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That was it, then. No goodbye, no good luck, no last-minute blessing. The children were all in bed – the Baron had insisted that His Grace not be bothered with the tomfoolery of small children – and Edmund was closeted in his room, as usual.
Rosaline descended the stairs alone, the heavy and luxurious fabric of her skirts trailing on the stairs.
She’d chosen a deep blue satin dress. White seemed too much – she was too old for a debutante, and it smacked of weddings – and strong colors like red or yellow seemed rather too eye catching. Rosaline did not want to be noticed at this ball, no more than was strictly necessary.
“One hundred pounds,” she whispered to herself. “By the time I return home, I’ll have one hundred pounds.”
Lord Benedict was waiting in the hallway, speaking to Loudwater in a low voice. Loudwater, rigid with fear at being addressed, was visibly relieved when Rosaline appeared. Lord Benedict turned and watched Rosaline descend the stairs.
She wished he hadn’t. Rosaline had never been particularly graceful, and now she was terrified of tumbling headfirst down the stairs, tripping on her own beautiful hem.
Lord Benedict wore the traditional black evening suit, with a pristine cravat, matching white gloves, and a fabulous hat dangling from his fingers.
He had such a broad chest, and as he moved, muscles pulled at the fabric. Rosaline found herself looking at his lips. He must have sipped some wine or port before he left, and there was a slight tinge of red on his lower lip.
She imagined running the tip of her tongue over his lip, tasting the wine there, and was immediately shocked at herself.
“Miss Rosaline,” he said with a half-smile, “You look... well, you look good enough to eat.”
There was absolutely no reason why such an innocuous sentence should make Rosaline feel so weak at the knees, but there it was. Butterflies rioted in her stomach, and she felt a blush creeping up her neck.
“Thank you.”
“The carriage awaits.”
Poor Margaret was packed up on top of the coach again, although she’d mentioned that she had created quite a repertoire with the coachman.
Rosaline climbed inside, shivering against the cold night air and wishing she’d brought a warmer shawl.
“You didn’t have to come inside for me.” She said, settling herself down.
Lord Benedict thumped on the top of the carriage for the driver to continue, then raised an eyebrow at her. “Then what should I have done? Continued sitting in my carriage and shouted from the window for you to come out?”
“No. I don’t know. Send the coachman, perhaps?”
“That isn’t how it’s done, Rosaline, and you know it. A gentleman does not lounge in his carriage while his lady scurries out to meet him. He escorts her.”
Rosaline bit her lip. “I suppose I just don’t want to you to go to any trouble.”
“If anything is ever troublesome for me, Rosaline, I do not do it. Remember that, in future.”
Well, that was too much. Rosaline leaned back, raising her own eyebrows.
“Do you intend to give me any more words of wisdom? I wish I’d known; I could have brought a notebook and pencil. Perhaps I could make them into embroider designs and hang them on the wall.”
It was dark, but Rosaline could have sworn that he was smiling.
“Please don’t concern yourself. At your next convenience, I shall be happy to repeat my words of wisdom, as you so aptly describe them.”
Rosaline chuckled. “You’re kindness itself.”
“Kindness? I thought I was a hawk.”
The drive lasted for about fifteen minutes. Rosaline was beginning to relax when she noticed that there were more carriages on the road than usual, all headed the same way. They were other guests, she realized, and the nerves came rushing back.
“Where are we going, by the way?”
“The Viscountess March’s ball. She holds one as early as possible every Season, and it’s usually considered the opening event. Do you know her?”
