A Day for Love by Mary Balogh (1)

Golden Rose

Winter was always a dreary time of year in Bath. There were few visitors except those whose poor health had driven them there to drink the waters. And the season usually brought the famous spa its fair share of wind and rain and leaden skies. Spring was on the way by the time February came, but still, it came slowly and was evident only in a few tantalizing glimpses of primroses and snowdrops.

But the Master of Ceremonies, whose task it was to see that every resident and every visitor was suitably entertained despite the season and the weather, made an interesting announcement at the beginning of the month that boosted the spirits of almost everyone, young and old alike.

A masked ball was to be held at the Upper Assembly Rooms on St. Valentine’s Day, February 14. Even that detail was interesting enough, since few people can resist the lure of a costume party and the chance to dress up and don a mask. But there was more.

Each gentleman was encouraged to send a valentine to the lady of his choice with the request that she carry some favor of his to the ball to be reclaimed at the end of the evening. In the true spirit of the festival, the card was to be anonymous.

Ladies were asked to reply to the valentines. In the event that they received more than one, they were asked to choose. Each was to carry only one gentleman’s favor to the ball.

Bath was agog with the news. Most people thought it all a splendid idea, though there were, of course, criticisms. How was a lady to know if her gentleman admirer was respectable? If she had more than one valentine, how was she to know which came from the gentleman she preferred?

But most agreed that the whole mystery surrounding the game added excitement and fun and romance to one of the dullest months of the year.

“What if a poor lady wears a brooch from a gentleman she abhors and discovers the truth only when it is too late?” Lady Copeland asked her brother as they sipped tea together one afternoon in her downstairs salon on the Circus, one of Bath’s most prestigious residential areas.

“It’s a deuced foolish idea,” Lord Westbury said. “There’s scarce a soul here below the age of forty. What do we want with cavorting about a ballroom wearing masks and sending ladies expensive gifts when they don’t even know whom to thank?”

“It is a very romantic idea, of course,” Lady Copeland said with a sigh. “But there should be some way in which the gentlemen can hint at their identity. I can remember the time when I had three valentine cards in one year. To this day I don’t know which one came from Alistair and who sent the others. It was most provoking.” Her brother snorted and suffered a coughing spell for his pains. He thumped his broad chest and turned purple in the face.

“Emily, dear,” Lady Copeland said, turning to her young companion, who was seated quietly behind the tea tray, “another cup for Lord Westbury.” She waited for the worst of the coughing to subside. “Besides, Stanley, there are some younger people in Bath. Our nephew, for example.”

His lordship sipped loudly on his tea. “Roger will think it deuced silly, take my word on it,” he said. “He don’t want to be here to start with, and wouldn’t be if Jasper had not insisted. Roger is determined to be bored. When I called on him this morning at the White Hart, he was still in bed and had the effrontery to growl at me.” 

“Then this ball will be just the thing for him,” Lady Copeland said. “What did he do, anyway, that our brother would send him away from London?” 

“Nothing serious,” Lord Westbury said after taking another noisy sip of his tea. “He didn’t kill a man or anything like that. Caught between the sheets with a lady, I gather—by her husband.”

Lady Copeland coughed delicately. “Do remember Emily, Stanley,” she said. “Emily, dear, you may take the tray back to the kitchen if you will be so good.” But before the girl could get to her feet, Lady Copeland’s butler was at the door announcing the arrival of the Honorable Mr. Roger Bradshaw. The young man himself followed close behind. Tall and handsomely built, with thick dark hair that fell in a heavy lock over one eyebrow, he looked on the world from a pair of dark gray eyes with ironic humor.

“Aunty!” he said, striding across the room to take both of Lady Copeland’s hands in his own and plant a kiss on her cheek. “What the devil are you doing living quite at the top of the world here? Trying to hobnob with the angels, are you?”

“It was a deuced foolish thing to take lodgings all the way up here, Adeline,” Lord Westbury said. “Having to take a chair instead of a carriage, and being bounced and jounced uphill like a barrel of pork. Why couldn’t you stay in Laura Place like last year, eh? You were quite comfortable there.”

“Uncle Stanley,” Roger said, extending a hand to his uncle. “Did you really call on me this morning, or did I dream it? Mornings are not always my best time, I’m afraid.”

“How are you, Roger dear?” his aunt asked. “Do take a seat. And how did you leave your dear father?” 

“Hastily,” Roger said with a grin, seating himself, “and decided to come to Bath to pay a call on my favorite aunt.”

“Your only aunt,” she said matter-of-factly. “Yes, Emily, dear, thank you. I’m sure Roger will appreciate a cup of tea after his climb. I assume you walked, dear?”

Roger took his cup of tea from the hand of his aunt’s companion, looked at her absently, and then returned his eyes for a second look. “Present me, please, Aunty.”

“Miss Richmond,” Lady Copeland said, “my new companion, Roger. Her father is our neighbor, Sir Henry Richmond. They have such a large family that they were able to spare Emily to bear me company. This is my scamp of a nephew, dear,” she added. “Roger Bradshaw, my brother’s son—Viscount Yardley, that is.”

Roger got to his feet and made the girl a bow. She still had not sat down after taking him his tea. She curtsied while his eyes examined her slender form in its neat gray dress and her golden hair, which framed her heart-shaped face with shining smoothness and was confined in a knot at her neck.

“Ma’am?” he said.

“You’ll have to get used to early mornings, Roger,” his uncle was saying. “It won’t do for you to miss the promenade in the Pump Room. It begins at seven o’clock.”

Roger winced. “Barbarous!” he said. “Do I have to? But there is precious little else to do in Bath, is there? Where is that scallywag of a grandson of yours, Aunty? In Bath, is he, or have you packed him off back to school?”

“Dear Jasper,” Lady Copeland said fondly. “He could not possibly survive at school, Roger, especially at this time of year. He is so susceptible to chills. I fear sometimes that he is consumptive.”

Lord Westbury gave a bark of what sounded like derisive laughter, though it soon turned into another coughing bout.

His sister looked at him disapprovingly. “I tried to persuade Harriet and Nigel to take the boy to Italy with them this winter,” she said, “but they would not. He would doubtless interfere with their pleasures. But I would not send him back to school after Christmas. He is about the house somewhere. I could not find him to come to tea. He has no appetite, poor boy. You may remove the tray now, Emily, dear.”

Roger waited for two minutes before getting to his feet. “I’ll go in search of Jasper,” he said. “I’ll see if he has forgiven me for the thrashing I gave him last summer when he cut the white tassels off my Hessians.”

“You ought not to have done that,” Lady Copeland said. “The boy is delicate. Besides, Harriet had a fit of the vapors that lasted all of an hour. And then she had the migraines for two days.”

Roger grinned and left the room.

“Gone to look for Jasper!” Lord Westbury said scornfully. “Does he think we were born yesterday, Adeline? I would look to that little girl of yours, if I were you.”

“Emily?” his sister said. “She is too shy by half, Stanley. She could be a beauty if she would allow herself to be. And she seemed to be a girl of some spirit when she was in the country. I believe she finds it lowering that her father is impoverished and she must take employment. Poor dear. I have hopes of finding her a husband one of these days.”

“Roger won’t have matrimony on his mind,” her brother said. “Not with someone’s companion, Adeline.” 

“If he grows troublesome,” Lady Copeland said, “I shall give him a sharp setdown, Stanley. Or perhaps Emily will prove to have more spirit than she has shown thus far in my employ. She is quite a dear girl, I do assure you.”

Emily Richmond took the tea tray to the kitchen and paused to commend the cook on the little currant cakes that had been on it. Then she had to wait, smiling, while the cook explained to her at great length how her grandmother had passed the recipe on to her mother and how her mother had passed it on to her.

Emily did not chafe at the delay. She did not mind her employer’s company. She could sit cheerfully through a whole day alone with Lady Copeland when it was necessary to do so. But she hated it when there were visitors. Always she was introduced as Lady Copeland’s companion—her employee, that was. She never knew quite how to behave.

She had refused two offers of marriage from two perfectly worthy gentlemen at home before Papa had finally taken her aside and explained gently to her that with three other daughters and four sons all growing up behind her, he could not afford to take or send her anyplace where she was likely to meet a suitor to her liking. Papa had not reproached her for refusing those offers, but she had felt mortified and penitent. If she had only known!

She must have been incredibly naive not to know, since their neighbors the Copelands obviously did. Lady Copeland asked for her companionship to Bath just a couple of weeks after Papa had had his talk with her. And though she had been very tactful and had made it seem that Emily would be doing her a favor by going, it was very clear that it was employment that was being offered. There was an “allowance” involved—pay for services rendered.

Emily had accepted, though Papa had assured her that things were not at such a bad pass that she needed to enter service.

She had come to Bath determined to find herself a husband just as soon as possible. And she was not going to be as foolish as she had used to be, looking for love, that special something that all girls dreamed of. Respectability would be enough.

Perhaps Mr. Harris would be the one. He made a point of greeting Lady Copeland at the Pump Room almost every morning, though Emily always suspected that it was she who really drew him. He was an amiable gentleman, no older than forty, if that old, and perfectly respectable, if a little dull.

She would not aim high. Though her father was a baronet, he had committed the unpardonable crime of becoming impoverished. And she herself was in employment. She could certainly not aim for someone like the Honorable Mr. Roger Bradshaw, for example, though he had looked at her a few minutes before with definite interest and though her heart had quite turned over within her under his scrutiny.

He was a man to be despised, anyway. He had been sent away from London by his father to avoid scandal. He had been caught in bed with another man’s wife. What sort of a man must he be?

She was walking from the back stairs along the dark hallway beside the main staircase, her eyes lowered to the tiles, when she became aware that someone was ahead of her. When she raised her head, it was to find the object of her disapproving thoughts coming toward her. He met her beneath the bend of the stairs.

“It was a large tray,” he said. “I’m sorry that I am too late to help you with it.”

He had a way of looking very directly at a person, Emily thought, as if he saw far into her soul. And he stood just a little too close for comfort. She resisted the urge to take a step back.

“It was not heavy,” she said.

She had never known a flirt. She had only ever had experience of earnest and straightforward gentry and tenant farmers. This man was a flirt, she knew instinctively, and he had come to flirt with her. Her heart fluttered at the same time as she recognized exactly why he did so.

“Miss Richmond,” he said, smiling slowly at her— without a doubt, he knew what effect crinkled eyes and white teeth had on the female sex—“I am new to Bath. What does one do here for entertainment?”

Emily’s heart began to beat up into her throat. She had always thought the idea of eyes dancing was a silly one. But his eyes danced. “There is the Pump Room,” she said. “And there are the Assembly Rooms and the shops and the abbey and private concerts. And Sydney Gardens when the weather is not too cold.”

Had he moved? She had not seen him do so. But he must have, because that backward step could no longer be avoided. Except that somehow she must have stepped sideways instead of back, because the slope of the stairs was now at her shoulder. She was in the shadows beneath the stairs and he was blocking the way back into the open hallway.

“And which places do you frequent?” he asked her. “What would you recommend?”

No, she would not become silly or fluttery or show him in any way that he had discomposed her. She looked him calmly in the eye and willed the breathlessness from her voice. “Lady Copeland likes to spend an hour in the Pump Room each morning,” she said, “and some time strolling on the Crescent in the afternoon if the weather is good. She likes to take tea at the Assembly Rooms during the evenings.”

His lips twitched. They were very sensuous lips, she thought, and then realized with dismay that she was staring at them. They were disturbingly close. He had placed one hand flat against the wall beside her head. His voice was low when he spoke—but then it was only a few inches from her ear.

“I shall have to develop a taste for the waters and for early mornings, then,” he said, “starting tomorrow. And for strolling and sipping tea.”

