Chapter Three
“Oh, please, may I hold her next, Marianne?” Polly, the Countess of Revelstoke, begged.
Rosie’s mama smiled from the chaise where she cradled Sophia Helena, the newest member of the Kent family, in her arms. “Of course you may, my dear.”
Rosie tried not to sigh as Polly, her bosom companion, eagerly abandoned the settee—and the conversation they’d been having—to admire the babe. Since Polly’s marriage several months ago, the girls hadn’t spent as much time together, and Rosie missed the other dreadfully. She’d been looking forward to catching up before supper. But seeing Polly’s aquamarine eyes light up, her face wreathed in smiles as she cuddled Sophie, Rosie knew that wouldn’t be happening.
She supposed it was yet another flaw in her character that she didn’t understand what all the fuss over the babe was about. Fastidious by nature, she had no urge to hold a small human who would drool on her new lavender satin frock and wreak havoc upon her coiffure (a pearl-studded coronet that had taken her maid over an hour to arrange). And what was so enticing about a creature who did nothing but sleep, slobber, and wet her nappy?
Shame followed in the wake of her uncharitable and, worse yet, unsisterly thoughts.
What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be good—like the rest of the family?
She watched as Polly rocked the babe in her arms, clucking and making silly expressions with unselfconscious delight. She thought of Polly as her sister although, technically, the other was her aunt. The youngest of Papa’s five siblings, Polly was the same age as Rosie, and they’d been bosom companions since the age of eight, when Papa had married Mama and adopted Rosie, officially making her a Kent.
In name only, came the unbidden and desolate thought.
Rosie considered honesty to be one of her chief virtues (and, let’s face it, there weren’t all that many to choose from). Hers was not the kind of honesty that involved telling the truth to others; one couldn’t hope to survive in the ton with that sort of gauche earnestness. She had no compunction about using white lies to grease the social wheel: “Lady Fanglebottom, how I adore the little bird nests in your coiffure!” “Did you step on my toes during the waltz, Lord Kennelly? Why, I declare, I didn’t feel a thing!”
Rosie could flirt, charm, and maneuver with the best of them.
Where her honesty came to bear was in regards to herself. She saw her faults with the same sort of cursed clarity with which the mythological Cassandra had seen the future. Rosie could portend personal disasters with painful acuity: she knew that the defects in her character would lead to trouble, and yet she seemed powerless to stop herself from making mistakes.
She had never been one to bemoan her fate, however—or take challenges lying down. She refused to allow the labels of “bastard” and “flirt” to prevent her from attaining her rightful place in the beau monde. She simply had to try harder and be smarter about it.
I’m going to win them all over, she vowed fiercely, and nothing’s going to stop me.
Not even some outrageously attractive and virile masked stranger.
Since the masquerade last week, he’d tracked her through her waking hours and even into her dreams. She was positive she’d never met him before—a man like that would be hard to forget—and yet she couldn’t shake off a sense of déjà vu. As if she did know him… in some distant, twilight part of her mind that memory couldn’t reach. When he’d called her “little chick,” a bewildering warmth had burgeoned inside her…
Frustrated, she told herself to leave it be. Her mind was just playing tricks on her; if he was anyone worth knowing, she would know him. He was just some overbearing cad who had enjoyed amusing himself at her expense. The man had had some gall to intercept her note to Daltry: not only had he foiled her plans, he’d seen fit to lecture her on her behavior as well?
Righteous anger sparked, yet it was tempered by self-doubt. Her reputation must be in tatters indeed if some nobody thought he could meddle with her without consequences. Nothing could deter her from her plan to become the Countess of Daltry… but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try some self-improvement? Not because she was heeding the stranger, of course, but because she wanted to turn over a new leaf.
At the very least, she decided, she could try to reform her less charitable thoughts. It could be one of her resolutions for the New Year. She would treat bad thoughts like sweets: limit them to no more than one a week…
“Goodness, Sophie’s smiling at me,” Polly gasped. “Rosie, come and see!”
Dutifully, she went over and peered at the infant. Unfocused amber eyes stared back. Tiny rosebud lips puckered.
“I think she is just passing gas,” Rosie said.
“No, she was looking right at me and smiling—weren’t you, precious?” Polly cooed.
The babe’s gurgled response sent Polly into paroxysms of delight.
Rosie fought the upward impulse of her eyes. One would think Sophie had just recited a sonnet—oh, botheration. That was uncharitable thought Number Two already. She hadn’t even made it to supper without exceeding her quota.
“Is something amiss, dearest?” her mama’s soft contralto inquired.
Rosie schooled her expression before facing her mother. Neither age nor a difficult childbirth had dimmed Marianne Kent’s celebrated beauty. Lustrous silver blonde locks were piled gracefully atop Mama’s head, curls framing her famously sculpted features. She was as elegant as ever in an evening dress of cassis velvet, its cross-over bodice baring the top of her shoulders and emphasizing her newly svelte figure.
