The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(10)
In name only, came the unbidden and desolate thought.
Rosie considered honesty to be one of her chief virtues (and, let’s face it, there weren’t all that many to choose from). Hers was not the kind of honesty that involved telling the truth to others; one couldn’t hope to survive in the ton with that sort of gauche earnestness. She had no compunction about using white lies to grease the social wheel: “Lady Fanglebottom, how I adore the little bird nests in your coiffure!” “Did you step on my toes during the waltz, Lord Kennelly? Why, I declare, I didn’t feel a thing!”
Rosie could flirt, charm, and maneuver with the best of them.
Where her honesty came to bear was in regards to herself. She saw her faults with the same sort of cursed clarity with which the mythological Cassandra had seen the future. Rosie could portend personal disasters with painful acuity: she knew that the defects in her character would lead to trouble, and yet she seemed powerless to stop herself from making mistakes.
She had never been one to bemoan her fate, however—or take challenges lying down. She refused to allow the labels of “bastard” and “flirt” to prevent her from attaining her rightful place in the beau monde. She simply had to try harder and be smarter about it.
I’m going to win them all over, she vowed fiercely, and nothing’s going to stop me.
Not even some outrageously attractive and virile masked stranger.
Since the masquerade last week, he’d tracked her through her waking hours and even into her dreams. She was positive she’d never met him before—a man like that would be hard to forget—and yet she couldn’t shake off a sense of déjà vu. As if she did know him… in some distant, twilight part of her mind that memory couldn’t reach. When he’d called her “little chick,” a bewildering warmth had burgeoned inside her…
Frustrated, she told herself to leave it be. Her mind was just playing tricks on her; if he was anyone worth knowing, she would know him. He was just some overbearing cad who had enjoyed amusing himself at her expense. The man had had some gall to intercept her note to Daltry: not only had he foiled her plans, he’d seen fit to lecture her on her behavior as well?
Righteous anger sparked, yet it was tempered by self-doubt. Her reputation must be in tatters indeed if some nobody thought he could meddle with her without consequences. Nothing could deter her from her plan to become the Countess of Daltry… but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to try some self-improvement? Not because she was heeding the stranger, of course, but because she wanted to turn over a new leaf.
At the very least, she decided, she could try to reform her less charitable thoughts. It could be one of her resolutions for the New Year. She would treat bad thoughts like sweets: limit them to no more than one a week…
“Goodness, Sophie’s smiling at me,” Polly gasped. “Rosie, come and see!”
Dutifully, she went over and peered at the infant. Unfocused amber eyes stared back. Tiny rosebud lips puckered.
“I think she is just passing gas,” Rosie said.
“No, she was looking right at me and smiling—weren’t you, precious?” Polly cooed.
The babe’s gurgled response sent Polly into paroxysms of delight.
Rosie fought the upward impulse of her eyes. One would think Sophie had just recited a sonnet—oh, botheration. That was uncharitable thought Number Two already. She hadn’t even made it to supper without exceeding her quota.
“Is something amiss, dearest?” her mama’s soft contralto inquired.
Rosie schooled her expression before facing her mother. Neither age nor a difficult childbirth had dimmed Marianne Kent’s celebrated beauty. Lustrous silver blonde locks were piled gracefully atop Mama’s head, curls framing her famously sculpted features. She was as elegant as ever in an evening dress of cassis velvet, its cross-over bodice baring the top of her shoulders and emphasizing her newly svelte figure.
Confronted with her mama’s shrewd emerald gaze, Rosie felt a mix of love and frustration. From the moment they’d been reunited, the two of them had shared an unbreakable bond, but of late tension had settled into their relationship. They had butted heads over the issue of Rosie’s future: despite once ruling the ton herself, Mama could not seem to grasp Rosie’s desire to secure a title. She disapproved of Rosie’s husband-hunting tactics, which had resulted in endless rows between them.
In recent months, pregnancy and a new babe had prevented Mama from policing Rosie as keenly. The rift between them continued to widen, however, filling Rosie with nameless panic. She felt powerless to mend the breach with her mother because she couldn’t give up on her goals—the acceptance she desperately craved.
Why, oh why, can’t Mama understand?
She shaped her lips into a smile. “Nothing’s amiss, Mama.”
“You seem preoccupied. Care to share?”
“It’s just a trifle. So inconsequential, in fact, that it’s slipped my mind entirely.”
“Hmm.”
Rosie didn’t like Mama’s assessing gaze. For the other was beautiful and clever—which kept Rosie on her toes. Last week, she’d mentioned Lord Daltry in an off-handed manner, just to test the waters.
Mama’s reply had been succinct: “Daltry’s an aging roué. You can do far better.”
But I can’t. Rosie fought the rising despair. Why doesn’t anyone understand that?