Chapter Seven

In which a blow is struck.

“How ridiculous,” Rosalind muttered, strolling along the Serpentine with Hilary and Niamph. “Who ever heard of such a thing? A subscription ball without masks! A subscription ball is a veritable species of masques!”

“A species of masques?” Niamph echoed doubtfully.

“Precisely!” Rosalind affirmed with a swift nod.

“And how would you reason that?” Hilary inquired.

“Well, all subscription balls are masques, but not all masques are subscription balls – just as all Dalmatians are dogs, but not all dogs are Dalmatians.”

“Dalmatians are a breed, dearest, not a species,” Hilary pointed out.

Rosalind blew out an exasperated breath. “Fine, then! Subscription balls are a breed of masques. The point is, if I cannot dance with rogues and rakes and assorted other scandalous, unsuitable men without being recognized and scrutinized, why should I go?”

“Rosalind!” Hilary admonished, casting a quick glance at a pair of older ladies seated on a bench the three girls had just passed.

“Well, we all know it’s the only thing that distinguishes a subscription ball,” Rosalind argued. “Otherwise, it would be just another ball.”

“Except for all of the people who would not normally be invited to the sort of balls we attend,” Niamph put in.

“Yes, but…” Rosalind pursed her lips and drummed her fingers on the handle of her parasol. It was impossible to explain to her sister and cousin what she was unwilling to admit even to herself. Truthfully, she did not care for rakes and rogues and scandalous men; her desire for anonymity was so that she could perhaps dance with Vincent, perhaps steal one moment of his interest, so that he might smile at her as if she were any other girl who might have a chance at being at his side. Not that she wished to be at his side; not at all. That spot was entirely meant for Christina Gordon, as far as Rosalind was concerned. Still, to dance with a man attached to another, and perhaps smile a bit more than was de rigueur was not so immoral. At least, she did not think it was…

“But you wish to flirt with these unknown, unsuitable gentlemen?” Hilary suggested in an undertone that could not be heard beyond the trio.

Rosalind blinked, hesitated.

“She doesn’t need a mask for that,” Niamph muttered. “She would flirt with them anyway, and probably not even notice it.”

“What on earth does that mean?” Rosalind demanded.

“It is simply the way you are, love,” Niamph told her. “Every look you ever give a man is a flirtation – or at least seems like one. You could glower or stamp your foot or run about like a madwoman, and a man would still think you were inviting him to court you.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“No, it’s the truth. You’re just too beautiful for your own good.”

Rosalind sent her a highly unamused look, then glanced across the water and sighed. Too beautiful for her own good; it was unfortunate that Vincent thought that was true in the worst possible way.

***

Vincent wandered into White’s, simultaneously bored and anxious. Bored out of lack of employment, for his estates were entirely in order, and there was nothing to do for them, and anxious because of his feelings towards Rosalind. It was not so much that he feared complete failure as that he did not know how to go about commencing the courtship. Strange that he had always imagined that wooing one’s future wife was simply something one did, effortless not so much in execution but in its various series. One found a girl with whom one believed it possible to live out the rest of one’s life, one made known one’s intentions, one courted her, one proposed, and one married. The steps, at least, were supposed to be simple.

However, he now feared it was not quite so.

How was he to inform her of his intentions? How was he to begin anew the romance that had ended so badly three years prior?

And then there was the doubt. He had lived his life dependent on being entirely rational. Not two days prior, he had believed Rosalind Fulton to be the last woman on Earth he would ever consider marrying. Now he was dead set on making her his bride because some stray bit of sunlight had got in her eyes. It was not rational. It was not advisable. It was a mistake, some trick of… he knew not what. He could not love her, and yet the thought that he did not seemed equally as absurd. It was ridiculous! Untenable!

“Rosalind Fulton,” he whispered under his breath, and his eyes fell closed. He could see her, sitting so prettily on that park bench. Good Lord, she was beautiful.

But beautiful was not love. That note of concern in her voice when she said his name was love. That determination that could drive him mad was love. That incurable need to set everything to rights for everyone was love.

Or, no. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t any of that. It was something more, something he could not name.

Somehow, someway, for some reason, he loved Rosalind Fulton, and the reasons did not matter.

There were enough members in the lounge so that the room could not be called anything close to empty, but few enough so that it was not crowded. Not being currently inclined to socialize, Vincent had taken up a chair near the window, away from those disposed to speak, and accepted a newssheet from a footman.

“Did you read the gossip column this morning?” someone was saying in the background as Vincent regarded the newssheet absently. “That Fulton chit has been running her mouth again.”

Vincent blinked, and then sighed. Rosalind’s comments, he supposed, would always spark gossip, and he could only hope that with time, she would learn to keep her more outrageous statements within the confines of trusted friends and family.

