Page 21 of The Perfect Rose

Chapter Fifteen

When Mr. Hastings had told Rose that he would take care of their problem, she didn’t realize how quickly he could accomplish his task. They had gone walking only this morning. And since that time, she had played lawn bowls with Lord Hanby who had invited her to go walking, and she had spent a comfortable hour with the Duke of Gilfordshire taking tea. Even though her mother had been there for the conversation and Rose had remained mostly quiet and completely well-mannered, it was better than she could have anticipated. It was as if Mr. Hastings could conjure miracles from just a few words.

As much as she hated to admit it even to herself, she was jealous. Mr. Hastings had made one comment, and people reacted just as he’d wanted them to. She’d spent years and years preparing for the social whirl of London, and nothing had gone according to plan. How did he do it?

Rose inspected herself in the mirror one last time before heading down to the musicale. Her white gauze gown was trimmed in dusty pink with a matching sash. She looked just like she should, just like the beauties of the current season were desired to look. She pinched her cheeks and made her way down to the music room.

She was prepared to play the pianoforte, the violin, or the harp. All of which she was quite proficient, none of which she took particular joy in. Her mother preferred music to most other accomplishments; thus, Rose had been driven to practice her instruments more than she ever wanted. She decided that she ought to play whichever instrument was used least. Her lady’s maid had taken her violin down to the music room earlier in the day in case she needed it.

As she entered the room of people milling about in some of their finest outfits, Rose’s confidence did not slip. She knew the picture she painted. She was a classic beauty with striking features and a dress suited perfectly to the occasion. Presentation was everything. Too much lace or too many tucks would take away from the elegance of the night, so she’d pruned out anything that was unnecessary for her attire to make the appropriate statement. She was also fully aware that the finery she saw tonight would pale in comparison to what would be worn at the ball on the last night of the house party.

Lord Hanby met Rose’s eyes as she entered the room. He made a direct path toward her and bowed over her hand. “You are a vision, Lady Rose.”

“Thank you. You look quite handsome as well.” His soot-black tailcoat was cut just right. Lord Hanby was quite tall, a trim figure with light-brown locks playing about his ears. If only he looked like he enjoyed life more, he might be tempting as a husband. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. If he showed her any preference, she was going to lean into it. He offered her his arm and she gladly took it as he led her to a conversation with Miss Haybury and the duke.

The conversation died as soon as they stepped into the small circle. The duke gave a deep bow. “I’ve heard you have a love for music, Lady Rose. I do hope we will be privileged to hear from you tonight.”

Rose hid her reaction to his comment. It was as if vinegar were poured down her throat. A love for music . . . he must have been speaking with her mother. It wasn’t all false. Rose did enjoy listening to others play and sing. And she loved to dance. But to be the one performing, that was a mild form of torture she pretended to enjoy for the sake of appearances.

“What do you plan on playing?” Miss Haybury asked.

Rose smiled. “I haven’t decided yet. What do you intend to play Miss Haybury?”

“Lord Hanby will be accompanying me as I sing.” She smiled up at the man who held Rose’s arm. Rose understood the implication. Miss Haybury hadn’t given up her course of pursuit on that front.

“I’m excited to hear it.”

A throat clearing directly behind Rose made her jump a little. Rose turned to Mr. Hastings and saw him exchanging a quick cold glare with Lord Hanby. “Speaking of lovely: Lady Rose, you are resplendent. Would you care to sit with me during the performance?”

What could he mean by that look? It wasn’t like Mr. Hastings to do anything so extreme as to show displeasure. However, unusual as it may be, he had proven that he knew how to pull strings in their charade to gain other gentlemen’s attention.

“I would be delighted to sit next to you, Mr. Hastings.” She would follow his lead gladly after how successfully his plan had been executed that morning.

Miss Haybury all but jumped at the opportunity before her. “That would leave you to sit with me, Lord Hanby.” She fluttered her eyelashes and pouted her lips.