His eyes on hers were very disturbing, but they became even more so when they looked up to her hair and down to her mouth.

She swallowed and could think of not a single thing to say. He was closer—his coat was almost brushing her bosom. And his eyes were steady on her lips. She passed the tip of her tongue across them nervously. Her heart was beating right up into her ears.

His lips were parted when they met hers, warm and moist and lightly exploring, tasting, inviting. She spread her hands flat against the wall behind her and wondered if her knees really would buckle under her. There was a sudden throbbing ache between her legs and a tightening in her breasts. His tongue followed the same path her own had traveled a moment before.

She lifted her hands and pushed firmly against his chest. Dear God. Oh, dear God.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her eyes on his cravat, “but I think there has been some misunderstanding. I have taken employment, sir, because my family is impoverished. I have taken respectable employment.” She put some emphasis on the adjective.

His voice was still low. She did not look up to see if he laughed at her. “Then I beg your pardon too,” he said. “I did not mean any disrespect.”

Not much, she thought, her embarrassment and confusion turning to anger. He had merely thought to dally with her because she was a servant. He had merely hoped to seduce her.

But her anger as she walked past him—he had stepped to one side—and made her way back to the salon, trying not to hurry, was directed as much against herself as against him. She could easily have avoided his kiss. He had not exactly grabbed her and thrown her against that wall. Was it what she had heard about him that had fascinated her? Had she been intrigued, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by a rake?

Well, if that were so, she had found the answer. It was quite gloriously wonderful, that was what.

She heartily despised herself.

Roger stood in the hallway, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes on the tiled floor. Ah, delectable. All soft, feminine warmth. And for one moment he had thought she was his. No, not thought—she had been his. For one moment before she remembered that she was a virtuous woman.

A shame. A decided shame. He needed some diversion in Bath if he were not to go insane within a week.

“Psst!”

The sound came from the general direction of the front door, though there appeared to be no one in the hallway except himself.

“Psst!”

More specifically from the direction of the large aspidistra plant to one side of the door.

“Jasper,” Roger said, “if you think I am going to slink back there to share secrets with you, think again, my lad. Come on out. What are you hiding from, anyway?”

The aspidistra rustled and a red-haired, freckled boy of about twelve stepped out from behind it. “Whom is more to the point, Rog,” he said. “If I had been anywhere to be found, I would have been made to sit politely through tea, saying, ‘Yes, Great-Uncle Stanley,’ and ‘No, Grandmama,’ until I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy the cakes.”

“And it is so much more satisfactory to hide behind a plant than to stay in the schoolroom or wherever it is you spend your time upstairs?” Roger said.

“I’m very glad I did,” Jasper said. “I should tell Grandmama what I just saw, Rog. She wouldn’t like it above half.”

“Wouldn’t she?” Roger said. “Be my guest, Jasper. Shall I hold the sitting-room door open for you?”

“That’s what I always hate about you, Rog,” the boy said cheerfully. “You’ll never let a fellow make a decent bit of pocket money from blackmail.”

“That’s not what you hated me for last summer,” Roger said. “For how many hours was it you couldn’t sit down after I had finished with you?”

“Oh, two or three minutes,” the boy said airily. “I’ve had worse from Papa. You shouldn’t be mauling Emmy about like that, though, Rog.”

“Fancy her yourself, do you, lad?” Roger said. “A word of advice. Forget it. She’s of a breed known as virtuous women. She’s not worth the energy expended on wooing her.”

“I like Emmy,” Jasper said. “She’s the only grownup I know who treats me as if I’m human.”

“You had better be thankful that your grandmother doesn’t treat you as a human,” Roger said. “You would be at school at this very moment if she did.” 

Jasper grimaced. “And don’t I know it,” he said. 

“So what am I to do for entertainment around here?” Roger asked. “Any ideas?”

“Meaning what females are available?” Jasper said. “Not many, Rog. Most of them must be eighty if they’re a day. There are the Misses Traviss.” 

“Plural,” Roger said. “Do they come separately? I never did like more than one at a time.”

“No,” Jasper said. “Always together, Rog. And one has teeth that stick out and the other a chin that sticks in.”

“Marvelous!” Roger said. “I can see I’m going to have a wonderful time.”

“What did you do?” Jasper asked. “Grandmama said you wouldn’t have come here at this time of year if you didn’t have to. Was it over some female?” 

“Never you mind,” his cousin said. “So it’s the Traviss sisters or the octogenarians, is it?”

“There is the Langtree woman,” Jasper said, “but everyone’s after her, Rog. Men swarm around her like bees around a flower. I can’t see why. She must be thirty at the very least. She does have one asset, though. She has great big ...” His hands made expressive cupping gestures a few inches from his chest. 

“Does she, by Jove?” Roger said.

“You wouldn’t want to be part of a crowd, though, Rog,” Jasper said.

His cousin raised one eyebrow. “No, I certainly would not,” he said. “If I like what I see, Jasper, I’ll roust the opposition.”

“Send her a valentine,” Jasper said.

Roger frowned.

“It’s going to be all the rage here,” Jasper said. “Masked ball, secret valentines, special favors, and all that nonsense. What a bore! I’m not going to be so silly when I grow up, I can safely promise.” He settled into giving an interested Roger full details of the approaching ball.

“Great!” Roger said. “All the trappings of intrigue and high romance and no women below the age of eighty except one virtuous woman, two horsey females, and a queen bee—with a bosom. I can just see myself having such a grand time that I’ll never want to go home.”

“You wouldn’t care to take me to a confectioner’s for cakes, would you, Rog?” Jasper asked half-hopefully.

“Why not?” Roger said. “It sounds as if that might be the closest I’ll get to excitement during this particular sojourn in Bath.”

“Super!” Jasper said with some enthusiasm. “You go and tell Grandmama. And it was your suggestion, mind. I’m too sickly even to think of food.”

“Quite so,” Roger said, looking at the sturdy build and moon face of the boy. “I can quite see why she thinks you might be consumptive, Jas. I’ll have to make her a present of a pair of spectacles before I leave here. Wait here, then. I’ll be back in a trice.”

It lacked a few minutes of half-past seven when Roger strolled into the Pump Room the following morning. He paused in the doorway to look about him. The long, high room was fairly crowded despite the season and the drizzling rain outside. And Jasper’s comment of the day before that there was scarce a soul there below the age of eighty seemed not much exaggerated.

Roger sighed and wondered what on earth he was doing there. It was true that his father had advised flight in that blustering way of his that took no account of the fact that his son was now seven-and-twenty and no longer seventeen. It was even more true that he himself had thought discretion the better part of valor. He had not known that Ruby was married until she had shrieked out the dramatic words “My husband!” while he was still too busily occupied with his pleasure to have noticed the third person in the room. For honor’s sake he had waited one day in case the injured husband wanted to challenge him. Then he had left.

But why Bath? Of all places in England, Wales, or Scotland that he might have chosen, why had he come to Bath? Just because Aunt Adeline and Uncle Stanley were there and his father had suggested it as a destination? Or for some other reason? Because he had been unconsciously reaching out for something quite new and different, perhaps? Something a little more meaningful than the life he had been living for the past seven or eight years? Ach, what nonsense. Roger sighed again.

His uncle was conversing with two other men as portly as he. All three of them held glasses of the waters. One of them was drinking and showing by his facial contortions that he did so more for his health than for pleasure.

His aunt was talking with a gentleman who must be almost the infant of the gathering. It was possible he had not yet reached his fortieth year. As Roger watched, the man turned and bowed to Emily Richmond, offered his arm, and went promenading off about the room with her.

She was still dressed in gray. She probably wore it always. Her nightgowns were probably gray and enveloped her from her chin to her longest toenail. She probably covered that golden hair with a gray nightcap. Perhaps sometimes she made a daring switch to a different color—brown.

What a waste, Roger thought, his eyes following her as she moved down the room away from him. She had a neat little figure, one that would feel sweet pressed between a man and a mattress. Her hair was the color of sunshine and would doubtless dazzle the eyes of the beholder if it were allowed to appear from beneath the gray bonnet and to be released from that ruthless knot at her neck. Her eyes were thickly lashed and large and an interesting shade of hazel. They were the sort of eyes one could drown in if one allowed oneself to. And her mouth—well, her mouth was eminently kissable.

But she was a virtuous woman. What a dreadful waste! It was not as if she lacked sexuality. There had been a definite something when he had kissed her the day before, a something that he had felt in his loins. But of course it was unvirtuous to show passion, especially with a stranger beneath the stairs. When she finally married, she would probably deny herself all pleasure and lie quite decorously still for her husband.

Well, if she were his, she would not be allowed to get away with it, he thought.

“Psst!”

Confound it, where was the boy?

“Good Lord, Jasper,” Roger said, raising his quizzing glass to his eye and turning to the shadowy corner to his left, “What are you doing up at this unholy hour? Does your grandmother drag you here kicking and protesting every day?”

“No, no,” Jasper said, “but it is by far the most entertaining part of the day, Rog. I like to see ’em drinking the water, and I like to see ’em sitting in it up to their necks.” He indicated the long windows down the left side of the room, which overlooked the King’s Bath and the few brave souls whose health demanded more drastic measures than a mere glass of the waters.

“Interesting,” Roger said, sounding anything but interested.

“You’ve been so busy ogling Emmy,” Jasper said, “that you haven’t even noticed the Langtree woman. There she is in the middle of that cluster of idiots.”

Roger looked and waited patiently for someone to move so that he could see the lady in question. He pursed his lips a few moments later. Ah, yes, a definite attraction, a definite possibility. Her charms were many and obvious. He suspected that the red hair did not owe all its glory to nature, but it was glorious nevertheless. Her clothes were expensive and flamboyant and did nothing to hide the mature charms of her body.

And Jasper had been right again. A man might never look into the face of a woman who was the owner of such a bosom. Who would ever want to raise his eyes higher?

“She’s a widow,” Jasper said, “and rich. She keeps ’em all dangling on a string, Rog. If I were you, I wouldn’t lower myself to be just one of many.”

“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Roger said, not removing his eyes from the beauty. He did glance about at her court, too, and noticed that one of her followers was an acquaintance of his. He strolled across the room, acknowledging his aunt in passing— she was conversing with an elderly couple.

“Ah, Poindexter,” he said when he had come up with the group, “pleased to see you.”

He was introduced to Mrs. Langtree, though he did nothing to press his attention on her. He was too experienced a player of the game of dalliance to make that mistake. While he talked with Poindexter, he and the lady covertly examined each other. And he was not displeased with the result. She signaled interest in that way experienced women had, without either a word or a significant gesture passing between them.

And he was interested too, though at close quarters he guessed her age to be somewhat closer to forty than thirty. She wore cosmetics, carefully applied. The neck of her peacock-blue dress, daringly low for morning, gave hint of a deep cleavage. At her neck she wore a heavy gold chain with a large gold rose pendant—an expensive bauble given her by the late Mr. Langtree, perhaps. Or by some grateful lover.

Roger took his leave after five minutes. Without once talking to each other beyond the initial greeting, he and the lady had established that they would both be at the Upper Rooms that evening to take tea.

Perhaps this stay in Bath would not be quite the utter bore he had anticipated earlier, after all, Roger thought. He bowed to his aunt and uncle and Miss Richmond, all standing together on the spot where his aunt had been the whole time, and addressed his thoughts and his steps to the White Hart Inn and his breakfast.

Emily watched him go and was glad he had not come closer to talk with Lady Copeland or Lord Westbury. Instead he had been paying court to Mrs. Langtree. Of course. It was thoroughly predictable that he would do so.

Her eyes had followed him unwillingly almost the whole time he was in the room. Perhaps it was because there were so few young men in Bath, she thought. Yes, perhaps that was the reason. If there had been dozens more, then she would not have noticed Mr. Bradshaw at all.

