Page 19 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
He had not forgotten, though he had not entirely remembered, either. Lady Clarissa Barrington was a socialite, whose salon was among the most fashionable in the ton. She would spend the season in the capital at her estate in Devon. The ball was an annual occasion attended by the elite, and Sebastian’s stepmother counted herself among them.
“It’ll be the usual offering, but pleasant enough,” his stepmother said, and Sebastian nodded.
He had not forgotten, and he reminded himself of this, as he finished his cup of coffee, thinking over the things he could remember, even as he feared there were things he had still forgotten.
“I’ll have to think about the ball. I don’t know if I want to go to it or not,” he said, for his thoughts were distracted by memories of the previous evening, even as his stepmother raised her eyebrows.
“But it’s expected of you, Sebastian. You’re the Earl of Southbourne, and you know what Lady Clarissa’s like. She likes to invite only those who meet her standards. That’s why we’re invited,” Victoria said, and Sebastian rolled his eyes.
“And what if she doesn’t meet our standards?” he replied, for Sebastian had never put much store in rank and position, even as the ton existed only because of class and division.
“The woman you danced with last night might be there,” his stepmother said, and Sebastian smiled, shaking his head, for he had no intention of pursuing a match with the fear of the family curse hanging over him.
“I don’t think so. Besides, she wouldn’t be interested now. I’m sure she knows who I am. She’ll hear the rumors, she’ll know I am… as I am,” Sebastian said, for he had now convinced himself of his madness, and felt certain it would only get worse.
Forgetfulness was surely the first sign, and Sebastian shuddered to think what would come next. His father had been forgetful, but he had also been delusional, replacing those things he had forgotten with ideas of what was not, and believing in them, too.
“But you don’t know that, Sebastian. Not yet,” his stepmother said, but Sebastian was not willing to find out, nor was he willing to risk the possibility of humiliation at the hands of the ton.
He would go to the ball under duress and hoping to encounter Rosalind again. He reminded himself what would happen if he did. Even though his heart was torn, an unexpected feeling of desire for her arose.
***
“Oh, there you are, Rosalind. Where have you been all morning?” the duchess asked, as Rosalind entered the morning room to find her mother sitting with Lady Tilly, her godmother, and several other women taking tea.
“I had a slight megrim,” Rosalind replied, not wishing to be questioned, even as her mother raised her eyebrows.
“It’s those masks, isn’t it? They’re terrible. I always have to lie down the following day after a masquerade. I’m glad I wasn’t there,” Lady Tilly said, tutting and shaking her head.
Rosalind had not realized her mother had company, but there could be no retreat now she had entered the morning room, and she was forced to sit and listen as the events of the previous evening were dissected.
“It’s always a gamble who one dances with. I’m always fearful when they remove their mask,” one of the women said.
At these words, Rosalind smiled, thinking the same might be said of the man unfortunate enough to dance with her. The duchess’ friends were a mixture of society ladies, each of them with their own peculiarities, but they all shared one thing in common: far too much time on their hands.
This leisure was translated into idle gossip, and the entire purpose of the gathering was to share whatever information they might have with one another, each of them hoping to outdo the others with their accounts of scandal.
“Oh, I feel the same way, Petunia. I’ve danced with some ghastly men in my time,” Lady Tilly, herself a spinster, replied.
More tea was poured, and the conversation continued in a similar vein.
“Anyway, it’ll be far easier at Lady Clarissa’s tonight. There’ll be no second guessing,” one of the women said.
The others nodded.
“Yes, I much prefer a dinner ball to a masquerade,” Lady Tilly said.
“Did you dance with anyone of interest last night, Rosalind?” another of the women asked, and Rosalind blushed, glancing at her mother, who answered the question for her.
“She was to dance with the Duke of Northridge, but managed to avoid him for most of the evening. Isn’t that true, Rosalind?” the duchess said.
All eyes were fixed on Rosalind, who now sighed and shrugged.
“It’s not easy knowing who’s who at a masquerade,” she said, and her mother tutted.
“You could’ve sought him out, couldn’t you? He was with your father for half the evening, but you were off gallivanting about the art,” she said, and Rosalind’s anger was inflamed.
Her mother was humiliating her in front of her friends, and for no other reason than her desire to see Rosalind married to the man she favored over others. But if she thought her tactic would work, it merely served to drive home Rosalind’s stubbornness. She would not marry the Duke of Northridge, and that was final.
