Page 23 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
In truth, Rosalind knew she was possessed of a certain naivety. She was eighteen years old, in the flush of her first season, and forever taken up with romantic notions of what a man should be like. But having studied the history of art through the books in her father’s library, Rosalind knew the course of true love never ran smoothly.
The depictions of Pygmalion, who fell in love with his own statue, only for Aphrodite to turn her into a living being or Narcissus, who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water, before being consumed by his own desire and drowning.
“Don’t fret, my Lady. I’m sure you’ll see the earl again. If not… well, he doesn’t know what he’s lost by not pursuing you,” Molly replied.
Rosalind nodded. It was not so much the earl himself. She hardly knew him. It was what he represented. She did not want to find herself betrothed before she had had a chance to live. There was still so much for her to experience. In her studies of art, she had found herself gazing through windows into numerous other worlds, ones she desired to explore and experience for herself.
Why should she not be someone’s lover? Why should she not be caught up in adventure and excitement? Why should she not be the one to dream of something more?
“I’d like to see him again, but…I don’t know…I don’t want to make a fool of myself,” she said, wondering what the earl would say if he knew himself immortalized in the painting of Ariadne and Dionysus.
“You won’t, my Lady. Trust me. You’re allowed a few dalliances. And as for the Duke of Northridge…well, he needs to realize he has to fight for your affections, not expect them as a matter of course,” Molly replied.
Rosalind smiled. Molly always spoke her mind, and she knew the maid did not approve of the Duke of Northridge anymore than she did. As she made her way downstairs, where her parents were waiting, Rosalind wondered what would happen if she saw the Earl of Southbourne again. Would he appear mad? Would he ignore her? A sudden anxiousness came over her, even as her mother chastised her.
“We’re going to be late, Rosalind,” she said, tutting and shaking her head.
“What if I see the Earl of Southbourne again?” Rosalind asked, and her mother groaned.
“I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about the Earl of Southbourne,” she exclaimed, hurrying Rosalind out of the house and into a waiting carriage.
But as they drove towards the home of Lady Clarissa Barrington, Rosalind could not rid herself of both the fear of encountering the man who had previously been a stranger, and a desire to know more about the man she now knew as the Earl of Southbourne.
Chapter 10
“These cakes are delicious. Have you tried one? And the sugared fruits are also delectable. Oh, and look, dainty little ices! This is why I’ve come,” Elizabeth exclaimed, attacking the dessert table with gusto.
Rosalind was standing at her side, being somewhat more reserved in her appreciation of the lavish fare presented. Lady Clarissa’s dinner ball was an elaborate affair. They had enjoyed a dozen courses, served by liveried footmen in the dining room, where the table had been covered with fine silverware and crystal glass. The wine had flowed freely, and many of the guests had not survived the course of the service, making the mistake of gluttony too early, and finding themselves unable to continue the pursuit.
“You can have mine and everyone else’s, too,” Rosalind replied, smiling at the sight of her friend, who had always been possessed of a sweet tooth.
“It’s delicious, Rosalind. Quite heavenly,” Elizabeth exclaimed, reminding Rosalind of the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa she had spoken of in her mother’s drawing room the day before.
Elizabeth certainly took pleasure in her food, just as Rosalind took pleasure in her art. They were both sensuous creatures, though their pleasures were somewhat different. The dinner itself was as elaborate an affair as it was dull.
The seating plan had been carefully designed. Rosalind had suspected her mother’s influence in finding herself sitting between her godmother and the Duke of Northridge. He had done nothing but speak about himself, though the lack of expectation in an answer had offered Rosalind ample time to observe the other guests.
“Did you see the Earl of Southbourne at dinner?” Rosalind asked, as Elizabeth took two strawberry ices from a rapidly melting display.
“No. I was too busy concentrating on the turbot. Or was it the lamb? It was all so delicious,” Elizabeth said, and Rosalind rolled her eyes.
“He was there. He caught my eye several times,” she said, for there had been no doubt the earl had noticed her.
He, too, had looked bored, sitting next to a woman whom her Godmother had informed her was Sebastian’s stepmother, and a man she knew to be Lord John Cuthbert, a wealthy viscount and businessman.
“Oh, but Rosalind, you know it’s not a good idea. He’s mad, isn’t he?” Elizabeth said, and Rosalind rolled her eyes.
“Oh, Elizabeth, what nonsense. Does he look mad? Did he charge across Lady Clarissa’s table, kicking the glasses off? Did he rant and rave? Did he tell us he was God incarnate?” she asked, feeling somewhat exasperated at this general assumption of Sebastian’s state of mind, even as she herself had seen no evidence to suggest any truth in it.
The Earl of Southbourne had conducted himself entirely within the bounds of social norms. He had used his cutlery correctly, eaten with moderation, conversed in a low and respectable tone. Rosalind knew all of this because she had been observing him closely, even as she pretended to be listening to Richard, whose incessant talk had been nothing but an irritating background noise.
In the several hours they had been sitting at table, not one action or word from the Earl of Southbourne had given Rosalind cause to consider him mad.
“No. But you can’t always tell,” her friend replied, with a tone of authority Rosalind knew she did not possess.
“And you’re an expert in madness, are you?” Rosalind replied, raising her eyebrows, as Elizabeth’s gaze was drawn by a plate of dainty meringues at the far end of the dessert table.
“No, but one reads of the king’s illness. He can be entirely lucid, they say, and then…well…he goes quite mad. He rants and raves. It’s worse at night, they say,” she replied.