Not much she wouldn’t! His form-fitting green coat and biscuit-colored pantaloons and black Hessians left no doubt whatever in the mind that his splendid physique owed nothing at all to padding. And then, of course, there were his thick dark hair and handsome face. Emily sighed at her own foolishness and was pleased to find that Lady Copeland was making a move to leave the Pump Room.

“Time for breakfast,” she said firmly, as if someone were about to argue with her. “Come along, Emily, dear. Will you join us, Stanley? And where is Jasper? I hope the dear boy has not got lost.”

Jasper was still in his corner, feeling in dire need of his breakfast. But he had observed with interest the way Cousin Roger’s eyes had followed Emily about the room and the way hers had later followed him.

Interesting, Jasper thought. Virtuous Emmy and rakish Rog. Very interesting!

Drinking tea at the Upper Assembly Rooms was very little different from drinking tea in one’s own or anyone else’s drawing room except that it could be done in a more public setting and gave one a fine excuse to don one’s evening finery and look critically at everyone else’s.

Emily did not possess a great deal of finery. She had with her only two gowns suitable for evening wear, and both were woefully old and sadly unfashionable. But even so, it felt good to change from the drab gowns she wore in the daytime and dress more becomingly.

She was wearing her gold-colored gown and sitting beside Lady Copeland, observing the scene around her. Mrs. Langtree was sitting across the room, holding court to three gentlemen. Emily felt a faint envy.

How did some women do it? she wondered—attract so much male attention, that was. Mrs. Langtree was neither very young nor particularly pretty. She did have a figure, of course. Emily thought rather regretfully of her own slender curves.

Mr. Bradshaw had not yet arrived. Mr. Harris had, and was making his way across the room in the direction of their table. He had paused to pay his respects to a group of acquaintances. He had actually strolled with her that morning and conversed amiably with her the whole while—though quite impersonally. She was not at all sure that he was especially interested in her. Or she in him, for that matter, though that was quite off the point. For Papa’s sake, she could not afford to try to choose with her heart.

If there were any choice to make. Emily sighed inwardly. There seemed to be so few eligible gentlemen in Bath.

“Angela has already had two valentines for the ball,” Mrs. Krebs was telling Lady Copeland, “and knows very well which two gentlemen sent them. The problem is to know who sent which. Should she wear the heart-shaped brooch, or should she carry the lace handkerchief? It is quite a dilemma, I do assure you, ma’am.”

“It would be as well to choose the one she finds prettier, I suppose,” Lady Copeland said.

Mrs. Krebs tittered. “Perhaps there will be more,” she said. “There is more than a week left.”

“One would wager that Mrs. Langtree will have many more than two to choose among,” Mrs. Arnold said. “Quite a headache for her, I would guess.”

“Have you received a valentine yet, Miss Richmond?” Mrs. Krebs asked.

Emily smiled. “No, ma’am,” she said.

“But it is very likely that she will,” Lady Copeland said, patting her hand.

It would be so wonderful, Emily thought wistfully. So wonderful to have a card or a note from a gentleman and a request to wear a certain something to show that she was his valentine. She smiled at Mr. Harris as he came up to their table, and listened to him talk with the other ladies. He made no move to converse privately with her.

And her eyes were on Mr. Bradshaw, who had just arrived and was standing beside Mrs. Langtree’s table, talking with her. He looked very splendid dressed in silver knee breeches and black velvet coat with a very white neckcloth and white lace over his hands.

Mrs. Langtree would receive a valentine from him, doubtless. And surely she would accept if she knew from whom it came. He was by far the most handsome gentleman in Bath. How wonderful it would be, Emily thought, her mind drifting into a dream of herself in the ballroom, carrying some favor of his, waiting for him to come to claim it and her. He would come to dance with her, and he would smile that crinkle-eyed smile he had given her the day before—was it just yesterday? And he would tell her that he . . .

Emily was jolted back to reality when her eyes met Roger’s across the room and she realized both the direction of her thoughts and her ignorance of what was being said at her table.

“I shall hope to see you in the Pump Room in the morning,” Mr. Harris said, rising and bowing to all the ladies seated there. He looked directly at Emily and smiled.

Would he send her a valentine? she wondered. And suddenly she wished that the Master of Ceremonies had not had such an idea. For although it was marvelously romantic, it was also cruel to those women who would not receive even a single valentine. And how humiliating it would be to attend the ball if one had nothing from any gentleman to display. She resolved not to go under such circumstances, even if she had to feign a headache on the evening.

“Ah, Aunty,” a voice said from behind her shoulder. “I knew as soon as I saw that elegant turban across the room that it could belong to no one but you. Miss Richmond?”

“Impudent boy,” Lady Copeland said fondly. “Sit down, Roger, and have some tea. Let me present you to Mrs. Krebs and Mrs. Arnold.”

Roger did not anticipate that sipping tea and gossiping in the Upper Rooms would be a wonderfully exhilarating experience, but when in Bath, he had thought with amused resignation as he dressed carefully for the evening, one must do as the people of Bath did—drink tea.

Perhaps he would have avoided the entertainment had he not had a definite purpose in going. But he did. Without either word or sign, he and Eugenia Langtree had agreed to meet there.

He approached her table with a feeling of some selfmockery. His tastes did not normally run to women ten years his senior or to those of voluptuous charms. He preferred women of more subtle appeal. But if Bath was to be bearable for a few weeks, he needed some diversion—some long-lasting diversion. The pleasure of bedding this particular woman would have to be worked for. She knew the game as well as he and would not give herself for the asking. He would find amusement in the challenge.

“Do you plan to attend the Valentine’s Ball, sir?” she asked him after both of them had spoken only with the other gentlemen about her for a few minutes. Her voice was low and seductive. She glanced up at him provocatively from beneath darkened lashes.

“Only if I can feel persuaded that it will bring me some, ah, enjoyment, ma’am,” he said, returning look for look.

She smiled and turned her attention to another of her admirers. Never more than a hint at a time. The woman played the game well.

He would send her a valentine the next day. He glanced to the bare flesh above her bosom, where the gold rose still hung on its heavy chain. Yes, he could be content to play the game for nine days more. Then, though, he would expect some reward, some action.

He did not realize that his gaze had shifted to a table across the room until he found himself locking eyes with Emily Richmond. She lowered hers immediately.

Well, he had been wrong. She did not always wear gray, it seemed. That gown she was wearing was thoroughly virginal, with a neckline that ended in a small frill beneath her chin, and long, straight sleeves. And it certainly followed none of the current fashions that he was aware of. But the dull gold of its color, matched with the shining gold of her hair, made her look rather like an angel. A pale angel.

He felt a certain breathlessness, looking at her. And yet again a regret. For he had not mistaken the matter. He was experienced enough with women to know that there would be no assailing the virtue of Miss Emily Richmond. She would give herself—or part of herself—on her wedding night, and not a moment sooner. And he had no interest in wedding nights.

He must pay his respects to his aunt, he thought as he strolled across the room. But after doing so he found himself with the unspeakable pleasure of sitting at a table with four women for the following ten minutes, making conversation with them—or with three of them, to be exact. Emily Richmond sat mute to the left of him. And to his astonishment, he found that he could not turn his head easily and include her in the conversation. He totally ignored her, just as if she had not been the main reason for his seating himself there.

He was behaving like a gauche schoolboy!

“Roger,” Lady Copeland said at the end of the ten minutes, “you may call my carriage, dear. It is time to go home.”

He jumped to his feet, glad to put an end to the evening. He was back five minutes later, offering to escort his aunt and Miss Richmond to the waiting carriage.

But confound his aunt, he thought two minutes after that. Did she know every single person in Bath? And must she pause to exchange pleasantries with every last one of them on her way out? She waved him and Emily on, declaring that she would be with them in just a moment.

He took the girl on his arm and escorted her outside. The cloak she had donned, he was satisfied to see, was gray. Her hand on his arm was as slim as the rest of her, her fingers long, her fingernails short and well-manicured.

And what the deuce was he to talk about with a virtuous girl he had tried to seduce just the day before?

“Have you lived all your life in the country?” he asked her abruptly. What a profound question!

She looked up at him with those eyes he had already conceded it possible to drown in.

“Yes,” she said, “every moment of it until one month ago, when I came here with Lady Copeland.”

“And were you sorry to leave your home?” he asked.

She thought for a moment, as if she considered her answer of some importance. The girl clearly was not used to the shallowness of polite conversation. “I think more sorry to realize that I have grown up than to leave home,” she said. “I am the eldest of eight children and it was time to step out on my own and make my own life. That was a little sad and a little frightening.”

“Was yours a happy home?” he asked.

“Yes.” She smiled and looked down at her hands. “Yes, very.”

“If you have lived with parents and seven brothers and sisters,” he said, “you must find your life here very bleak.”

“Oh, no,” she said, looking up at him sharply. “Lady Copeland has been very kind to me. And life is never dull with Jasper.”

He chuckled. “Has he told you of the time when he cut the tassels from my Hessians?” he asked. “Sparkling white tassels from new Hessians, I might add. I was inordinately proud of them.”

“No,” she said, her eyes laughing up into his. “Did you catch him?”

“I did,” he said, “and when I had finished with him, I believe he did not know if it would be less painful to remain absolutely still or to try dancing a Highland fling.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, laughing, “he committed the worst of all sins—he got caught. I shall have to take him home with me for a while to learn some lessons from my brothers. Particularly Gregory.”

“Do you miss them?” he asked her.

The smile faded from her eyes and she nodded abruptly. “Yes,” she said.

She was looking at her hands again and he knew that she had suddenly become aware that she was alone with a rake. He wanted to reach out a hand to touch hers and assure her that he would do her no harm. He clasped his hands behind him instead and noticed her shiver from the cold. He stepped to his right to shield her from the wind.

Where the blazes was his confounded aunt? And since when had he found it difficult to make conversation?

“May I hand you into the carriage?” he said on sudden inspiration. “It will be warmer inside.”

“Thank you,” she said, and put her hand in his. It was icy cold.

Well, at least, he thought, she had had a happy childhood with a large family. Even if she was impoverished and forced to work for her living now, she had had that. His only brother had died with his mother of smallpox years and years ago, and he had not seen a great deal of his father after that. Only tutors and schools and valets.

She had that, at least. And talking about her family had made her face light up with warmth and humor and affection. But poor girl. The very happiness of her childhood and girlhood must make life harder for her now. He released her hand and reached for a carriage robe to tuck about her.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, dears,” Lady Copeland said from behind him.

Yes, he was sorry too. “Have you kept us waiting?” he said. “It has seemed the merest moment. Good night, Aunty.” He kissed her cheek and helped her into the carriage. “Miss Richmond?”

“Good night,” she said softly from the shadows of the coach.

The following day was a fine one, the sky an almost clear blue, the wind a mere breeze, and the sun almost warm for the time of year. Half the residents of Bath, it seemed, converged on Sydney Gardens during the afternoon.

Jasper was strolling along one of the paths, trailing along in the wake of his grandmother and great-uncle, Roger and Emily. They were paired up that way, too. Jasper had watched in glee the discomfiture of Roger and the dismay of Emily when they had realized that they must walk together, her arm drawn through his.

It was great sport. Jasper slunk into the shadow of a bush for a moment while his grandmother paused briefly to greet an acquaintance—he did not fancy being chucked under the chin by yet another elderly lady and called sweet with his red hair and round face and freckles. Sweet! Jasper shuddered. His mother was the one to blame, with her bright red tresses.