Confronted with her mama’s shrewd emerald gaze, Rosie felt a mix of love and frustration. From the moment they’d been reunited, the two of them had shared an unbreakable bond, but of late tension had settled into their relationship. They had butted heads over the issue of Rosie’s future: despite once ruling the ton herself, Mama could not seem to grasp Rosie’s desire to secure a title. She disapproved of Rosie’s husband-hunting tactics, which had resulted in endless rows between them.
In recent months, pregnancy and a new babe had prevented Mama from policing Rosie as keenly. The rift between them continued to widen, however, filling Rosie with nameless panic. She felt powerless to mend the breach with her mother because she couldn’t give up on her goals—the acceptance she desperately craved.
Why, oh why, can’t Mama understand?
She shaped her lips into a smile. “Nothing’s amiss, Mama.”
“You seem preoccupied. Care to share?”
“It’s just a trifle. So inconsequential, in fact, that it’s slipped my mind entirely.”
“Hmm.”
Rosie didn’t like Mama’s assessing gaze. For the other was beautiful and clever—which kept Rosie on her toes. Last week, she’d mentioned Lord Daltry in an off-handed manner, just to test the waters.
Mama’s reply had been succinct: “Daltry’s an aging roué. You can do far better.”
But I can’t. Rosie fought the rising despair. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?
Scandals aside, she was fast approaching three-and-twenty and the dreaded shelf upon which unmarried ladies languished, stale and unpalatable. At this point, the only men sniffing at her heels were fortune hunters after her dowry, and even she hadn’t quite stooped that low.
The door opened, a welcome distraction. Papa entered with his customary long-limbed stride, and the sight of his earnest features filled Rosie with love that equaled hers for Mama—minus the complications. From the moment Ambrose Kent had entered her life, she’d adored him. Reliable, honorable, and steady of character, Papa had always been her anchor in the storm.
He went to Mama, whose worldly demeanor slipped when he bent to kiss her cheek. The once scandalous widow looked as infatuated as a schoolgirl, Rosie thought with amusement.
“What are my girls up to?” he said.
His warm amber gaze included Rosie and made it easy for her to say lightly, “We were just waiting for you, Papa.”
“And admiring Sophie,” Polly added.
As if she knew she was the center of attention, the babe let out a wail from Polly’s arms.
“I’ll take her,” Mama said.
“You’ve had her all day, my love. Mind if I have a go?” Papa took Sophie from Polly, tucking the babe easily against his checkered waistcoat. “How is my little poppet?”
Rosie felt a queer pang in her bosom: “poppet” was his endearment for her.
You’re being ridiculous. Stop it.
“Watch out for drool, Papa,” she heard herself say. “It stains silk, you know.”
“Does it?” He answered absently, his gaze never straying from his infant daughter.
Footsteps approached, and Rosie’s brother Edward strolled in. At fourteen, he was a replica of Papa with his dark, unruly hair and lanky build, although his brilliant green eyes were a maternal inheritance. He was followed by Sinjin Pelham, the Earl of Revelstoke, and Rosie couldn’t quell the surge of embarrassment at the sight of Polly’s handsome new husband.
Not long ago, she’d made a cake of herself, setting her cap for the earl. She’d wanted him for the usual things: his title, wealth… and, let’s be honest, his Adonis looks hadn’t hurt either. Yet her heart had never been engaged, and she’d acted horribly—the memory scorched her cheeks—when she discovered the romance blooming between the brooding rake and her shy sister.
But what man wouldn’t want Polly—who was good and sweet, so worthy of love? Polly, being Polly, had forgiven Rosie for being a petty brat, a fact that Rosie counted as one of her life’s blessings. Because no man was worth losing Polly over. And seeing the newlyweds standing together now—Revelstoke’s dark virility the perfect foil to Polly’s wholesome, round-cheeked beauty—Rosie knew that the two were meant to be. As well-matched as a pair of bookends.
“What are we discussing?” Edward said without preamble.
Rosie loved her brother who, being a boy and an adolescent, could also be a bit of a pest. He was regrettably brainy and hopeless when it came to matters of fashion (Rosie had to fight the urge to straighten his crooked cravat). Nonetheless, he’d been an unexpected ally since Sophie’s arrival.
“We’re on the topic of babies,” Rosie said innocently.
“Again?” Heaving a sigh, Edward muttered, “No offense, Sophie.”
Papa’s dark brows rose. “What would you rather talk about, son?”
“Your work, for one,” Edward said. “I was hoping to get some tips.”
Papa was London’s best investigator, and his firm, Kent and Associates, was in high demand. Edward had decided, along with his cousin Freddy, to follow in Papa’s footsteps. Hence, the two fourteen-year-old boys were constantly underfoot, practicing their “detection” skills.
Papa gave a rueful shake of his head. “I’m sure such talk would bore present company.”
“I would be interested,” Edward protested, “and Revelstoke would be too, wouldn’t you?”
“Actually,”—the earl cleared his throat—“Polly and I have some news to share. Sorry, Edward, old boy, but it’s in the familial vein.”
Seeing the bright glances exchanged between the newlyweds, Rosie gasped, “Polly… are you… are you expecting?”
Blushing, Polly nodded. “The babe will come next summer.”