“Of course.” Lord Hanby didn’t look anything but bored about his partner for the night. Not that his emotion normally wavered far from that expression.

The duke excused himself from their circle and bowed over Miriam’s hand as she entered the room. He whispered something to her that made Miriam flush in a most becoming way. Rose’s heart thudded inside her chest. It was more apparent by the hour how attached the two were becoming. Rose did not envy Miriam the duke, but she did envy that the woman was able to attract him of her own accord. The only success Rose had thus far was solely Mr. Hastings’s doing.

She found herself seated in the back of the room with Mr. Hastings, and soon discovered that she enjoyed being able to watch the interactions of her fellow guests while she listened. Miss Haybury kept leaning over to whisper in Lord Hanby’s ear, and for all the work she was putting in, the man never responded to her remarks in word or action. Did that mean the viscount was still uninterested in Miss Haybury, or was he just being his detached self?

Rose really ought to have something picked out to play. She smoothed invisible lines in her skirts as she racked her brain for the perfect piece. But how was she to pick something that would please everyone?

Most of the performances for the evening were on the pianoforte, so Rose ruled that instrument out. And Miriam played the harp so well, Rose would only embarrass herself to follow after her. So, when it came her turn, Rose stood to play Violin Concerto No. 4 by Mozart. Not all of it, of course, as she didn’t want to take up the whole of the musicale. But she did play a couple movements. She felt the music vibrating through her fingers and chest, sometimes in quick, jolting staccatos, and sometimes in long drawn-out notes. Her eyes, when they were open, didn’t see the room before her. In her mind, she was at their estate back at home, playing for her mother: the same song over and over and over again until she earned a curt nod signaling that she could move on. Music could have been something she loved perhaps, but the life had been sucked out of it like a well run dry.

Even as she drew out her final note, she knew that she had played the piece flawlessly, yet not with enough feeling to compete with the performance of Miriam and her harp. Rose didn’t care that it wasn’t the best performance of the night; it was different and distinct, and that ought to be enough to please her mother.

A polite round of applause cut through her memories of home, and she found herself seeking out her mother’s approval. But the countess wasn’t looking at Rose, her gaze was directed toward either Lord Hanby or the duke, who were sitting in the same general area. Apparently, their reaction was more important than her own. So Rose looked toward her peers as well. It only required a moment to see the discordant scene. They were clapping, but not smiling. Miss Haybury looked at Rose as if Rose had just drowned her favorite cat. Rose swallowed, gave her violin to a waiting footman, and made her way to her seat, forcing her legs to walk slowly instead of taking off at a run like she wanted to.

Rose took her seat next to Mr. Hastings. “Beautifully done, Lady Rose,” Mr. Hastings said a notch louder than necessary.

Why had he spoken that way? She tipped her head to the side just a bit, “Thank you, Mr. Hastings.” She forced her voice to come out clear and confident although she was anything but at the moment. She took a deep breath and tried to gauge the reactions of the others in the room. It was a cold, almost foreboding feeling, and she’d experienced it often . . . but when?

She sucked in a quick breath and held her head high out of habit. It was the same reaction she’d experienced after her purpose for a ball had been successfully completed, the same feeling of hollowness that followed when they left. Just as she did in that situation, Rose looked forward and found the back of her mother’s head. She looked at those radiant dark curls and refused to look away. She’d seen a glimpse of the judgement the others gave her with their eyes, and she didn’t have the strength to see more. Rose had learned early on that seeing other’s reactions to her would hurt more than she wanted to remember.

The next couple of numbers fell on deaf ears for Rose. She waited until the emotion in the room morphed, achingly slowly, back to one of content and then enjoyment. She could almost feel the judging stares of others losing interest, all except one. Mr. Hastings, being as close as he was to her, did not lose interest, nor press her for information as she suspected he wanted to.

She needed him to believe all was well. As Mr. Quentin Redford and Miss Eliza Trenton made their way to the pianoforte, she leaned toward Mr. Hastings. “You are bound to stare a hole through my head the size of your fist if you keep at it, sir.”