“I want to tell him how horrible he is,” Georgina said angrily. “I think we should go and find him.”
“We cannot do that,” Isabel said quickly. “We are in his house.”
“Sisters...” Rosalyn said quietly. She was struggling to think, and their heated argument about whether or not to tell the duke was not making it easier. “Please. We shall do nothing,” she said quickly.
“But Rosalyn!” Georgina protested. “He cannot do that. It’s wicked! It’s wrong!”
“It is not his fault,” Isabel said. “It’s her. She’s wicked! The duchess, I mean.”
Rosalyn drew a breath. “We shall do nothing for the moment,” she said quickly. Her heart raced. “All we shall do is attend the musicale.”
She had not wished to go—she had felt too sick. But now, something drove her to do it. Even if she did have to perform and her performance was appalling, she did not care. The duchess already hated her. She had already decided that Rosalyn and her family were beneath her, and were worthless. It did not matter how bad Rosalyn was at playing the pianoforte and singing. It would make no difference to anything.
“You want to go?” Her sister demanded. “We should avoid everything that horrid woman plans!”
“It is for Rosalyn to decide,” Isabel said carefully. She looked at Rosalyn. “Sister?”
Rosalyn took a breath. “I wish to go,” she said, her heart filled with cold bitterness. There was nothing the duchess coulddo to hurt her. Nothing that would hurt her more than what she had done. There was no point in feeling shy or avoiding her.
Georgina gaped at her. Isabel lifted a hand, quelling whatever Georgina was about to say.
“If Rosalyn wishes to,” Isabel said carefully.
Georgina shrugged. “Very well,” she agreed. “But myself, I think we should tell the duchess that her silly musical evenings are not welcome. Nothing of hers is.”
Rosalyn smiled. Her heart was in more pain than she could imagine, her mind in such turmoil that she could not yet think to fathom what they had said. But they cared, and that touched her. She took a deep breath. Lifting her reticule, she went to the door, her sisters following her.
“Daughters!” Papa greeted them in the hallway. Rosalyn blinked. She looked away, trying not to cry, her father’s friendly manner touching her more than she could say. “Come! Let us go down. My, how beautiful you are!”
Georgina looked as though she might say something, but Isabel lifted a finger to hush her, and they all walked down the stairs together. Rosalyn walked beside Sebastian. She kept her back straight, her face stiff. She wanted to cry, to run away. But she could not. She was the Honourable Miss Rothwell. And she would not let the duchess heap more shame on her.
“Capital,” Sebastian murmured as they reached the entranceway. It was crowded with guests and Rosalyn glanced up, knowing that her brother did not mean it as a compliment. They stood on the edge of the group while the duchess greeted her guests and invited them into the ballroom.
The ballroom was filled with chairs, and the pianoforte had—somehow—been moved from the drawing-room into the space. Trestles with refreshments had been set out further down the room, and there the guests stood and sampled the delicacies while exchanging polite conversation.
Rosalyn found a space at the far end of the room. Her mind felt empty as if frozen. She could not feel a thing—just a cold, blank void. She gazed out of the window at the evening snow, the hum of conversation and the laughter of the guests drifting past her, distant and muffled.
She spotted the duke staring at her across the room. She stiffened and looked the other way, turning her back on him to stare out of the window. She could not bear it. She could not look into those grey eyes and think of what he had said. He had not even had the decency to tell her himself. Her gaze fixed on the falling snow, and she tried to focus on the delicate flakes. If she could just trace their patterns, perhaps she could lose herself in them and forget everything else.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the duchess called. “Our musical evening will begin! If everyone could make their way to the chairs? I invite one of you to come forward to begin the entertainment for the evening.”
Rosalyn turned around and gazed straight at the woman. To her surprise, the duchess looked straight back. Her cold blue eyes held Rosalyn’s and Rosalyn was surprised to see their gaze widen, almost as if the other woman was afraid. Then the duchess turned away.
“Please, find a seat,” she called to the guests.
Rosalyn blinked and looked away.
“Come, sister,” Georgina said, appearing on her left.
“We will find a place to sit,” Isabel told her, gesturing towards the chairs.
Rosalyn allowed her two sisters to lead her to a chair. She was grateful for their presence—being in the room was only possible because of it.
“Ah! Lady Amelia! Will you go first? That is most kind,” the duchess was saying as Rosalyn looked away from studying thefront of the room. There was a window there, and if she focused on it, she could watch the snow and forget where she was.
Everyone greeted the performer with polite applause. Rosalyn clapped, barely aware of what she was doing. Every part of her that was able to think was focused on the snow, while the rest of her was a whirling blank.
Someone was playing the pianoforte. If she listened to it, she recognised strains of the tune. Her mind refused to focus on it. It kept on repeating the words she had heard, while the rest of her tried to ignore it.
