Page 6 of Passion Painted in a Lady's Heart
He was a rake, and having returned from travels on the continent, he had set about securing a match, even as he had been rejected on several occasions. His attentions had been recently turned to Rosalind, her debut appearing to be something of an attraction, the flowering of innocence being his own particular penchant.
“Oh, mother, no,” she said, but her mother was adamant.
“It’s all arranged, Rosalind. He’s coming here this evening, he’ll dine, and you’ll behave yourself,” she said.
Rosalind sighed. She knew she had no choice in the matter. Her mother wanted her to make a match, and if she did not do so herself, her parents would make it for her. Rosalind knew how it worked. She had seen it in the lives of many young women with whom she was acquainted. Arrangements were made for good or ill, and the woman in question had little choice but to agree.
“But you don’t seriously expect me to marry him, do you? It’s my first season. Aren’t I allowed a few mistakes?” Rosalind said, hoping to buy herself sometime.
Other women had time. They were not expected to make an immediate decision or accept the first proposal they received. Other women waited. But Rosalind’s parents were impatient. She had no siblings, no sisters to share the burden of expectation, and no brothers to provide security should the worst occur and her father die. A husband was necessary, and Rosalind knew her parents were already impatient.
“He’s been a friend of the family for many years,” her mother said, as though that gave the duke the right to expect some reward in exchange.
Rosalind looked at her mother angrily. She was her mirror image, though older, of course, with vibrant red curls and deep hazel eyes. She had a fair complexion, but there was a weariness in her expression, and Rosalind often wondered if there was not some illness she was concealing behind her now angry looking façade.
“That doesn’t mean I have to marry him, mother. He must be twenty years older than me,” she said, and her mother tutted.
“He’s thirty-six,” she replied, and Rosalind laughed.
“Then that makes all the difference. He’s only twice my age,” she retorted.
“He’s coming to dinner, and that’s that,” the duke said, returning to his periodical, as Rosalind rose to her feet.
“I’ll be polite to him. But I won’t marry him,” she said, and before either of her parents could retort, she left the dining room, slamming the door angrily behind her.
Upstairs, Rosalind locked herself in her bedroom and took out the portrait of Ariadne and Dionysus, looking at it with a sigh.
“You had a difficult life, didn’t you? Helping Theseus escape the Minotaur, then being left by him on Naxos. I suppose I should be grateful,” she said out loud, taking up her paints and beginning to fill in some details in the background.
Her thoughts were absorbed in the painting, and for a few hours she was able to lose herself in the myth of Ariadne and her lover, imagining herself to be the one he had fallen in love with. But the prospect of the dinner still loomed, and when the dressing gong sounded, Rosalind knew she had no choice but to act as a lady, and leave the land of myth and legend behind.
***
“You wouldn’t marry him, though, would you, my Lady?” Molly asked, and Rosalind shook her head.
“I certainly wouldn’t. I don’t know what my mother’s thinking. It’s as though she’s desperate for my betrothal, whatever the cost. It’s not as though I’m some ancient spinster nobody wants. I’m eighteen years old, I’ve attended one ball since my debut. I’m hardly a wallflower yet, am I?” Rosalind said.
Her maid looked at her sympathetically.
“Not at all, my Lady. Be firm with your mother. If you don’t want to marry him, you don’t have to. Besides, you can always put him off,” Molly said.
Rosalind smiled. She had been thinking the very same thing. Sabotage was a perfectly acceptable means of avoidance, and if the duke did not actually want to marry her, then all the better.
“You know my mother, Molly. She won’t give up. But perhaps you’re right. I’ll have to persuade him of my lack of merit,” Rosalind replied.
Before her debut, the duke had treated her merely as the daughter of a friend, but in the weeks since her coming out, Rosalind had sensed a change. He was interested in her, and the dinner was surely only an excuse to get to know her better. As she finished dressing, Rosalind was resigned to an evening of boredom, even as she knew she had to be on her best behavior.
“But I can still put him off by being dull,” she said to herself , as she made her way downstairs.
Her parents liked to spend the season in London. They had an estate near Bath. It is a rambling pile built by a distant ancestor, surrounded by glorious parkland with vistas stretching for miles on every side. It was there Rosalind’s first inspiration for painting had come, even as she now relied on classical scenes from books in her father’s library to inspire her.
The London house was a pleasant dwelling, but Rosalind preferred the countryside, and she was looking forward to the end of the season, and a chance to return to the rural landscapes of her childhood. As she came down the stairs, Rosalind could hear the sound of voices in the drawing room, and taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
“Ah, Rosalind, there you are,” her mother said, beckoning her into the room.
The Duke of Northridge was already there, holding a glass of sherry, but he put it down on a nearby table and hurried to greet Rosalind, taking his hands in hers and raising it to his lips.
“The belle of the season,” he said, glancing up at her with a smile.