Yes, it was great sport. It was as clear as the nose on his face that the two of them fancied each other. Except that Emmy was not at all Rog’s type, nor he hers. It would serve Rog right, too, if she could net him somehow. Parson’s mousetrap would be fitting punishment for that humiliating thrashing the summer before—Rog had not even had the decency to bend him over a chair, but had taken him over his knee. “Spanking” was the humiliating word that leapt to mind. Yes, it would serve him right.

Of course, Emmy deserved better. Except that there was no better in Bath. There was that Harris fellow, of course, who fancied her but kept his distance. But he was far too old and poker-faced for Emmy. She deserved someone more to her liking. Rog? He was handsome, of course. Jasper would kill for looks like that when he grew up, especially that careless lock of dark hair over the eyebrow. And Rog had been his idol until he had proved himself to be a man without a trace of humor over those silly tassels.

Ah, well. Jasper scuffed his feet through some loose stones on the path. Sometimes he thought life would be more interesting if he were at school. Rog had told him earlier that he wanted to see him before he went home. What was that all about? he wondered.

Lady Copeland stopped for a lengthy gossip with two ladies and then announced to her hangers-on that she was returning for tea with Lady Harper and Miss Harper. Stanley must come with her. But there would be no room for the others in Lady Harper’s carriage. Would dear Roger be so good as to see Emily and Jasper home?

“It would be my pleasure, Aunty,” Roger said.

“There will be no need at all for anyone to accompany us,” Emily said brightly. “Jasper and I will be each other’s chaperons.”

They both looked rather as if a noose had been placed about their necks, Jasper thought, glancing from one to the other. His grandmother and great-uncle were already disappearing along the path.

“Take us for cakes before we go home, Rog?” Jasper asked.

“You’ll be popping right out of your clothes if you eat many more, my lad,” Roger said.

“I really must be getting home,” Emily said simultaneously.

“Please, Rog?”

Roger looked at Emily. “Shall we humor him?” he asked her.

“Please, Emmy?”

She hesitated. “On condition that I hear not one whisper about a stomach pain for the next week,” she said, smiling at him.

Jasper marched ahead of them on the long walk to his favorite confectioner’s on Milsom Street. They said scarce a word to each other, he noticed, except to make foolish comments on the weather and even more foolish comments on the houses and carriages they passed on the way. Silly pair.

He took mercy on them during tea, telling them between bites of the three cakes he wheedled out of Roger all the hair-raising scrapes he had got into at school.

“I’m surprised you have ever had a chance to get into trouble at school, Jas,” Roger said. “I thought you were always too sickly to attend.”

“Naw,” the boy said. “I’m there all term when Papa is home. I’d have to have the pox before Papa would let me stay away.”

“Your papa has just gone up in my esteem,” Roger said dryly.

But conversation was no longer labored and stilted. Roger told a few stories of his own from university days, and Emily talked about her brothers and sisters and their escapades—and some of her own.

“It must be great to be part of a large family,” Jasper said wistfully.

“Yes, it must,” Roger said at the same moment as Emily said, “Yes, it is.”

“You have a crumb on your chin, Em,” Jasper said.

He watched her turn scarlet as she brushed ineffectually at the wrong side of her chin. And he watched with even greater interest as Roger took his napkin and brushed the crumb away for her. Poor Emmy, he thought. If there were a brighter color than scarlet, she would be it.

Roger insisted on walking all the way back uphill to the Circus with them, though Emily protested that there was no need for him to do so. His eyes followed her as she ran lightly up the stairs when they were inside the house, and he turned to Jasper and drew a folded sheet of paper from an inner pocket.

“Would you care to make a delivery for me, Jasper?” he asked. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“A sovereign?” Jasper said.

“Half.”

“It’s one of those stupid valentines, I suppose,” Jasper said. “The stationers are probably doing a roaring trade these days.”

“It’s a valentine,” Roger said, “for Mrs. Langtree. You know where she lives?”

“On Great Pulteney Street,” Jasper said.

“On no account must you say who sent it,” Roger said. “And ask if you are to wait for an answer. Will you do it?”

“I suppose,” Jasper said, taking the paper in one hand and holding out the other, palm-up. “Payment in advance, though.”

“Fair enough,” Roger said, digging into a pocket and coming out with half a sovereign. “Today or tomorrow at the latest?”

“Trust me,” Jasper said.

Five minutes later, after Roger had gone and he was safely snug behind the aspidistra plant, Jasper was delighted to find that the paper was not sealed but only folded over four times. Dear Rog. He had obviously forgotten what it was like to be twelve years old. Jasper unfolded the paper.

“My fair Golden Rose,” he read. Great Jupiter, but any self-respecting schoolboy could be excused for wanting to vomit.

My fair golden rose,

You must know how I admire you, how affected I was by your beauty at the Pump Room yesterday morning, and how dazzled by your loveliness at the Upper Rooms last evening. You must know why I can think of you only as my golden rose, though the word “my” is doubtless presumptuous. Will you be my valentine at next week’s ball? Is it too much to expect—to hope—that you will single me out from all others?

Will you make me the happiest of men by wearing a real golden rose for me if I send it you on the day? I am, madam, your anxiously awaiting servant.

Really, Jasper thought, it was too embarrassing even to be funny. But he tittered anyway and held his nose—one never knew when old poker-face, the butler, might appear in the hallway and shoo him upstairs to the schoolroom. Old Rog! Old Rog and his golden rose.

Mrs. Langtree a golden rose? Jasper frowned. He could not quite see the logic of the name. Now, if it were Emmy . . .

If it were Emmy. Jasper read quickly through the letter again. Great Jupiter, it could be Emmy too. It could well be.

He folded the paper, stuck it none too reverently into a pocket, and sat back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He frowned in thought and then grinned. If it were Emmy, indeed.

It would serve Rog right, too.

Emily was getting ready to accompany Lady Copeland to a concert that evening at the home of Mrs. Adler in Sydney Place. Her blue dress would have to do, she thought, staring at it in the mirror and brushing absently at her hair. It was at least a little more fashionable than the gold, with its scoop neckline and short puffed sleeves. She piled her hair on top of her head with both hands and pulled a few strands free to frame her face. No, it would not do. She was not attending any entertainment to draw attention to herself. She brushed the hair smooth again.

She had turned female heads that afternoon, all right. But only because she had been on the arm of the most handsome gentleman in Bath. And she had been so tongue-tied and so uncomfortable that she had not been able to enjoy the sensation at all.

And that crumb on her chin! Could Jasper not have made discreet gestures so that only she and he would have known the dreadful truth? Drat the boy. But then Mr. Bradshaw had doubtless noticed already and had been laughing inwardly at her.

Oh, dear, she must not think of Mr. Bradshaw. Not again.

There was a scratching at her door.

“Come in,” she called, and Jasper’s head appeared around it.

“Are you decent, Emmy?” he asked. “I have something for you, and I didn’t think you would want Grandmama to see it.”

“What do you have?” she asked, setting her brush down on the dressing table and smiling at him.

“This,” he said, holding up a folded piece of paper and waving it in the air. “I think it’s one of those valentines, Em.”

“For me?” she asked foolishly. “But who gave it to you?” She reached out her hand.

“Aw, I’m not allowed to say, Emmy. It’s all a secret, remember?” he said.

“It’s from Mr. Harris, isn’t it?” she said, looking closely at him. “He gave it you to give me.”

“My lips are sealed,” Jasper said.

“Provoking boy,” she said. “It’s from Mr. Harris. There is no one else it could be from. It is from him, isn’t it?”

Jasper shrugged. “Perhaps he signed it,” he said. “Perhaps he broke the rules and signed it.”

She unfolded the paper hastily and glanced to the end of the letter. “He didn’t,” she said, lowering it to her lap. “Oh, Jasper, are you sure he said to give it to me? Are you quite sure?”

“There is only one Emily Richmond that I know,” Jasper said. “If you have an answer, I’m supposed to take it tomorrow morning. I’ll see you, Emmy.” And he whisked himself from the room.

Emily sat with the paper in her lap. A valentine. She had had a valentine. From Mr. Harris. She was so happy, she could have danced about the room. She did not do so, but spread the paper on her lap and smoothed her fingers over the folds. She had begun to think that perhaps he was not interested in her after all. That morning he had not come near either her or Lady Copeland in the Pump Room.

She had not been unduly upset. Try as she would, she could not feel any real enthusiasm over a possible relationship with the man. But to have a valentine! To have one gentleman in Bath single her out for public attention at the ball! But she must not jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was not a valentine after all. Perhaps Jasper had misunderstood. She lowered her eyes to the paper, half-afraid to read.

Large, bold handwriting. Not quite what she would have expected from neat Mr. Harris. Golden rose. She could feel her heart thumping. Fair golden rose. He admired her beauty. Was she beautiful? She would know why he thought of her as his golden rose, he wrote. Did she?

Emily looked up and stared unseeing at the back of the door. Her old gown? Her hair perhaps? Had she looked like a golden rose to him? She smiled slowly. What a lovely compliment. A golden rose. She liked it.

Would she be his valentine? Would she wear a real golden rose of his at the ball? But where would he get a real rose in February?

Mr. Harris was quite a romantic after all. She would not have suspected it. And he admired her. He must be a little like her, she thought, shy in company. Not that she was shy by nature, but she was unused to life in a town and unused to life as a servant. He must be plain shy. Oh, he could hold a polite conversation, it was true. But he must find it difficult to express his feelings in words.

He did very well on paper. Would she be his valentine? Oh, yes, indeed she would. On the night of the ball, everyone would see her carrying his golden rose and would know that one gentleman had singled her out for his gallantry. They would see him claim her hand for a dance and claim his rose.

Oh, she did not care that he was dull Mr. Harris. She did not care at all. She would be going to the ball, and she would be carrying a gentleman’s favor. She must reply. But what would she say?

And what time was it? She was going to keep Lady Copeland waiting if she did not hurry. She folded the letter carefully and laid it inside her jewelry case. Then she lifted her brush again and pulled it ruthlessly through her hair.

Her golden hair. Golden rose. She smiled at her reflection.

Roger did not stay long in the Pump Room the following morning. Jasper, he was pleased to discover, was hiding away in his usual corner and extracted a crumpled note from about his person when asked for it. He held firmly to it, though, until Roger had paid him another half-sovereign.

“It’s a good thing I don’t intend to set up a clandestine correspondence with the lady,” Roger said. “I would be a beggar in no time. Have you been paid double, Jasper? Did Mrs. Langtree pay you too?”

“No,” Jasper said.

“Did she know you?” Roger asked. He hoped so, as he had no intention of allowing the lady to remain in the dark about his identity.

“Don’t know,” Jasper said.

“A word of advice, Jas,” Roger said. “Go home and back to bed, and when you get up later, get out on the other side of the bed.”

He missed Jasper’s smile of glee as he turned away. Roger strolled out into the Pump Yard and wandered toward the abbey. The game was progressing well, but he did not want to approach Eugenia Langtree until he had read her letter. He lifted it to his nose. Surprisingly, it was not perfumed. He had expected it to be. The paper was not sealed. He opened it and looked down at it. She had a small, neat hand—another surprise.

Dear Sir,

I was honored to receive your letter yesterday and will be even more honored to be your valentine at the ball next week and to carry your rose. I shall look forward eagerly to the occasion.

Golden Rose

Roger chuckled as he folded it again. What a strange, formal little note for the woman to write. Mrs. Langtree honored? And eager? The words did not quite ring true.

Of course, she had probably had a dozen such notes and was being cautious until she had somehow worked out in her mind just which had come from whom. It was time to enlighten her—without breaking any rules, of course. He reentered the Pump Room.

She was surrounded by her usual court. But this morning she went so far as to present him with a languid hand, which he raised to his lips.

“Bath becomes tedious, Mr. Bradshaw,” she said. “Will this ball liven our spirits, do you suppose?”

