Page 20 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
“The art was far more interesting, mother,” Rosalind retorted.
She no longer cared for decorum. The other women were listening in fascination, and Rosalind knew this exchange would soon be the talk of every salon in London.
“Or the man. Yes, I know who he is, Rosalind. Sebastian, the Earl of Southbourne. I couldn’t place him at first, but now I remember. The mad earl; that’s what they say. A cursed family,” she said, and the other women nodded.
Rosalind was taken aback. She recalled her father mentioning the earl in relation to a horse, but she had never expected to meet him.
The thought was intriguing, though. it seemed her mother would go to any lengths to prevent her from showing interest in anyone other than the Duke of Northridge and would not be happy until the betrothal was announced and the wedding ceremony enacted. A mad earl? It seemed utter nonsense. There had been nothing of madness about the man she had danced with and shared such a fine conversation with regarding the paintings.
“He wasn’t mad. He was quite charming. We talked about art. He appreciated what I had to say, as I appreciated what he had to say, too,” Rosalind replied, for she would not be swayed in her opinions of a man whom she had nothing but the desire to see again.
Her Godmother looked worried.
“It’s true what your mother says. They all went mad. Two generations back and probably before. Seized by a madness, just like the king. One wonders if these things can be carried on the air and caught like a cold,” she said, looking suddenly fearful.
Rosalind rolled her eyes. They were nothing but a group of silly women with nothing better to do than gossip over nonsense. What difference did it make if the earl’s father and grandfather had gone mad? That did not mean he would, too, and if anything, it made Rosalind all the more determined to see him again. She knew his name now, and it would not be difficult to find an earl among the London aristocracy; especially one with a reputation for madness.
“We talked, I danced with him. That’s all. There’s nothing more to it than that. I don’t see what the fuss is all about,” Rosalind said, shaking her head and wishing she was anywhere but in the company of her mother and her mother’s friends, all of whom seemed to be of the same opinion as the duchess.
“It’s the impression it makes, Rosalind. You’re a young woman, you’re allowed to make mistakes, but you should allow yourself to be guided, too,” her mother replied, adopting a softer tone, and looking at Rosalind with what might be construed as sympathy.
But Rosalind knew she was only making a pretense in front of the others. Her mind was made up. She was not guiding her with a gentle hand but forcing her by way of threats and cajolement.
“You should listen to your mother, Rosalind,” Lady Tilly said, and the other women nodded.
Rosalind sighed. There was no point in continuing the argument. They had reached a stalemate. Her parents favored the Duke of Northridge, and Rosalind favored anyone but him. But now, knowing the name of the stranger she had danced with and shared the intimacies of their appreciation for the scandalous paintings, a glimmer of hope rose in her heart.
If she could find the earl, perhaps her fortunes could change. Rosalind had always had a rebellious spirit, and now that same spirit came to the fore in a determination to see her fortunes changed.
“I’ve certainly listened,” Rosalind said, as the butler entered the room.
“The Duke of Northridge, your Grace,” he said, addressing Rosalind’s mother, who clapped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, as Rosalind stifled a groan. Did this man never give up?
The party rose as one, and as the duke entered the room, a rustle of skirts met him as the group of women curtsied. Rosalind gave only a token bending of the knee, even as the duke hurried forward to seize her by the hand.
“My darling, Rosalind, how happy I am to see you,” he exclaimed, as a footman now entered the room, bearing an enormous bouquet of red roses.
The scent was overbearing, heady, and pungent. It was much like the duke’s presence. Rosalind was presented with the flowers as the other women gushed.
“Oh, aren’t they beautiful?” Lady Tilly exclaimed.
Rosalind did not particularly care for roses. As pretty as they were, they had thorns, and now she cut her finger on one of the stems, smarting with pain as the duke gushed over her.
“Do you like them?” he asked. With her mother watching like a hawk, Rosalind could only say, “yes.”
Chapter 9
“An estate in Herefordshire, the townhouse here in London, a modest pile outside Bath—only about a hundred acres, and the Scottish acquisitions, too. My great-great-grandfather married the first daughter of the Duke of Argyll.
A substantial estate was bequeathed as part of the dowry. I don’t go up there much. It’s all grouse moors and mountains, but pleasant enough,” the Duke of Northridge said. The women in the morning room hanging on his every word. All of them, except Rosalind.
Richard had a boastful streak to him, one she found unappealing, and she had already heard more than enough about his estates and property, even as her mother clapped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, can you imagine it, Rosalind? Life amid the heathers. You’ll wear a tartan sash, and dance the jig with the ghillie,” she said, and Lady Tilly let out a cry of delight.
“Oh, yes, just like in one of Sir Walter Scott’s novellas, how delightful,” she said.
