Page 77 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, but Sebastian now drew himself up, taking Rosalind’s hand in his and raising it to his lips.
“I love you, Rosalind. I love you with all my heart. I can’t bear to live without you. I’d rather die. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me? Just as we dreamed… just as we imagined it to be. Will you be mine and let me be yours? Just like the paintings,” he said.
Rosalind’s heart skipped a beat. He was different, changed. Gone was his reticence, his fear replaced.
“But what’s happened? What’s changed? You know I will. You know I love you. But I thought… I thought it couldn’t be,” she said, but he shook his head.
“There’s so much I need to tell you. But I know I’m not mad they were driving me to it. They’ve been exposed. There was poison, my uncle, my stepmother…” he exclaimed, and it was as though he could not utter his explanation quickly enough, and now Rosalind began to understand.
He relayed the events of the last few days in haste, explaining how he and John had discovered the truth as to Lady Victoria’s wicked intentions. Rosalind was shocked, but not entirely surprised. She had suspected something they both had.
But this was the proof they had needed, and she rejoiced with him in the knowledge of his sanity. There could be no holding back now, and as his explanation came to an end, she threw her arms around him and kissed him. Her mother let out another shriek.
“Rosalind, what are you doing?” she exclaimed, but Rosalind knew her own mind.
She knew her feelings for Sebastian, and nothing would now hold her back.
“I’m embracing the man I love, mother. The man I want to marry. The man I will marry. I love Sebastian, mother. You won’t stand in the way of our happiness, not now,” Rosalind replied.
She knew what she was doing about the scandal she would cause. But they would face it together, come what may. All that mattered was the truth about Sebastian. He was not mad. Nor would he be so. It had all been a lie. A terrible lie, one they had almost been broken by.
“Rosalind, I forbid it. You’re to marry the Duke of Northridge,” her father said, but Rosalind shook her head.
She was about to defend herself, but Sebastian now stepped forward.
“Your Grace, I know what you think of me. What you thought of me. But it isn’t true. None of it. I’m not mad. I won’t become mad. But I do know one thing: I’m madly in love with your daughter. She means everything to me.
And I swear to you on all that’s good and right, that I’ll love, honor, and protect for the rest of our earthly lives together. I intend to marry your daughter, your Grace. I’d rather do so with your permission. But if not, I’ll do so anyway. I don’t require a dowry, or anything from you. I merely implore you to consider your daughter’s happiness. Isn’t that all that matters?” he replied.
Rosalind’s father faltered. He glanced at her mother, who had fallen silent.
“You make an eloquent case, sir,” the duke replied, and Sebastian nodded.
“It comes from the heart, your Grace,” he said, putting his arm around Rosalind, who rested her head on his chest.
In his arms, nothing else mattered, and in his promise, there was nothing but sincerity. She trusted him, and she knew he would love her just as he said. Rosalind’s father was about to reply, but the door now burst open, and to Rosalind’s astonishment, though perhaps she should not have been surprised. Richard stood staring at the scene before him.
“You…” he snarled, advancing towards them, as Sebastian stepped in front of Rosalind to protect her.
“I’ve made up my mind, Richard. I won’t marry you,” Rosalind said.
The duke stopped in his tracks, staring at Rosalind, who faced him defiantly.
“I find you in the arms of another man, and you think I’d still want to marry you? You’re nothing but a slut, Rosalind, just like the women in those paintings you love so much,” Richard snarled.
“Then at least I’m a happy one. I’d rather be the butt of scandal, then your wife,” Rosalind replied, for she no longer cared what anyone thought of her.
The women in those paintings, the paintings she loved so much, were free. They had cast off the shackles of societal expectations, the revealing of their bodies a show of defiance against a world where women were forced into corsets and petticoats, every part of their bodies concealed lest it arouse the temptations of men.
But Rosalind wanted to be free, and in coming to love Sebastian, she had realized she could be so. It had always been her dream to step into the frames of those paintings, to be like those women, to be free. Now she was, and she was happy.
“Your Grace, please, wait a moment,” Rosalind’s mother said, tears rolling down her cheeks, as she reached out her hands to him imploringly, but Richard shook his head.
“I’ve been played a fool for long enough by all of you. No… let the little slut marry the madman. See if I care,” he replied, and turning on his heels, he marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Rosalind’s mother promptly fainted, and Rosalind rushed to her side, pulling out a bottle of smelling salts to revive her. As the duchess opened her eyes, she gazed up at Rosalind with tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Rosalind, what have you done?” she said, her voice sounding weak and distant.