“I imagine it will be all we hope it will be, ma’am,” he said, looking very directly into her eyes. He reached out a hand and touched briefly with one finger the pendant on its chain about her neck. “A distinctive work of art,” he said, looking back up into her eyes. “A gold rose. You wear it always, ma’am?”

Something flickered in her eyes. “It is a pity it cannot be red, is it not?” she said. “But the goldsmith’s art does not extend to any other color.”

“But how could one improve on gold?” he said. “It is an exquisite rose, whatever the color.”

She smiled at him. He bowed and turned away. And saw Emily Richmond at the other side of the room, standing beside his aunt.

Ah, she wore dark green today. It suited her, though as usual the outfit was not in the height of fashion. Not that she needed to be in fashion. She would look quite exquisite in a sack. He looked at her with even more regret than he had felt two evenings before as he approached her. For although she was a virtuous woman, she was not a mute and a dull one as he had first thought. There was a sweetness and a brightness hidden only just beyond the surface of her demure manner.

He had seen it the day before when they had taken tea with Jasper. She had laughed and been genuinely amused at both Jasper’s stories and his own. He would have expected her to be disapproving. Of course, she had also made that comment the night before about Jasper having committed the unpardonable sin of getting caught in his misdeed. The stories she had told of her own family had been ones of mischief. And her face had been full of fun and animation—until that ass Jasper had spoiled it all by drawing attention to the cake crumb on her chin. He had been enjoying the mental image of himself leaning forward to kiss it off.

“Good morning, Aunty,” he said as he came up to them, raising a careless hand to indicate that he did not wish to interrupt her conversation with two ladies. “Good morning, Miss Richmond.”

“Good morning,” she said.

But she was her prim and demure self again, despite the becoming green outfit. He took his leave of her after just a couple of minutes.

Sweet little Emmy. It was a shame that circumstances had forced her away from her family. Some fortunate man should marry her one of these days and start giving her children of her own. He surprised himself with the stab of jealousy he felt for the unknown man.

Emily was out shopping two days later with her employer when, as often happened, Lady Copeland met some acquaintances and was borne off to take tea with them. Since they already had several parcels to carry, Emily was excused and left to return home alone.

She really did not mind, even though she had five parcels to stumble along with, two of them quite bulky. For one thing, one of the parcels was hers. When Lady Copeland had heard that she had received a valentine, she had insisted on buying Emily a domino and mask for the ball.

“There is no question at all of hiding one’s identity, of course,” she had said. “That is not the point of masked balls. The point is to look mysterious. What color would you like, dear?”

Emily had chosen a midnight blue to wear over her gold-colored gown. She had been relieved to find that Lady Copeland was not annoyed with her but really very pleased indeed.

“I cannot think who it can be,” she had said, “but obviously you have a secret admirer, dear. We will hope that he will be eligible.”

“Mr. Harris?” Emily had suggested.

But Lady Copeland had frowned. “I think not, dear,” she had said.

But it had to be Mr. Harris. There was no one else. At least, she thought rather wistfully, no one else who would wish to make such a public statement of admiration for her. There had been someone eager to seduce her on one occasion, of course.

There was another reason why she did not mind being left to carry the shopping home. She had been presented with a rare afternoon to herself. She did not have to return home immediately. Even Jasper was not with her. He had gone riding with Lord Westbury. She turned her footsteps toward the abbey. It was her very favorite place in all of Bath.

It was as she was stepping out of the abbey an hour later that Roger ran almost headlong into her.

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “That is Miss Richmond behind all the bandboxes. And let me guess again. Every last one of them belongs to my aunt, and she has abandoned you to carry them up the hill to the Circus alone.”

She smiled, he was interested to note. “One of them is mine,” she said.

“Is it?” he said. “This one?” He took the largest bandbox from her and dangled it from one finger by its pink ribbon.

“No,” she said.

“This one, then.” He took the other bandbox from her and dangled it from his other hand.

“No,” she said, indicating one of the smaller parcels. “This one.”

He inserted one of his forefingers through the ribbon loops of both boxes and held them at his side. He offered his free arm to Emily. Why miss an opportunity that had been offered to him on a platter? Eugenia was still playing games with him, and undoubtedly would until the night of the ball. When he had taken her walking in Sydney Gardens earlier, two of the rest of her court had also arrived there, clearly by prearrangement.

When she had taken an arm of each of them, he had remembered another appointment and taken his leave of her, and she had looked at him with approval. He was not accustomed to being only one of several strings to a bow and had no intention of becoming accustomed to it.

Emily was flustered. He intended to escort her home? She would be alone with him for half an hour?

“We do not have Jasper here to play chaperon,” he said when he saw her hesitation. “But in the open street I believe you can feel safe, ma’am. I am unlikely to attack you in a public place.”

She flushed. He was laughing at her. She took his arm—and felt her breath quicken. What could she talk about?

“What shall we talk about?” he asked. “The weather?”

They talked about it for a few minutes.

“That exhausts that,” he said when silence fell between them. “What next? The beauty of Bath? It is lovely, is it not? Do you not admire it excessively?”

They talked about it for a few more minutes.

Roger was amused. She was so obviously uncomfortable to be in company with a rake, no one else with them to support part of the conversation. He might have felt the discomfort too, as he had a few evenings before outside the Upper Rooms. But there were daylight and sunshine today, and they were walking, not merely standing still awaiting the arrival of his aunt. And he was content to feel the pull of an attraction to her.

But he wished there were some way to get past that quiet, demure manner that she wore as a mask. He wished he could see her laughing and talking again, her eyes full of life and merriment, as they had been at the confectioner’s when they had had Jasper with them.

“Are you going to tell me what is in your parcel?” he asked. “Something frivolous, I hope. Or is it an unmentionable?”

Emily felt herself flushing at his final words. What if it had been? How embarrassed she would be. But being reminded of the parcel lifted her spirits. She smiled down at it.

“It’s a domino,” she said, “and a mask.”

“Ah,” he said, “then you are going to the ball, are you?”

“Yes,” she said.

He looked down at her. And quite unwittingly he had accomplished what he had been wanting to do. She was looking glowingly happy, breathtakingly lovely.

“You are to be someone’s valentine?” he asked.

She looked up at him, and he felt that familiar drowning sensation. “Yes,” she said.

He could sense the suppressed excitement in her. She looked quite radiant. He felt a surge of gladness for her. And a surge of something else too—envy. Jealousy.

“And who is the fortunate gentleman?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “His letter was anonymous.”

“But you can guess?” he asked.

She smiled at him again. “Yes,” she said.

“If you are to be at the ball,” he said, “I will have a chance to dance with you. Will you reserve a set for me, Miss Richmond? Or is your card full already?”

She laughed. “Oh, no,” she said.

She had never been any good at flirtation. She should not, of course, have admitted that she knew from whom her valentine came. She should have made it seem as if it might have come from any of a number of admirers. And she ought not to have admitted so quickly and emphatically that her dancing card was not full—indeed it was quite, quite empty.

Except that it was no longer so. He had asked for one set. Mr. Bradshaw. The most handsome gentleman in Bath or even in all England, perhaps. How she envied Mrs. Langtree. The lady would doubtless have many valentines, but somehow surely she would find out which was his and choose it. How could she not?

How wonderful it would be to be Mr. Bradshaw’s valentine. Except, she thought, sobering, being such would doubtless involve something quite different from a mere dance and a reclaiming of his favor and perhaps an offer of marriage a few days later. She could imagine very well what he would expect of Mrs. Langtree if she chose to be his valentine. She flushed at the thought.

It was doubtless Harris, Roger thought. He had not seen any other man hanging about her. Harris. He was too old for her. Too dull. She deserved better. Who? Himself? His lip curled into a smile of self-mockery.

He might have sent his valentine to her instead of to Eugenia, with whom he had no interest in anything beyond a good bedding. He might have given Harris some competition. But no. It would be too dangerous to play with the affections of someone like Emily Richmond. It was far safer to stick with a game whose rules and methods he knew from long experience.

Dangerous? he thought, frowning. Dangerous for whom? For her, certainly. And for himself?

When they reached the house on the Circus, Roger went inside with Emily and deposited the two bandboxes on a table in the hallway. The butler, who had opened the door for them, shambled back to the servants’ quarters again.

“There,” Roger said, “my good deed is done for this week.” He grinned at her. “What? No Jasper? He is not hiding behind the aspidistra, is he?”

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “you know about that hiding place, do you? No, Lord Westbury took him riding.”

She had set her parcels on top of his as she spoke, and untied the strings of her bonnet. She pulled it off her head. But somehow the back of it caught in the pins that held her hair in its knot at her neck. There was a tinkling as several pins fell to the tiles, and her hair cascaded down about her shoulders.

Roger, standing a mere couple of feet from her, felt as if a fist had just caught him in the chest, robbing him of breath. It was pure gold silk. And suddenly she was transformed before his eyes from a prim and lovely lady to a beautiful and voluptuous woman.

“Oh,” she said ineffectually. She was transfixed by the look in his eyes, unable to think clearly enough to move.

“Golden silk,” he said huskily, lifting a hand to take one lock between a thumb and forefinger. “Emmy, what a crime to keep it so disguised.” His eyes strayed to her lips. She licked them as she had once before.

But before he could lose his head entirely, she lifted her arms sharply and caught back her hair. “The pins came out,” she said foolishly.

He stooped down, picked them up from the floor, and set them in her outstretched palm. “An embarrassment to make you forget about the crumb on your chin, doubtless,” he said, grinning at her. “Good day to you, Miss Richmond.”

He let himself out of the front door. Thank goodness she had moved when she had, he thought, taking several deep breaths of fresh air. He would have made an ass of himself by kissing her again. But not in the way he had kissed her before, exploring, asking with his mouth if she was seducible. He knew she was not seducible. He would have kissed her with genuine desire, genuine affection.

Good Lord, had he really called her Emmy? Jasper’s name for her? He hoped she had been too embarrassed to notice. What the devil had he been about, going all to pieces merely because her hair had fallen down?

Emily stood in the hallway holding her hair back with one hand and stabbing at it with the pins in the other. She had been inviting his kiss. She had been standing there foolishly, her hair all about her, knowing that he was about to kiss her, and wanting it. Had she turned thoroughly wanton?

She frowned suddenly, and her hands paused about their futile task. He had called her Emmy. Not even Emily, but Emmy. Papa’s name for her and Jasper’s. He had called her Emmy, hadn’t he? She had not imagined it?

Roger had six golden roses delivered to his hotel room the morning of the ball—at an exorbitant cost, considering the fact that it was February and not June. He had ordered six so that he might be sure that at least one of them would be the exquisite bloom he hoped for.

He was looking forward to the evening, though not with quite the warm anticipation he had expected. The truth was that he was restless to be gone from Bath. Perhaps he would have left already if he had not sent that valentine and received an affirmative reply. Now he must stay, at least for tonight, and probably for a few days longer.

He had no doubt that he would spend the night with Eugenia Langtree, and that would doubtless whet his appetite for a few more such nights.

He had no fear of failure. She had accepted his valentine and doubtless knew that it was his. Both of them had made several veiled references to roses during the past few days, though each of them had kept the rules and had not come out quite into the open. He had spoken of sculptured gold pendants and she of red roses, her favorites.

They were coming close to ending the game and having at each other with all the energy they had kept carefully leashed for more than a week. A few times in the past few days she had sent away her other admirers on some pretext and granted him a few minutes of her time. Never longer. If she did not move away from him after that time, then he moved away from her. Appetites grew greater with abstention or the merest nibbling at desired foods, he had found from experience.