“What did she say this time?” a second voice inquired.

“I believe her words were, ““What is the point of a ball that anyone at all can attend if one cannot dance with inappropriate men without being frowned upon?””

There was a round of chuckles, and behind his paper, Vincent gave a little shake of his head.

“Well, if that should be the lady’s desire, I would certainly be amendable to playing the rogue for her sake,” someone commented in a low voice. The statement was met with a mix of laughter and clearing throats.

“Riley,” someone else said, his tone lightly cautionary.

“Well, what else is there to do? The girl is obviously headed for her own ruin,” said the first voice.

“She is perfectly respectable.”

“You mean her birth and upbringing are perfectly respectable. The product is somewhat lacking – although not, by any means, in those aspects which a man might enjoy without having himself leg-shackled to such a hellion.”

Frowning, Vincent lowered his newssheet and looked over his shoulder at the speaker. Sir Ethan Riley leaned against the mantle, grinning smugly at his own wit as those around him either snickered in idiotic agreement or shifted uncomfortably.

“All in all,” Riley continued, “she would make a very pretty pet, and as that is most obviously her desire, I intend to grant her wish.”

Vincent did not recall standing or slapping his newssheet down on the table before him, but suddenly he was striding across the room, with every eye upon him as if he had made some great noise. The crowd around the fireplace parted for him as he came up to Riley.

“I suggest,” he said, stopping so that he stood directly before the squire, the toes of their boots nearly touching, “that you have a care for your words regarding Miss Rosalind. You might find yourself in a regrettable situation otherwise.”

Riley’s insouciant smile did not falter, and he raised one brow slightly. “Why is that, Farley? I thought you didn’t even like the chit. Changed your mind and lifted those skirts yourself, have you?”

Riley’s brandy glass hit the marble floor with a clash a second before Riley himself found himself sprawled on the tiles, Vincent about to descend upon him with another blow. Hands reached out and seized him before he could, however, and Vincent was wrestled to the doorway.

“Farley, get a hold of yourself, man!” someone told him, but he only glared at Riley’s prone and groaning form on the floor.

“Vincent, what’s the matter with you?” a new voice demanded, and then Xavier was standing before him, frowning severely. When Vincent didn’t reply, he took hold of one of his arms and dragged him towards the door. Outside, Vincent’s coach was waiting, and Xavier shoved him towards it, climbing in behind him. A rap of Xavier’s knuckles, and they were off, Vincent still fuming on the seat opposite his brother.

“What the devil was that all about?” Xavier wanted to know.

Vincent dragged in a deep breath, slouching back against his seat. “You didn’t hear?”

“No, I just arrived when they were about to throw you out.”

“They wouldn’t have thrown me out; I am a viscount.”

Xavier snorted. “And I’m certain you factored this into your behaviour before you accosted Riley.”

“Naturally.” Vincent absently rubbed his throbbing knuckles. He hadn’t struck another human being since his days at Eton, and had forgotten that even the victor got bruises.

“What did he do, Vincent?” Xavier asked again.

“He misspoke.”

“Misspoke?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“It must have been a great misspeech for it to have earned him such a violent reprimand.”

“Just so.”

Xavier made a grunt in the back of his throat which managed to communicate disapproval, disbelief and displeasure all in one senseless sound. “Well, the governesses shall certainly have a new way to frighten their charges into learning King’s English: ‘Speak properly, children, or Viscount Farley shall come after you!’”

***

Well, well, what a scene Miss RF has caused once again. Only this time, the young lady in question was not actually present. After having read this humble author’s report on what Miss RF had to say about tomorrow night’s conscription ball, a certain Sir ER took it upon himself to comment, rather to his own discredit, that should Miss RF desire a rake with whom to dance, the good knight should be happy to play the role.

Lord F, who was present at the time, took exception to Sir ER’s implications and proceeded, in a very ungentlemanly manner, pummel the knight, and had to be escorted from White’s by his brothers.

One can only wonder at the plague of uncivil behaviour Miss RF has sparked in London.

***

“Hello, Miss Gordon,” Rosalind said, approaching the other girl.

“Oh, Miss Rosalind, hello,” Christina Gordon blushed and smiled, her eyes focusing on Rosalind’s face and then flitting away over the crowd as if in search of something – such as an escape.

“Miss Gordon,” Rosalind rushed, taking the other’s hands, “I really do wish to apologize for what happened at the breakfast party. I had absolutely no right to –”

“Oh, no, Miss Rosalind, it’s quite alright,” Miss Gordon assured her, pulling her hands away, her eyes fastening on someone other than Rosalind, and looking as if she were about to rush away.

Rosalind turned to see Percy Card headed towards them, a small smile on his face. When she turned back to Miss Gordon, the other patted her hand absently. “Really, Miss Rosalind, there is nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Hello, Mister Card!”

