guests at the lodge for an evening. If you would be so kind as to accept our humble invitation?’
‘I do not think—’ Rosalind began.
‘We are delighted to accept, sir!’ Cassandra forestalled her half-hearted refusal. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘I am not sure that your papa would approve,’ Rosalind replied. This damping statement could not be allowed, however.
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Plummer declared. ‘What objection could there possibly be?’
‘For us to be visiting two single gentlemen—’
‘But I shall be there as well!’ This time it was Cousin Priscilla who interrupted. ‘There is nothing at all unseemly in it. We shall have quite a gay little party!’
‘Indeed we shall,’ Cassandra said, and the matter was settled.
‘You need only tell us when to come, sir.’
‘Would tomorrow evening be suitable?’
‘I believe we are free tomorrow.’ Cassandra laughed gaily. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘We have no pressing engagement.’ Rosalind’s tone was anything but light-hearted.
‘How fortunate for us,’ St George’s glance at Rosalind was so full of audacious triumph that he might as well have winked at her. ‘At eight o’clock, then.’
Chapter Eleven
Rosalind slept little that night. She was becoming increasingly aware that her heart was not the impregnable fortress she had imagined. But then, it had never been laid siege to before. If she were ignorant of the designs of these men, she could better understand the stirring of emotion within herself. Knowing why they were here, however, it was madness to allow herself to harbor feelings of tenderness towards a hardened rake like Richard St George. Madness! Yet such sweet madness, to engage in verbal duels and to cast surreptitious glances into eyes dark and daring. She did not want for common sense, but it seemed that the attentions — dishonest as they were — of this man could banish sense and leave her all sensibility. Marianne Dashwood would not have been more eager to be duped by a handsome face and polished manners.
Cassandra, of course, was in raptures at the thought of their outing. How could Rosalind blame her? Poor child! She knew nothing of social intercourse and had never visited the house of friend or neighbor in her life. All she had ever known was her first home near York Minster, followed by her years here at the abbey. The only change of scene had been the occasional visit to Bath or London — once even to France — to be examined by physicians who held out a faint hope of restoring her sight.
These had all been exercises in futility which left Mr Woodford more despairing than his daughter.
If Cassandra’s head was turned and her heart elated at the thought of a convivial evening which most London ladies would have scorned to accept, it was no wonder. Not that Rosalind was any more experienced. Her world was constricted by Cassandra’s own limitations. Since she had left her home at the age of twelve to be her cousin’s companion, she knew as little of life outside these walls as did the younger girl. While their maids helped them to dress, Cassandra chirped like a canary freed from its cage.
“Is it not the most exciting thing ever, Lindy?’ she asked, with a kind of breathless wonder. ‘To think that we shall be spending an evening with two of the most sought-after Corinthians in England. What an adventure!’
‘It is the most foolish thing we have ever done.’ Rosalind refused to be persuaded. ‘I only hope that it may not end in disaster.’
‘Pooh!’ was Cassandra’s considered response. ‘You cannot gammon me that you are not as eager to spend an evening with St George as I am to be with Julian.’
‘If I am,’ Rosalind said, wincing as Harriet tugged at a stray ringlet, ‘it is no credit at all to my intellect.’
The two maids, Ellen and Harriet, had been listening to Miss Woodford’s chatter with equal interest, and here Harriet decided to interject her own opinion.
‘If
‘I do not think—’ Rosalind began.
‘We are delighted to accept, sir!’ Cassandra forestalled her half-hearted refusal. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘I am not sure that your papa would approve,’ Rosalind replied. This damping statement could not be allowed, however.
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Plummer declared. ‘What objection could there possibly be?’
‘For us to be visiting two single gentlemen—’
‘But I shall be there as well!’ This time it was Cousin Priscilla who interrupted. ‘There is nothing at all unseemly in it. We shall have quite a gay little party!’
‘Indeed we shall,’ Cassandra said, and the matter was settled.
‘You need only tell us when to come, sir.’
‘Would tomorrow evening be suitable?’
‘I believe we are free tomorrow.’ Cassandra laughed gaily. ‘Are we not, Lindy?’
‘We have no pressing engagement.’ Rosalind’s tone was anything but light-hearted.
‘How fortunate for us,’ St George’s glance at Rosalind was so full of audacious triumph that he might as well have winked at her. ‘At eight o’clock, then.’
Chapter Eleven
Rosalind slept little that night. She was becoming increasingly aware that her heart was not the impregnable fortress she had imagined. But then, it had never been laid siege to before. If she were ignorant of the designs of these men, she could better understand the stirring of emotion within herself. Knowing why they were here, however, it was madness to allow herself to harbor feelings of tenderness towards a hardened rake like Richard St George. Madness! Yet such sweet madness, to engage in verbal duels and to cast surreptitious glances into eyes dark and daring. She did not want for common sense, but it seemed that the attentions — dishonest as they were — of this man could banish sense and leave her all sensibility. Marianne Dashwood would not have been more eager to be duped by a handsome face and polished manners.
Cassandra, of course, was in raptures at the thought of their outing. How could Rosalind blame her? Poor child! She knew nothing of social intercourse and had never visited the house of friend or neighbor in her life. All she had ever known was her first home near York Minster, followed by her years here at the abbey. The only change of scene had been the occasional visit to Bath or London — once even to France — to be examined by physicians who held out a faint hope of restoring her sight.
These had all been exercises in futility which left Mr Woodford more despairing than his daughter.
If Cassandra’s head was turned and her heart elated at the thought of a convivial evening which most London ladies would have scorned to accept, it was no wonder. Not that Rosalind was any more experienced. Her world was constricted by Cassandra’s own limitations. Since she had left her home at the age of twelve to be her cousin’s companion, she knew as little of life outside these walls as did the younger girl. While their maids helped them to dress, Cassandra chirped like a canary freed from its cage.
“Is it not the most exciting thing ever, Lindy?’ she asked, with a kind of breathless wonder. ‘To think that we shall be spending an evening with two of the most sought-after Corinthians in England. What an adventure!’
‘It is the most foolish thing we have ever done.’ Rosalind refused to be persuaded. ‘I only hope that it may not end in disaster.’
‘Pooh!’ was Cassandra’s considered response. ‘You cannot gammon me that you are not as eager to spend an evening with St George as I am to be with Julian.’
‘If I am,’ Rosalind said, wincing as Harriet tugged at a stray ringlet, ‘it is no credit at all to my intellect.’
The two maids, Ellen and Harriet, had been listening to Miss Woodford’s chatter with equal interest, and here Harriet decided to interject her own opinion.
‘If
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