Page 21 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
They were speaking as though the match between Rosalind and the duke was decided, even as, in Rosalind’s mind, it was far from so. She felt trapped, unable to express her true opinion, with the duke sitting at her side, uncomfortably close.
“Would you like to go to Scotland, Rosalind?” Richard asked, turning to her, and Rosalind forced a smile onto her face through gritted teeth.
“Yes. I’m sure I would,” she replied, even though she had no intention of doing so with him.
His purpose in coming to the house that morning was obvious. He wanted to assert his position, and he had done so before the Earl of Southbourne had even had the opportunity of doing so.
“If he ever was going to do so,” Rosalind thought to herself.
Her Godmother’s words about the earl were far from being off-putting and had given rise to an intriguing question. Was the earl really mad? Rosalind had no experience of madness. She did not know what it looked like, though her father often spoke disparagingly of the king and favorably of his incarceration at Windsor on the orders of the regent.
But if the Earl of Southbourne was mad, he had shown no signs of it at the masquerade ball. He had been the very model of charm and wit, and Rosalind had found herself very much attracted to him.
“We can visit the Scottish estate, though I’m considering an extended grand tour after the wedding, you see,” Richard said, addressing Rosalind’s mother, who clapped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, the renaissance masterpieces, the ancient ruins, the romance of the Venetian canals,” she exclaimed, seeming not to question the duke’s assumptions.
Rosalind rolled her eyes. She had made it clear she did not want to marry the Duke of Northridge, and the thought of sharing the romance of Venice with him turned her stomach. He had no appreciation for the things she found inspiring. What would he know of art and painting?
He had never once asked her about her interests, and yet at the masquerade, she had felt herself to be the very center of the Earl of Southbourne’s attentions. He had wanted to know what she thought of the paintings, and there had been no sense of embarrassment in sharing such an intimate view.
“Yes, we’ll see it all. I’ve done the tour myself, of course. But I’m sure Rosalind will delight in it,” the duke said, turning again to Rosalind, who could do nothing but nod and agree.
He had such a patronizing way about him, as though he was only interested in Rosalind when she was listening to him or agreeing with him. Rosalind decided to create some amusement.
“Yes. I’ve always wanted to see the ecstasy of Saint Teresa, the Bernini sculpture in Rome. It shows her heart being pierced by the lance of an angel. It’s ever so sensuous if the drawings I’ve seen of it are to be believed,” she said, knowing her mother would be horrified by the mention of such an explicit piece of religious art.
The other women looked uncomfortable, and the duke shifted awkwardly in his place next to Rosalind.
“Yes… well… I’m sure it’s very continental,” her mother said, blushing, as she took a sip of tea.
“The Roman religion,” the duke said, waving his hand dismissively, and Rosalind could not help but smile as she imagined the sculpture of Saint Teresa’s ecstasy, on which she had based several of her own paintings.
“Rosalind, why don’t you play the pianoforte for us?” her mother asked, and the other women nodded.
“Oh, yes, we must hear you play, Rosalind,” Lady Tilly exclaimed, seemingly glad to have the subject changed.
Rosalind did not like playing in front of other people. She was never allowed to play the sort of music she favored, like the bold baroque pieces of Scarlatti and Vivaldi. She was forever commanded to indulge her mother’s love of Bach, whom she found interminably dull.
“I’m eager to hear you play, too, Rosalind,” Richard said, and Rosalind had no choice but to cross to the pianoforte, where her mother came to stand behind her.
“Play something pleasant, Rosalind. And stop embarrassing yourself,” she whispered, placing her hand forcibly on Rosalind’s shoulder.
Rosalind sighed, arranging the music, and beginning to play. It was a dull piece, melancholic and without feeling. But her mother nodded, smiling, as the small audience in the morning room listened approvingly. When her performance came to an end, they clapped politely, congratulating Rosalind for her poise and style.
“How delightfully elegant,” Lady Tilly said, and the others expressed similar sentiments.
“Play something else, Rosalind,” her mother said, and Rosalind was now forced to perform a concert of pieces, each of her mother’s choosing, and each as dull as the last.
“I do so like Beethoven,” Lady Tilly said, when at last Rosalind was allowed to stop.
“It was Bach,” she said, and Lady Tilly looked embarrassed.
“Ah…yes. That’s right, Bach. Yes, how foolish of me,” she said, as the duke nodded approvingly.
“How delightful, Rosalind. I’m sure you’ll be marvelous at entertaining guests when we dine with the great and the good,” he said.
Rosalind gave another forced smile, rising to her feet, as the duke did the same.
