Page 7 of Sinfully Daring

“And he looks likes Adonis,” Hargreaves added dryly.

“Well, it didn’t hurt,” Rosamund admitted, before catching his eye and bursting out laughing. “Oh, you! You make me say the most outrageous things. Stop it at once.”

He smirked at her, looking pleased by her outburst. “I have no intention of stopping you from saying outrageous things. I think it does one good when in safe company, to say just what one pleases.”

“Well then, I thank you for providing the safe company,” she said, meaning it. “It is a relief to have someone to speak frankly with, and I appreciate the effort on my behalf as well. It was kind of you to try. You don’t think me foolish?”

He frowned at that and shook his head. “Finding someone to spend your life with is hardly foolish, but I think you ought to have some fun whilst you are about it, and don’t be in too much of a rush. Perhaps Ashburton will come around, but for now, enjoy your freedom, my lady, and take your time. Choose wisely,” he added, his tone soft, and Rosamund’s heart broke a little as she saw the regret in his eyes.

15th June 1842, The Queen’s Levee, Drawing Rooms, St James’s Palace, London

Rosamund handed her card to the queen’s page in the Presence-Chamber as instructed. A second card she held onto, for that must be presented to the Lord in Waiting, who would announce her name to the queen. She really did not want to be here again, for it was deadly dull and always seemed to be a great deal of waiting about for no good reason. But at least once a year since she had first been presented, she returned to the opulent palace to make her curtsey. The enormous court dress she wore was beautiful, but unwieldy, with huge skirts that meant she had to go sideways through doors. On a heavy, sullen day that was threatening thunder, hefting around so many petticoats and yards of fabric felt akin to being smothered in an itchy wool blanket.

“Once we’ve paid our respects, we can go if you like,” Mama promised her, giving her a sympathetic smile. “I have a chapter I simply must finish. I left the hero on his knees mid declaration, poor thing. He must be most uncomfortable.”

She sighed and Rosamund stifled a giggle. Mama often seemed to consider her creations as real people.

To her profound relief, the presentation was mercifully short, and it was not long before Rosamund and her mama were free.

“Oh, darling, I must just have a word with Matilda,” Mama said, spying her friend on the far side of a room full to the brim of splendidly dressed noblemen and women. “I won’t be above a moment.”

Rosamund smothered a snort of amusement, knowing full well that when Mama and Matilda got together, they would chatter for hours given the opportunity. Resigning herself to a long wait, she accepted a glass of orgeat, waving her fan in her free hand, and made her way to an open window, hoping to find something of a breeze to cool her down. She got to the window at the same moment as Lord Hargreaves, resplendent in his court dress of black velvet coat with cut steel buttons, black velvet waistcoat, black pantaloons, black silk stockings, shoes with glittering buckles, a Brussels lace cravat, lace ruffles, and a sword with a black scabbard and cut steel hilt. To finish the ensemble, a cocked hat of the chapeau bras variety was tucked under his arm.

“It’s my window, I got here first,” he said gravely. “I have a sword,” he added, narrowing his eyes at her.

Rosamund arched an imperious eyebrow. “I warn you, I will fight to death for the merest suggestion of fresh air. If there is anything resembling a breeze, you are a dead man.”

“My, you’re fierce,” he grumbled, and then grinned at her. “I don’t blame you, though. It’s stifling in here.”

“Too many people,” she said with a sigh.

“Many a potential husband,” he suggested.

Rosamund pulled a face. “I don’t have the energy to make polite conversation,” she said glumly, fanning herself.

“I see. Am I to be the recipient of an impolite conversation then?” he asked with a bland expression.

Lips quirking, Rosamund shrugged. “It’s entirely possible.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement, but he said nothing, turning to examine the rest of the room.

“You look very impressive,” Rosamund observed. He did, too.

The old-fashioned court dress everyone was bound to adhere to made many men look ridiculous with all its lace and flounces, but he wore it well. His figure was masculine and powerful enough for the extravagancies of his costume to underline his physique, rather than detract from it.

“I feel a prize twit, like every other gentleman here,” he admitted. “Have you seen these shoes?” He made a leg, as if to give her a flourishing bow, pointing his toe daintily so the buckle glittered in the light.

Rosamund smothered a snort from behind her fan.

“La! You are quite the macaroni,” she teased.

He made a harrumphing sound and returned to observing the room. “What about Mr Weston?” he asked suddenly, gesturing to a handsome young man who was talking to the Marquess of Montagu.

Rosamund frowned. “What about him?”

“He’s surely excellent husband material. I don’t know him well, but his father, Baron Rothborn, is a good fellow, a war hero, and you do love Gothic novels, I believe.”

“What have Gothic novels to do with Mr Weston?” she asked in bewilderment.