter I mentioned in my letter of yesterday,” she said.
The duke nodded.
“Yes. Well, it’s not going to happen again,” he said, still with his eyes fixed on Rosalind, who remained tight-lipped.
There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do to defend or appease. In the eyes of her mother and the duke, Rosalind was lucky to receive forgiveness, even as she felt not the slightest guilt in what she had done. It was the Duke of Northridge who stood before her, expectant of her absolute loyalty and devotion.
But in her mind, in her heart, in her very being, it was the Earl of Southbourne she desired, and despite the duke’s arrogance, it gave Rosalind a certain satisfaction to think she could resist him in this way.
“It’s certainly not, your Grace. And how kind of you to suggest a picnic by the riverbanks. The Thames can be so delightful when one goes upstream a little,” the duchess replied.
“Yes, to Richmond, and its riparian delights,” the duke said, beckoning to Rosalind to follow him,
Had she not known better, Rosalind would have groaned at the thought of enjoying “riparian delights” in the company of the duke. She did not want to go on a picnic, even as she knew she would have no choice but to do so. If this was an attempt by Richard to outdo Sebastian, it would not work, and as her mother gushed at the prospect of their picnic, Rosalind could only force a reluctant smile to her face.
“Won’t it wonderful, Rosalind? We must get you a parasol. Come along, you can leave immediately. There’s no need to delay,” the duchess said, taking Rosalind by the arm and leading her out of the morning room.
The cool marble of the hallway provided respite from the stifling atmosphere of the drawing room, but such relief was short-lived, as it was not long before Rosalind found herself in the stifling confines of the duke’s carriage, where the company was just as overbearing as the heat of her mother’s morning room.
“Now, as I said to your mother, we’ll make no mention of the incident at Somerset House. I don’t know what you were thinking of, Rosalind, but you were a fool to allow that man to lead you so astray. The scandal it could’ve caused…it doesn’t bear thinking about,” he said, shaking his head.
Rosalind remained silent. There was no point in protesting against his words. In the duke’s eyes, he was showing magnanimity in his forgiveness, even as Rosalind did not believe there was anything to forgive.
“If only you knew the truth,” she thought to herself, her thoughts returning to the paintings, and the imagination of herself and Sebastian caught up in their passionate depictions.
“I want you to promise me, Rosalind. No more dalliances with the madman. He’s dangerous,” Sebastian said.
But Rosalind shook her head. There was nothing dangerous about Sebastian, and it was nonsense to suggest otherwise. Richard was only jealous, and like her mother, it seemed he had every intention of controlling her every move, to prevent this apparent danger taking hold.
But forbidden fruit was always the most enticing, and the more Sebastian was denounced, the more her desire for him grew.