And yet for all the success of his endeavors and for all the closeness of the final consummation, there was a certain flatness about the game that he had been experiencing with disturbing regularity over the past several months. What was the point? he asked himself in unguarded moments. He would bed Eugenia until they were both sated, and then he would move on to another woman. And nothing significant would have happened beyond the beddings themselves. His conversations with the woman would be as light and insubstantial as they always were with his mistresses and casual amours.

On the whole, he thought, looking carefully at all six roses and selecting the one he would send with Jasper when the boy saw fit to put in an appearance, he would be quite happy to have the evening over and done with.

There was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, and Jasper came breezing in.

“I say, Rog,” he said, seeing the open box of roses, “are you going to have six of ’em? They’ll be scratching one another’s eyes out, won’t they?”

Roger grinned. “It would not have done,” he said, “to have ordered only one, just to find that it was withered and scrawny. What would the lady think?”

“I see your point,” Jasper said. “So I’m to take one to the Langtree woman? This will cost you a whole sovereign, I suppose you realize.”

“And another when you come to report that the lady accepted it, I suppose?” Roger said dryly.

“Naw,” Jasper said. “I’m not greedy, Rog.”

“On your way, then,” Roger said, placing the single rose alone into the box and setting a small card beside it.

He watched the door of his room long after Jasper had disappeared through it, slamming it behind him. He wished it were going to a different woman, one more suited to the romance of the occasion. He wished there were not just sex to look forward to, but romance.

One corner of his mouth lifted in self-derision. Romance? Him? He had always scorned any such thing, and carefully avoided any situation that might lead any lady to think he was romancing her. Any woman with whom he had ever consorted had known that romance was the very last thing on his mind. Sex pure and simple—his only object in his dealings with women.

And was he now dreaming of romance just because it was St. Valentine’s Day and there was to be a masked ball that evening and he had just sent a real rose to his valentine? Somehow the occasion and the rose seemed wasted on Eugenia Langtree—and on his own intentions toward her.

If it were Emmy, now ... He should put the thought from him without more ado. But it was too sweet to think of her and what might have been. What might have been if he had been a different sort of man, if he were more the type who might be worthy of her. Or if he had approached her differently from the start. He could not now imagine how he could have looked at her that first day and thought that perhaps she would be available for dalliance.

He had seen her a fair number of times in the past few days and had even sat beside her for a whole segment of an evening concert. He could not now recall who the performers were. His attention had been taken up entirely with the woman who had sat quietly enthralled at his side. There had been none of the restlessness that was common in women—and men, he supposed—when forced to sit through a musical recital: no playing with a curl or a fan, no looking about to see who else was present, no attempt to hold a whispered conversation either with him or with his uncle at her other side. Just total concentration on the music.

So very typical of Emmy.

He was quite in love with her.

Roger looked down at the five roses in his hand and began to rearrange them absently. Where had that thought come from? And what a ridiculous thought! He did not believe in love. He would not recognize love if it formed itself into a fist and punched him in the nose.

But he was in love with Emmy. How very stupid of him. It was high time he left Bath. Perhaps after all he would satisfy himself with one night in Eugenia’s arms and take himself off the next day—while he still had some traces of his sanity left.

It was an anxious day for Emily. The letter Mr. Harris had written was clear enough—she had read it many times. And her answer had been clear. It had been delivered—she had asked Jasper. It was foolish, then, to worry that nothing would be delivered to her that day. No golden rose. Of course it would come.

But he had behaved no differently to her since writing that letter than he had before. A few times at the Pump Room he had greeted her and talked with Lady Copeland and Lord Westbury. Once at the library he had paused to recommend to her a book she had just withdrawn from a shelf. And one afternoon on the Crescent he had taken her on his arm and strolled with her for five minutes.

But there had not been a flicker of a sign that she was more than an acquaintance, no hint that he had written that note to her inviting her to be his valentine. No hint that to him she was his golden rose.

Of course he could do none of those things. There were the rules, which most gentlemen would keep, out of a sense of honor and of fun.

But even so, she had looked with some unease all week for something in his manner that would indicate a fondness for her. She had seen nothing.

Of course, it was foolish to believe that he was planning to make her an offer just because of that letter. The Valentine’s Ball was merely an entertainment, the invitations and the favors merely a game to brighten up the dull ending of winter. It was foolish to expect more than just a pleasant evening.

And did she want more? She felt a certain cringing from the thought of marrying Mr. Harris. There was something almost cold-blooded in contemplating marriage with a man she scarcely knew and for whom she felt no tenderness at all, merely because she was the eldest daughter of an impoverished family and must marry or spend her life in employment.

But if the rose would only come, she thought, pacing her room while waiting for her hair to dry, then at least she would be saved from humiliation. Lady Copeland knew that she was to be someone’s valentine. And of course Jasper knew. And oh, dear, Mr. Bradshaw knew too. She had told him so.

The rose must come.

She spun around to face the door when there was a light knock, and schooled her voice to calmness as she called to whoever was on the other side of it to come in. Jasper’s head appeared.

“Are you decent, Em?” he asked. “I’ve got something for you.”

She felt her whole body sag with relief. “What is it?” she asked.

He whisked his hand from behind his back and held out a long white box to her. “This,” he said, “from a certain gentleman who wishes to remain anonymous.” He grinned cheekily.

“Oh,” she said, “already? It is only early afternoon yet.”

“See you later, Em,” Jasper said. “I have to go and hide. Grandmama has this strange notion that my hair needs cutting.” He was gone.

Emily scarcely noticed his leaving. She opened the box with trembling fingers. Oh, it was exquisite. Quite exquisite. One large golden bud nestled among dark green leaves. She lifted it almost reverently from the box, thinking to take it to the washstand and stand it in the water jug until the evening. But she paused. There was a card in the box.

That large, bold handwriting again:

My fair golden rose,

Wear this for me at the ball if you have a care for my happiness. I anticipate a night to outdo all other nights.

She smiled and held the card to her heart. Oh, it was so very romantic. Surely the man must have depths of feeling that she had not seen on casual acquaintance. Surely tonight and in the coming days he would reveal that hidden side of himself and she would feel with him what she felt now merely holding his rose in one hand and his card in the other.

She continued to hold the card after she had put the rose in water. If only, she thought, wandering to the window and gazing sightlessly out on the sweeping circle of tall houses surrounding the central garden of the Circus. If only it could have been from someone else. And if only that someone else could have been a different kind of man. And if only she could have been someone of more social significance, not just a lady’s companion.

How silly she was to have fallen in love with him, to have come to live for those almost-daily and all-too-brief sights of him. How very foolish and rustic of her. For if she had only had a little more experience of town and society, surely she would not have done something quite so naive as to fall in love with a libertine.

But no matter, she thought with a sigh, turning to prop the card on the table beside her bed. At least she was acting with good sense even if her heart was going its own foolish way.

Golden Rose. She must concentrate on that. She was going to be Mr. Harris’ golden rose that evening. And now it was certain. She did not have to feel any more anxiety. His rose had arrived and was even now standing in water on her washstand.

Emily twirled into a sudden pirouette on the carpet and then laughed self-consciously at herself, just as if she had an audience.

Lady Copeland was always a punctual person. She and Emily were almost the first to arrive in the ballroom at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Emily felt fit to bursting with suppressed excitement. She was wearing her dark blue domino over her gold-colored evening gown, and the matching blue mask. Lady Copeland’s maid had styled her hair, piling it high on her head and allowing curls to trail along her neck and over her temples.

The rosebud, now just beginning to open, had been threaded into her hair. There had been a discussion in the downstairs salon about what she should do with it. It would be too awkward to carry it, since there was to be dancing. When pinned to her domino, at Lady Copeland’s suggestion, it weighted down the fabric. Everyone had a good laugh at Jasper’s suggestion that she carry its stem between her teeth. Finally it was decided that she would wear it in her hair.

She felt pretty for the first time in a long while. For four years, since she was sixteen, she had been much admired at home. And there had been those two marriage proposals. But somehow when one became a lady’s companion, at least in Bath, one became virtually invisible. She had not once felt pretty until this evening.

There was very little danger of being a wallflower at one of the Bath assemblies. The Master of Ceremonies was meticulous about his job of finding partners for all the young ladies. So Emily danced with Julius Caesar and with a Cavalier and a Viking warrior.

She noticed Mr. Harris’ arrival—he was not dressed in any costume—and looked eagerly across the ballroom toward him. But he did not immediately approach either her or Lady Copeland. There was no hurry, though. The gentlemen were not to reclaim their favors or unmask their ladies until much later in the evening.

In the meantime it was entertaining to look around at the other ladies to see what favors they had about them. Some were obvious—lace handkerchiefs, peacock fans, posies of flowers. Others perhaps wore earrings or brooches or necklaces sent by their valentines.

Mrs. Langtree carried a single long-stemmed red rose in her hand. It looked too perfect to be real. Emily had not been close enough to see if it was. But she felt a dreadful stab of jealousy, especially when Mr. Bradshaw arrived.

He was quite unmistakable, dressed all in black—long black domino with black knee breeches and waistcoat beneath, black mask, the only relief the white lace over his hands and his white stockings. He was standing in the doorway looking about him when Emily noticed him, tall and slim and broad-shouldered. He looked long and intently at Mrs. Langtree.

Emily felt a terrible sense of desolation and gave herself a mental shake. This was one of the most exciting evenings of her life, and she was not going to spoil it by sighing for a man she should have been looking on in scorn. She was Mr. Harris’ golden rose and wore his favor in her hair. She had his letter and his card to prove that he cared for her, even if only for this evening. She must be happy with what she had and not dream of the impossible.

She smiled brightly when Mr. Harris bowed before her and Lady Copeland, asked her if he might dance the next set with her, and proceeded to converse with her employer until the set began to form.

He looked at her appreciatively as they began to dance. “May I compliment you on your looks, Miss Richmond?” he said. “You are all blue and gold.” 

“Thank you,” she said, looking into his eyes and watching them stray to the rose.

“The flower is lovely,” he said, “but quite outshone by your hair.”

“But it is beautiful,” she said, “and real, though this is only February.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling, “a valentine.”

She felt herself flushing. “Yes,” she said.

They scarcely spoke after that, but concentrated on the steps of the dance. When he returned her to Lady Copeland’s side, he said nothing about dancing with her again. But then, of course, he did not need to do so. He would automatically dance with her when the gentlemen were given the signal to claim their valentines.

There was a great deal of laughter and excitement in the ballroom. But Emily wondered if any of the ladies felt quite as full of eager anticipation as she. Even if he was just Mr. Harris, she would pretend for this one evening that he was a knight in shining armor. She smiled at the thought.

“You are enjoying yourself, Miss Richmond?”

She turned her head sharply to find that Mr. Bradshaw had approached without her even realizing it. The black of his domino made him seem even taller and more imposing than usual. The mask accentuated the brightness of his gray eyes.

“Yes, I am,” she said, hearing her own breathlessness with some dismay.

“Good evening, Aunty,” he said to Lady Copeland. “Can you manage without your companion for a time while I dance with her?”

“You don’t think I came here tonight just to have dear Emily sit beside me, do you, Roger?” she said. “Foolish boy.”

“Just so,” he said, and turned to Emily. “Miss Richmond?”

“Thank you,” she said, putting her hand in his and feeling that she would surely suffocate. It is just a dance, she told herself. Think of Mrs. Langtree’s red rose. Think of your own golden rose. Think of Mr. Harris.

“A golden rose,” Mr. Bradshaw said quietly. “Very appropriate.”

“Yes,” she said.

“A valentine?”

“Yes.”

“From Harris?”

“Yes,” she said, “though he has not said so, of course.”

“Of course,” he said. “He is a fortunate gentleman.”