Gladness for her sister brimmed over in Rosie. As congratulations and calls for champagne filled the room, she rushed forward to clasp the other’s hands.
“Oh, my dearest, I’m so happy for you,” she breathed.
Polly squeezed her hands in return, their shared smiles celebrating the joy of the moment.
~~~
After supper, the men retired to the study for cigars and brandy, and Mama headed up for an early night. Which left Rosie and Polly alone to finally have a cozy chat. As they had done so many times as girls, they curled up side by side on Rosie’s bed.
“I can’t believe you’re going to be a mama,” Rosie said in wonder.
Next to her, Polly relaxed against a mound of pillows, her blue skirts fanning over the coverlet. “Trust me, I haven’t gotten used to the notion myself. Or even that of being married.”
“Clearly, you’ve gotten the hang of one marital activity.”
“Primrose Kent.” The other’s attempt to appear severe was ruined by her giggles. “What do you know of such things?”
“Oh, please. Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I’m a ninny. But, dearest,” Rosie said seriously, “you are happy? Marriage is everything you hoped for?”
“Everything and more.” Pink-cheeked, Polly tucked a loose golden brown curl behind her ear. “But enough about me. I want to know what you’ve been up to.”
At last. Oh, how Rosie had missed her confidante. Eagerly, she told the other about her plan to land Daltry and the mysterious masked stranger at the Harteford masquerade.
“Goodness,” Polly said, round-eyed, “you have no idea who this stranger was?”
“None whatsoever. And you know I know everyone.”
“But why would he care to intervene in your affairs?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. Perhaps he’s just the arrogant, meddling sort.”
“How strange.” Polly bit her lip. “Rosie… you don’t suppose he had a point? Perhaps Lord Daltry isn’t the best choice for you—”
“Et tu, Polly?” Rosie crossed her arms over her chest. “The last thing I need is another lecture.”
“I promise I’m not lecturing,” Polly said solemnly, “nor am I in any position to do so. I’m a middling class miss who married above her station, and I’m not an expert on the ton like you are.”
Knowing Polly’s old insecurities and all the obstacles she’d conquered to find her heart’s desire, Rosie said fiercely, “Revelstoke is the luckiest man alive to have you, Pols. You deserve every happiness.”
“As do you. And I can’t help but note that when you speak of Daltry, you fail to mention what qualities of his will bring about that state for you.”
“Of course I’ve mentioned his finer points.” She had, hadn’t she?
Polly arched her brows.
“Daltry has plenty to recommend him,” Rosie said defensively. “He holds one of the oldest peerages in the land—”
“Qualities other than his title and money, if you please.”
With a huff, Rosie left the bed, going over to the glass-fronted cabinet that housed her collection of dolls. Even though she knew she was too old for the hobby, she couldn’t seem to relinquish it. She’d received her first doll from Sir Coyner, and now she had over a hundred of them, all preserved and sealed behind glass. She opened the doors and took out Calliope, whose calm porcelain face and pink satin ballgown were particularly soothing.
“Well, Daltry’s two-and-fifty, so he’s not utterly ancient. He has some of his hair and most of his teeth.” She expertly retied the doll’s cerise sash and turned triumphantly to her bosom companion. “And he is absolutely obsessed with the hounds.”
“You detest the hunt!”
“But I adore Town, which is where I’ll stay while he enjoys country pleasures. Amongst the ton, it’s considered bourgeois for couples to live in each other’s pockets.”
“But I like spending time with Sinjin.” Polly’s brow furrowed. “Marianne and Ambrose are hardly apart. And the same goes for the rest of the family—”
“I’m aware of the Kent tradition.” Melancholy tinged her words.
Papa’s sisters had made brilliant matches: headstrong Emma had married a duke, gentle Thea a marquess, and even Violet, the incurable hoyden, had netted a Viscount. The irony was that, unlike Rosie, they’d chosen their spouses out of love rather than practical considerations. Kents were idealistic, uncovetous of worldly things, and morally good.
The opposite of me. The thought was depressing.
“What about love?” Polly persisted. “Isn’t that important in a marriage?”
“Not for me.” A lump rose in Rosie’s throat. “I’m running out of time, Pols. Four seasons out, still unmarried, and a bastard tinged with scandal to boot. I don’t have the luxury of waiting for a love match—and, moreover, one that comes with respectability. Because you know that’s what I want.” Her grip tightened on the doll. “What I’ve always wanted more than anything.”
A rustling of skirts and Polly was there beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “After the way the ton has treated you, of course you want the security of a title. Of a marriage that would protect you.”
Rosie nodded, her sister’s words a balm to her spirit. She loosened her hold on Calliope, smoothing out the satin she’d crushed before returning the doll to the cabinet and closing the doors.
Facing her sister, she said tremulously, “Let me be happy in my own way, Pols. I know what I want. Please support me in following my own dreams.”
“Of course I will. And I’ll support you in any way you want me to.”
When opportunity knocked, only a fool ignored it.
Rosie eyed the other. “Any way?”
“You know you can count on me,” Polly said.
“Excellent. Because I have a plan,”—Rosie clutched her sister’s hands—“and I desperately need your help.”