Page 73 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“We’ll do our best, your Grace,” she said, and Rosalind’s mother nodded.
“See to it you do. And be quick. He’s waiting. He’s waiting to ask a question,” she said, fixing Rosalind with a knowing look, before turning and leaving the room.
Rosalind was in no doubt as to what that question was, and now she knew she had no choice but to face it. Except there was no question. A question implied an answer, one to be chosen. But this question was merely a formality. The answer was already given. It had been assumed. And as Rosalind finished getting dressed, she felt resigned to her fate.
“It’ll be all right, my Lady. We’ll still have one another, and you’ll have Lady Elizabeth, too,” Molly said, and Rosalind smiled weakly.
She knew she was not entirely alone, but this was something she had to face alone, and now, taking a deep breath, she made her way downstairs, where she found her parents talking to Richard in the drawing room. Her father had his foot propped up on a gout stool, but Richard to his feet, coming to meet Rosalind and smiling at her as he did so.
“What a pretty dress you’re wearing,” he said.
Rosalind had chosen the peach-colored dress, just as her mother had suggested, and now the duke took her by the hand, leading her to the bay window, looking out over the gardens. Her mother pretended to turn and talk to her father, but Rosalind knew they were listening to every word.
“You came very early this morning,” Rosalind said, and Richard nodded.
“Yes, I’ve got some urgent business on the continent. It’s going to take me away for some time,” he replied.
A sudden surge of hope welled up inside Rosalind, and she wondered if perhaps she might still be spared the immediacy of a betrothal. Trying to look saddened by his words, she feigned her surprise.
“Oh… must you go? How long will you be away for?” she asked, hoping he might suggest it would be a considerable length of time.
“Some weeks, I’m afraid. That’s why I had to come and see you. I intend to expedite our plans. I’m going seek a special license for a marriage without the necessity of banns. We can marry before I go away. It only needs to be a small ceremony, after all. We can hold some sort of gathering.
When when I return I’ll be passing through the heart of the wine lands and can bring back enough claret and champagne for the whole ton. Now, I leave on Monday, that leaves us less than a week. I propose to marry on Friday, and spend the coming days together before my departure,” he said.
There was no question of a refusal. The matter was decided. More than decided, it was all arranged. Rosalind was nothing but a puppet, her strings pulled by the three people in the room, all of whom had conspired to bring her to this moment. She stared at Richard, hardly knowing what to say. What could she say?
“I…” she began, but her mother interrupted.
“It sounds like you have everything in hand, your Grace,” she said, smiling at them, as the duke nodded.
“It’s a mere formality. I know the Archbishop’s son. We’ll have the license tomorrow. I was thinking Saint Bart’s the great, I mean for the wedding. I’ll speak to the rector. He won’t refuse not when I know he’s seeking donors for the upkeep of the roof. We can celebrate with a small affair a few guests, nothing overly elaborate. Now, I know there won’t be time for a new dress. But if you and Rosalind visit a modiste today, perhaps something can be done,” he said.
Any pretense at romance had now been turned to practicality. He had not even asked for her assent, let alone told her of his own feelings for her. The two of them might as well have been strangers, meeting for the first time.
But Rosalind would not give him the satisfaction of showing her distress. He knew he held power over her, but it was a power to which she would never submit. Not in her mind, at least. In this, in her vows, and in the future, she would refuse to acknowledge him as her husband. She did not love him, and she never would.
“A toast, I think,” Rosalind’s father said, as Rosalind and Richard joined Rosalind’s parents by the hearth.
A bottle of champagne was summoned, despite the early hour, and glasses were poured, and a toast offered. Rosalind made a pretense at appearing happy, but happiness was far from her mind. She was not happy, and the prospect of an imminent wedding filled her with dread. As soon as she was able to do so, and with Richard hurrying off to a meeting about his upcoming trip to the continent, Rosalind made her way to Elizabeth’s house, where she found her friend in the throes of planning her own wedding.
“Oh, Rosalind, I’m so pleased to see you. The modiste sent over some beautiful samples of fabric for the dress, you see. Won’t you help me choose one?” she asked, holding up a dozen swatches of material and smiling.
Rosalind promptly burst into tears, and Elizabeth, who had been sitting at a large table in her mother’s drawing room hurried to her side.
“What’s wrong, Rosalind? Oh, you poor thing,” she exclaimed, pulling out her handkerchief, and dabbing at Rosalind’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I had to come and talk to you. I had to tell he’s asked me to marry him, Richard, I mean. Well… he hasn’t asked me, he’s told me,” she said.
Elizabeth sighed.
“I’m sorry, Rosalind… but have you accepted? I suppose you haven’t got a choice. It won’t be for some months though, will it?” Elizabeth said, but Rosalind shook her head.
“It’s on Friday, Elizabeth. He’s getting a special license. I haven’t got a choice. He’s going to the continent, you see, and he wants us married by then,” she replied, descending into fresh sobs, as Elizabeth held her in a tight embrace.
“You poor thing… oh, how dreadful,” she exclaimed, and it seemed there was no longer any hope, any solace, only the grim prospect of Rosalind becoming the Duchess of Northridge, and happiness forever escaping her.
Chapter 31