“Good evening, Miss Gordon. Miss Rosalind.” They all made their bows, and then Card proffered his hand to Miss Gordon. “Might I have this dance?”

“Certainly,” Miss Gordon replied, taking his hand. “I shall see you later, Miss Rosalind.” Then, before Rosalind could utter another word, the two of them had merged into the blur of the quadrille.

“They make a very handsome couple,” Hilary observed, coming up beside her sister.

“Miss Gordon and Mister Card?” Rosalind gasped, blinking at her. “No, surely not! Hilary, you cannot possibly think they ought to be a match.”

“Why not? Their families are similar it wealth and status, they are both of a good nature, and she does not swallow her tongue on every second word when he’s about.”

“Oh, Hilary, do not make fun,” Rosalind implored.

“I do not.” Hilary smiled at the pair in question, adding mischievously, “Furthermore, they are of a very good height for one another.”

“Height! Really, Hilary, now you are just being crude! To think, that nuptial happiness should depend upon the height of each individual relative to the other! Have you no romantic sensibilities at all?”

“You would be open to marrying a dwarf, then, if he suited you in all other point of character?” Hilary inquired.

“I – I refuse to engage in this ridiculous conversation any further,” Rosalind announced and fixed her gaze resolutely forward on the dancers. Under her breath, she muttered, “Anyone would think you did not believe in love.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” Hilary whispered.

Rosalind turned on her in shock “What?”

But Hilary was already turning away. “Hilary, wait!” Rosalind made to go after her, but someone else appeared before her.

“Good evening, Miss Rosalind.”

“Oh! Hello, Sir Riley. Oh – oh my, what –” She stopped short, fearing being discourteous. She had been about to ask what had caused Sir Ethan Riley’s face to swell and turn dark, giving him an altogether sickly look in the dimness of the ballroom.

“Rather unsightly, isn’t it?” the squire queried with a rueful grimace, lifting one hand to the bruising.

“Oh, well, I believe it does… leave something to be desired,” Rosalind edged. “It doesn’t pain you a great deal, I hope.”

“Oh, no, not too great a deal,” he said, smiling in a manner that made Rosalind feel quite discomfited. “Tell me, Miss Rosalind, would you care to dance?”

“Dance? Oh, well, I –”

“I believe Miss Rosalind has already promised the next dance to me,” a new voice said, and Rosalind jumped at Vincent’s sudden appearance beside her. “Is that not so, Miss Rosalind?” He turned to her, one eyebrow raised indolently.

“Oh, er, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Very well, then. Shall we?” He offered her his arm. Turning back to Sir Riley, he nodded. “Riley.”

“What do you suppose happened to his face?” Rosalind murmured when they were out of earshot.

“Do you not read the society pages?” He countered, bringing them into place on the dance floor.

“Not anymore. James has quite forbidden it. He –” She gasped. “Goodness, Vincent, what has happened to your hand?”

“It encountered Sir Riley’s face.”

“It… You? You did that? But… why?”

Before Vincent could answer, the figures of the dance separated them. As Rosalind turned, stepping almost the edge of the dance floor, she found herself face-to-face with her mother. “Rosalind!” Sheila Fulton hissed, motioning to her daughter. “Come, we are leaving.”

“Mama, I am dancing.” Rosalind turned, curtsied, stepped and joined hands with Vincent.

“I had an argument with Riley,” he told her.

“Well, I gathered as much. But to hit him – really, Vincent.”

They parted again, and Rosalind met her mother again, standing at the edge of the dance floor. “Rosalind, we are leaving at once.”

“But Mama ­–”

“Now, Rosalind.”

Sheila reached out and grasped her daughter’s hand, pulling her out of the dance. Wide-eyed, Rosalind glanced over her shoulder, seeing Vincent standing there amidst the dancers, watching her with a perfectly composed face. In the crowd behind him, Sir Riley watched as well, accompanied by a hundred others. Suddenly, Rosalind became aware that everyone around her was watching – behind fans, over shoulders, under lashes. It was a speculative sort of cruel scrutiny that she had received before, only magnified. She shrank beneath it, moving closer to her mother.

They broke free of the crowd and into they foyer. James was standing there, holding their cloaks ready. “Mama, what is happening?” Rosalind demanded.

“Hush, we will discuss this in the carriage.”

“What about Hilary?”

“Your aunt and uncle will take her home.”

James ushered them out the door. His carriage was waiting outside, and his wife, Melanie, was already seated within. As James raised his fist to knock on the roof, Rosalind lifted the curtain of her window. Vincent stood on the steps of the assembly house, and his eyes caught hers. As the carriage started off with a lurch, he gave a small bow, and then the shadows blocked him from sight.