Roger stood in the doorway of the ballroom looking about him. He was obviously late, though he had been congratulating himself on being early. He had forgotten, of course, that if one did not arrive promptly at Bath entertainments, one was likely to miss them altogether. Even tonight’s ball would be over by eleven o’clock. Not that he minded that. The night would be correspondingly longer.

Eugenia Langtree was immediately noticeable, clustered about with her usual court, though several of them looked dejected, Roger noticed with some amusement. She was dressed as Queen Elizabeth, an appropriate choice, given the redness of her hair. She was carrying a long-stemmed rose in one hand.

Roger looked intently. Even across the width of the ballroom he could see that it was in full bloom and a very dark red. As he watched, the hand holding the rose lifted slightly in greeting, and when he looked up, it was to find her watching him across the room, a smile on her face.

Well. One of his rare losses. They had both played a game, but it seemed that it had been a different game. He had expected them to be mutual winners. She obviously had intended from the start to be the sole victor. Or perhaps she wished to prolong the game, play cat and mouse with him for another week or more. However it was, the message was unmistakable. For tonight she had decided to snub him and favor someone else.

Roger stood where he was and waited for the onslaught of disappointment or anger or amusement. He was surprised to find that he felt nothing. Except perhaps a little relief. There would be nothing to keep him in Bath any longer. He would be able to leave the next day.

Yes, there was definitely a feeling of relief. He needed to get away, though he supposed he should stay away from London for a few weeks or even months longer. But he could not stay in Bath either. His heart was beginning to ache, which was a remarkably silly way of describing his feelings. But then, the feelings were remarkably silly too.

She was there already, standing beside his aunt, since the dancing was between sets. He had not needed to look to see if she had arrived. He had felt her presence as soon as he entered—another remarkably silly idea. But it was true. When he did finally glance briefly and sharply in that direction, sure enough—there she was in a midnight-blue domino and mask, her hair curled and golden, a touch of greenery threaded into it.

Well, she was there, and he felt like a breathless schoolboy. And embarrassed because he had backed her into the shadows below his aunt’s staircase less than two weeks before and made some veiled and quite inappropriate suggestions to her and kissed her.

He had to get away. He needed to get away. He strolled across the room to Eugenia Langtree. The rose, he saw at close quarters, was made of silk.

“Your majesty,” he said, making her an elegant bow, “may I commend your condescension in favoring your subjects with your presence?”

She touched him on the sleeve with the rose. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, “you are late. It is a good thing this rose is not real or it would have wilted even before your arrival.”

Ah, so she thought to rub salt into his wounds, did she?

“How could it wilt when in the presence of such dazzling beauty?” he asked. “Are you free to dance?”

“Absolutely not,” she said with a sigh. “I am spoken for for the next three sets at least. However, sir, I daresay we will contrive to dance with each other later.” She smiled at him.

He bowed to her as she was led onto the floor for the next dance. He watched her throughout the whole of it and saw only Emily, who was dancing with Harris.

He was being thoroughly foolish, Roger thought. He should leave immediately and see to the packing of his trunks so that he might be on his way early the next morning. There was no longer a reason to stay. But he had asked Emily Richmond a few days before to reserve a set for him. Besides, it would be unmannerly not to greet his aunt.

He waited until the music ceased and it was possible to move across the room without being bowled over by the dancers. She was standing beside his aunt, her head turned slightly away from him. She smiled as he approached, though he did not think she had seen him.

She looked more lovely even than usual. The domino and the mask added mystery to her appearance, and her hair was curled about her face. He had a sudden memory of its cascading down about her shoulders several days before.

He asked her for the next dance and was granted it. And so he would have one final chance to enjoy her company, he thought as he led her onto the floor, before leaving the following morning. She turned to face him fully as the music began.

And he felt as if he had stepped suddenly from reality into some bizarre dream. Nestled among the green leaves in her hair, almost unnoticeable against its brighter gold, was a perfect golden rosebud. He felt for one moment as if there were not enough air to breathe. It looked just like . . . But it could not be.

“A golden rose,” he heard himself saying. “Very appropriate.” Golden hair. A golden gown beneath her domino.

“Yes,” she said.

“A valentine?” But it must be. Girls did not wear real roses in their hair in February.

“Yes,” she said.

“From Harris?” He found himself holding his breath.

“Yes,” she said, and there was no doubt in her voice, “though he has not said so, of course.”

Pure coincidence. It must be. And it made perfect sense. Emily Richmond was a golden rose, far more golden than the flower in her hair. It looked far more appropriate in her hair than it would ever look in Eugenia’s hand. Though it was not the same one, of course. It could not be.

Unless . . .

Where was that fiend of a boy? But no, even Jasper would not have dared such a trick. There was too much likelihood that Emmy could get hurt by the deception, and Jasper was fond of Emmy.

Was it Harris? Would Harris come to claim her when the time came? She evidently was confident that it was so. And she wished it to be so. He could recall quite vividly her look of radiance five days before when she had told him that she had a valentine.

It must be Harris’. Jasper had had recent experience with the heaviness of his hand. He would not have risked an encore so soon, surely.

Damnation. Twenty thousand damnations!

“You dance well,” he said. “Did you have much opportunity to dance in the country?”

“We have many neighbors who like to socialize,” she said. “But even apart from that, Mama loves dancing and has taught us all, much to the disgust of my brothers. Edgar is the only one who has thought of a way of escape. He learned to play the pianoforte and is needed to provide the accompaniment while the rest of us dance.”

Her eyes were sparkling and her lips smiling. He had noticed before that it was possible to drown in her eyes. Now he was aware too that there was grave danger of becoming enmeshed in her hair, captured beyond all hope of escape. There was a poem. . . He frowned. A sonnet about the poet becoming ensnared in his lady’s golden hair. He had always thought the poor man a fool, though he could not for the life of him remember who the poet was.

Now he was behaving just as foolishly.

He bowed and withdrew at the end of the set. But he could not leave the ball as he had planned to do. He had to wait and see. That was not his rose, of course. It was Harris’. But even so . . .

He sought out his uncle, found him with a group of men who had no intention of dancing for the whole evening but who had set about putting the world to rights, and joined in their conversation.

Eugenia was smiling his way, the silk rose to her lips. Emmy was dancing with King Louis XIV, who looked as if he must have two left feet.

At half-past ten the Master of Ceremonies took the floor between sets to make an announcement. An expectant hush fell on the room.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the next dance will be a waltz. Claim your valentines, if you please.”

The hush gave way to a babble of voices and laughter. A few squeals. The orchestra began to play a waltz tune.

Roger had moved away from his uncle. He stood in the doorway alone. Eugenia looked at him, raised the rose to her chin, and smiled. He was aware of the smile turning to astonishment when Poindexter stepped in front of her, took the rose from her hand, and lifted away her silver mask.

Astonishment? Was it possible that she did not know, that she had mistaken the red rose for his? He could recall that during the past week when they had talked of roses, she had always spoken of red roses.

But his attention was not really on Eugenia. He was watching and not watching Emily. Harris was across the room from her and seemed engrossed in a conversation with an elderly couple. He made no move to cross the room. And no other man was approaching her.

There were several couples on the floor already, waltzing. Ladies all about him had relinquished trinkets and were submitting to having their masks removed.

Emily was standing alone beside his aunt.

Lord. Oh, good Lord!

He went into action.

Emily was aware of Mr. Harris across the room. At first she thought he was being polite, waiting for one of the people with whom he stood to finish what she was saying. But he did not even look across at her. And she could not look directly at him.

A lady to her left squealed, and one to her right laughed. There was movement all about her. Gentlemen were leading their partners onto the ballroom floor and beginning to waltz with them.

Emily stood tense and cold, unable to move a muscle. He was not going to come. For some reason he had changed his mind. She felt as if she were trapped in some dreadful nightmare. How would she bear the humiliation?

She felt suddenly as if everyone must be looking at her. In pity. With derision. She turned jerkily away. She could not even remember for the moment where the nearest door was. But a hand on her arm detained her.

“Emmy?” he said, his voice uncertain, questioning.

And she turned back to find herself looking into gray eyes behind a black mask.

She looked lost and bewildered, he thought. She really had believed it was Harris. She would be less than pleased when she discovered the truth. He hoped that by the time he got his hands on one Jasper Copeland he would have thought of a more deadly punishment than a severe spanking.

He lifted both hands and gently disentangled the rose from her hair. And then he lifted the mask away from her face. He had not taken his eyes from hers the whole while.

“Ah, how splendidly you kept the secret, Roger, dear,” Lady Copeland said, but he did not hear her.

He threaded the stem of the rose through a buttonhole of his domino, pulled off his own mask, and held out a hand for hers.

“Come waltz with me, my fair golden rose,” he said.

My fair golden rose. It was he. For one moment she had thought that he was merely being kind, having seen her humiliation. But it was he. Emily put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dancing area and take one of her hands in his and set his other hand at the back of her waist.

They began to dance, eyes on each other’s eyes.

She looked pale. But beautiful beyond words to describe.

“You.” Her lips formed the words, though he did not hear the sound.

“Are you disappointed?” he asked. He wondered if she could hear the words. He had been afraid to say them.

She shook her head very slightly after a few moments.

He did not want to hold her away from him as propriety demanded. He wanted to hold her against him, that shapely and supple body against his own, his cheek against her golden curls, his eyes closed. He wanted to move to the music together with her, feeling her, warmed by her—not forced to look down at her and into her eyes, which she did not move from his own.

He did not want to see or to know what a terrible trick had been played on her. Poor Emmy—thinking she was being courted by a sober and respectable citizen like Harris and discovering that she was being toyed with by a rake.

“Golden,” he said. “A pure golden rose.”

“Was it my dress?” she asked him.

“And your hair,” he said. “And you, Emmy. All golden and beautiful and valuable beyond price.”

Her eyes widened and he had to resist more than ever the urge to pull her against him, to avoid the sight of those eyes. And what had he been babbling?

She was in a dream. The most wonderful dream of her life, and as with all good dreams, she held on to it consciously, willing herself not to wake up. Not yet.

She should not be dancing with him like this, their eyes locked together, totally unaware of anything or anyone else around them. She should not allow him to say such things to her. But this was a magical time. He had chosen her—freely chosen her—to be his valentine. To him she was all golden.

He made her feel beautiful. He made her feel valuable beyond price.

She would not let go of the moment. Tomorrow, yes. Tomorrow would be February 15. Valentine’s Day would be over and ordinary life would resume. But not yet. The golden rose in his buttonhole had not even begun to droop. She was his golden rose and she would remain fresh and lovely for him until the next day.

She smiled.

And Roger felt that his hands might well be trembling. He held a very delicate and beautiful flower in them and he felt that he could only do it irreparable damage.

The music ended far, far too soon. Surely it must have been the shortest set of the evening. In all of the week and more since she had received his letter, Emily had not once thought past the moment when he would make himself known to her. Oh, she had assumed that it would be the beginning of a serious courtship and possibly the herald to a proposal of marriage. That was when she had believed the sender to be Mr. Harris, of course. But she had never thought of what would happen at the ball after the moment when he would come to claim her.

He took her by the elbow and led her back to Lady Copeland. Was it all over, then? Would he bow and leave her now? Was the dream over, and cold reality already about to take its place?

“Roger, dear,” Lady Copeland said as soon as they were within earshot, “you may go have my carriage brought around to the door, if you will be so good.”

“It will be my pleasure, Aunty,” he said. His hand tightened on Emily’s elbow. “Come with me?” he asked her.

She had no thought to refusing, even though doubtless it would be highly improper to go. But this was not a night for propriety.

“Do take your cloak with you, dear,” Lady Copeland said placidly. “Make sure that Emily puts on her cloak, Roger. I would not have her take cold.”

“Trust me, Aunty,” he said.

Several people’s carriages had arrived, it being a well-known fact that in Bath all good citizens returned home at eleven o’clock. Most were at the side of the Assembly Rooms, waiting to be summoned to the doors. Their coachmen stood in small groups, talking.

Roger and Emily strolled along the length of them between the carriages and the building, unseen by the gossiping coachmen, until they reached Lady Copeland’s carriage. Somehow they were hand in hand, Roger noticed, their fingers laced together. They walked in silence while he fought an inner battle with his conscience and his better nature.

She was a young innocent. A sweet and lovely innocent. She did not need to become tainted with the likes of him. She deserved someone better.

But whom? Amazingly, she seemed to have attracted no admirers in Bath. Because she was so quiet and unassuming and dressed so plainly? Because she was a lady’s companion? Although her father was Sir Henry Richmond, she was in reality a woman in service.

Would she ever find the husband she deserved?

He had nothing to offer except a wild and unstable past. And a fortune, of course. And the expectation of a viscount’s title at some time in the future. Security for a girl from a large and impoverished family.

They stopped by unspoken consent when they came to his aunt’s carriage, though neither made a move to pass between the carriages in order to attract the attention of the coachman.

Almost without his willing it, his arm was about her waist, turning her to face him, bringing her at long last against him. She did not resist. She lifted her face to look up at him. Inviting his kiss? Emmy.

“Emmy,” he said, his voice low, one hand smoothing over her hair. Her hands reached up to his shoulders. “Emmy.”

Her lips were closed when his own touched them, and cool from the night air. But they were soft and responsive. They parted to his coaxing, and moved over his. Her arms were about his neck, one hand in his hair.

He probed gently with his tongue at first, but when her mouth opened to receive it, he plunged inside to the heat and moistness of her, his tongue circling hers, teasing the soft flesh beneath until she whimpered in his arms.

He was lost to conscience and good sense and propriety. He wanted her. God, he wanted her. Even through the folds of her cloak and her domino and the dress beneath, he could feel the heat and the softness of her and the enticing curves. He wanted her. Sweet Emmy.

Emmy. Beautiful, quiet, gentle, affectionate, fun-loving, innocent Emmy. His rose. His golden rose. Brighter by far than the rose that was being crushed between them. He wanted her, yes. But not just for his bed. There too, but not just there.

He wanted her for his life. She had become his hope, his lifeline, his promise of salvation. He wanted her for all his life and for eternity after that.

His kiss gentled. His arms cradled her.

“Emmy,” he murmured, lifting his mouth away from hers and kissing her softly once more, “you feel it too, don’t you? Say you’ll be mine.”

Something shut down behind her eyes as she looked up at him. “No,” she said. “Don’t spoil it. Oh, please don’t spoil it. Don’t let me know that that has been your motive all the time. Please don’t.”

He captured her hands against his chest as she pulled away. “No,” he said, “don’t misunderstand, Emmy. I’m not trying to seduce you. I am ashamed that I ever tried. I would never do it again. Forgive me. I have no business compromising you like this. We had better find my aunt’s coachman and go back inside. Let me call on you during the daytime in a more proper manner. May I?”

“If you wish,” she said, but her eyes were wary.

He could say no more. Not then, when his blood was up. How old was she? Eighteen? Nineteen? It was hard to tell.

He took her hand in his and they said no more until they were back at the doors into the Assembly Rooms. But she pulled back on his hand.

“Please,” she said, looking up at him, not quite meeting his eyes.

He bent his head toward her.

“Please may I have the rose?” she asked.

He took it from his buttonhole and handed it to her without taking his eyes from hers. “I am afraid it is probably somewhat bedraggled,” he said. “And even at its best it was not one fraction as lovely as you, Emmy.”

“Thank you for choosing me as your valentine,” she said, her voice breathless. “It has been the most wonderful night of my life.”

She whisked herself through the doors ahead of him, not even waiting for him or a doorman to open them for her.

She wished he had not said that about calling on her during the daytime, Emily thought, holding the pressed rose carefully on the palm of her hand and touching the bloom lightly with the forefinger of her other hand. If he had not said that, she would not have expected him and the four days since the ball would not have been so long and so dreary.

Not that she had really been expecting him, of course—or not to visit her personally, anyway. But when a person says something like that, one cannot help but expect him, even when one knows that he will not come.

Lady Copeland had been called downstairs by a visitor. And so, left alone for a few minutes, Emily had been unable to resist the urge to take the rose from between the pages of a book and gaze at it. She had spent the last four nights with the book hugged in her arms. And though it had been very embarrassing and very forward of her to ask him for it, she was not sorry she had done so. She had this one memento of the most wonderful night of her life.

She wished she had not told him that, though. It was very gauche of her to have done so, and doubtless had frightened him off even if he really had intended to call on her.

Jasper said he had gone away, disappeared from Bath without a word to anyone. Jasper had followed her about more than usual in the past few days, a look of dejection on his face.

“Are you sad, Em?” he had asked once.

“Sad?” she had said, smiling at him. “Why should I be sad?”

“Because the ball is over,” he had said, “and you don’t have a beau.”

She had laughed at him. “But I had a pleasant evening,” she had said. “That was all I looked for.”

“Are you sorry it wasn’t Mr. Harris?” he had asked, his eyes troubled.

“Gracious, no,” she had said. “It was very obliging of Mr. Bradshaw to have chosen me for his valentine.” 

“Besides,” Lady Copeland had added, looking up from the letter she was writing, “I would have been very annoyed if it had turned out to be Mr. Harris. He is a married man.”

She had said no more, and Emily had asked no questions. But she had been shocked again by her own ignorance.

She looked down now at her flower and smiled. At least she had memories. Wonderful memories. She had relived that kiss a thousand times during the past four nights. She had not known a kiss could be like that. She was quite sure that it had been shockingly improper, but it had been very wonderful for all that. She slipped the rose between the pages of her book again as the door opened.

“Ah, how foolish of me,” Lady Copeland said, stopping just inside the door and patting the pocket of her dress. “I left my handkerchief in the salon downstairs. Be so obliging as to fetch it for me, Emily, dear, will you?” Emily got to her feet and smiled. A few moments later she was running lightly down the stairs.

After talking to Lady Copeland, Roger wandered out into the hallway as she went upstairs to send Emily to him. It was deserted.

“Jasper?” he said without raising his voice. “Are you there?”

There was silence for a moment, and then a rustling from behind the aspidistra plant.

“Is it safe to come out?” a voice asked.

“Relatively,” Roger said. “I have other things on my mind at the moment than thrashings.”

There was another rustling and Jasper appeared in the hallway. He was grinning. “Now I can blackmail you, Rog,” he said. “Em would probably be very interested to know where that letter and rose were really destined to go.”

A moment later his toes were dangling a tantalizing half-inch from the floor, the lapels of his coat clutched in his cousin’s fists.

“Let me be fast and clear on this point, my young lad,” Roger said. “If Emmy ever learns the truth, your rear end will be in grave danger of the worst thrashing of its life. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Rog,” Jasper said briskly.

“If you care for her,” Roger said, lowering Jasper until his big toes were scraping the floor, “it should not be just the threat that will keep your mouth shut.”

“No, Rog,” Jasper said.

He was lowered until he was able to stand flat on both feet.

“What I really came out here to say,” Roger said, “was thank you, you fiendish little brat. Depending upon the events of the next half-hour, I may be eternally in your debt. Let’s not exaggerate this too much, though. Suffice it to say that I owe you something.”

“Cakes?” Jasper said hopefully.

“Perhaps later,” Roger said. “Back to your hiding place, now.” He returned to the salon, closing the door behind him. He was standing with his back to the fire when the door opened again and Emily came hurrying in.

She stopped when she saw him, and turned pale. Her eyes grew large.

“My aunt knows I am here,” he said. “She sent you to see me.”

She stared at him.

“Your father knows too,” he said.

She frowned in incomprehension. “Papa?” she said.

“I have been to see him,” he said. “And your mother and all seven of your brothers and sisters, who talk enough for twice as many. It is no wonder you are so quiet. It must have been difficult to get a word in edgewise.”

“You have been to see them?” She was looking at him rather as if he had two heads, he thought.

“I have your father’s permission to ask you to marry me,” he said.

Her hands crumpled the gray fabric of her dress at the front. Her face was suddenly flooded with color.

“You did not compromise me,” she said. “I went willingly with you, and no one saw or knew about it.”

“I want to marry you,” he said. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I kissed you rather intimately outside the Assembly Rooms. I want to marry you, Emmy, because you are the most beautiful and the most precious thing in my life. Thing!” He laughed softly. “I have practiced this over and over in the last four days, and I cannot remember a word of what I planned to say.”

She looked at him, handsome and rather dusty in his riding clothes. And for the first time she realized that he had come as he had said he would. And he was asking her to marry him. The fact was beginning to register on her mind.

“But I am very dull and very ordinary,” she said.

“If you were a man,” he said with a faint smile, “I would call you out as a consummate liar. You are golden, Emmy. I cannot think of a better word to describe you. You shine from within like the sun. A rose cannot even begin to compete with you.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Emmy,” he said, “I have nothing to offer you except money and position and security. I am twenty-seven years old, and I have wasted my youth in gambling and drinking and rioting and . . . debauchery. I don’t know why you would even think of accepting me, but I am offering myself. Will you have me?”

She hesitated. She could not quite understand. What was the attraction? Why would a man like him, who had everything, want her? There could be only one reasonable explanation.

“Is there nothing else?” she asked. “Nothing else you can offer me?”

He smiled, a look of mockery on his face. “Only my love,” he said, “for what it is worth, Emmy. I have never given it before. That at least is untarnished.”

He was still standing in front of the fire, she just inside the door. But her face lit up from the inside, so that he found it difficult to remain where he was. She leaned slightly toward him, though she did not move. ‘‘You love me?” she asked.

“I love you, Emmy,” he said. “Will you have me?” She was the one who moved finally. She came hurrying toward him, wide eyes gazing into his.

“You love me,” she said. “Can it be true? And you have been all the way to ask Papa for me?”

He was not sure who had reached for whom, but they were suddenly in each other’s arms, his wrapped about her slim waist, hers about his neck. Without the barrier of her winter cloak and the domino, she fitted against his body as if she had been made to rest there.

He kissed her, opening her mouth with his, running his tongue back and forth across her lips and up to the soft flesh behind them.

But he would not lose touch with reality. If all went well, he would have a lifetime for that. He drew her even closer, afraid that he might yet lose her.

“If we are betrothed,” he said, “this is only slightly improper, Emmy. If we are not, it is unpardonable. Are we?”

“I love you,” she said. “Roger, I love you.” 

“Despite everything?” he asked, looking into her eyes. “Despite that ghastly first encounter?”

She smiled. “I spent days dreaming of it,” she said. 

He grinned. “Hussy,” he said. “What have you dreamed of in the past four days?”

“You,” she said. “You taking the rose from my hair. You waltzing with me. You kissing me. I have pressed the rose so that I will have it with me always.” He lifted a hand to smooth lightly over her hair, which was in its usual simple style. “Will you marry me, Emmy?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, Roger.”

“I won’t need any pressed roses, then,” he said. “I will have the real thing to hold in my arms for the rest of our lives. I can’t change my past, Emmy, but I’ll treasure you for the present and all of the future. I promise most solemnly.”

“And I you, Roger,” she said, smiling eagerly up into his face. Her cheeks flushed. “Kiss me again. As you did after the ball.”

“Anything you say,” he said, rubbing his nose lightly against hers, “my fairest golden rose.”

He kissed her. Not in quite the same way as he had kissed her four evenings before. But she did not complain, either while he was busy doing it or later.

But by then so much time had elapsed that it was probable she had forgotten her request.