recurrence of the headache this morning, for which she was grateful. One more day, at least, without the disease overtaking her. She sat down at the breakfast table and a footman poured her a cup of tea. When he asked if there was anything else she would like, Rosie looked at her plate and laughed. "No, Thomas, I am persuaded this mountain of food will suffice."
When the footman had left her alone with her meal, Rosie considered some of the other appetites she'd indulged during her stay in London—appetites she hadn't even known existed. The longer she stayed with Fanny, the more she came to realize how much of her life in Devon had been spent as a spectator, watching her siblings' lives unfold but almost never taking part in the action herself. So many wasted years!
She was almost thankful for the dread disease. Without it, she would never have had the courage to do some of things she'd done. In fact, she would have been mortified at her indecorous behavior. However, knowing she had but a few short months left on this earth, she had ceased to care what anyone thought of Rosalind, including the ever reserved and proper Rosie.
With so little time left, she was pleased to have worked her way through so much of her list. She had indeed managed to achieve the two major objectives set for the evening. She had waltzed with Max, and she had been kissed.
When she had agreed to stroll on the terrace with Lord Radcliffe, she knew he meant to kiss her. Of all her admirers, she had hoped it would be him. She liked him. He made her laugh and flirted outrageously. She had been told he had a reputation as an active rake, but nothing quite as wicked as Max or Lord Overton. Just your ordinary, everyday rake.
Rosie smiled to think how low she had sunk to consider a rake as ordinary. What would her sisters, especially Ursula, say if they knew the sort of men with whom their spinster sister consorted?
Last evening, she had most definitely consorted with Lord Radcliffe.
She had wanted more than a simple kiss—she had been kissed before, twice, by young men in the neighborhood near Wycombe Hall. Rosie had wanted to be thoroughly kissed, whatever that meant. She had once overheard her sister Pamela telling Ursula how John Stansfield, now Pamela's husband, had thoroughly kissed her the night before. Ursula, ever prim and proper, had shushed her youngest sister before Rosie could hear any more. But the dreamy tone of Pamela's voice told her it had been wonderful.
There was no question that Lord Radcliffe had been thorough, and Rosie had enjoyed it. He had held her very close and had done more than simply press his lips against hers. Much more. Why, then, was she somehow reluctant to check the item off her list, as though the kiss had been less than satisfactory? Or less than thorough?
"Heavens, child, are you going to eat all that?" Fanny swept into the breakfast room and took a seat opposite Rosie. Her aunt seldom joined her for breakfast, and Rosie wondered what brought her downstairs so early this morning.
The footman had followed Fanny into the room and proceeded to serve her tea, bread, and jam from the sideboard. She looked across at Rosie's plate and grimaced. "Do you eat like this every morning? I do not know how you do it."
"I am not usually so piggish, aunt, I assure you. But I am especially hungry this morning." Rosie grinned sheepishly. "And I did not think anyone would be witness to my gluttony."
"Caught out!" Fanny said. "How you stay so slender on such a diet is a mystery to me."
"What brings you down so early?"
"I wished to have a word with you. I forgot to mention it last night. It just flew right out of my head."
"What did?"
"Who, not what. Thomas. I saw Thomas at Almack's."
"Thomas?" Rosie looked around for the footman of that name. Surely he had not been at Almack's.
"Your brother, my dear. He was watching you waltz with Max."
Rosie almost choked on her eggs as a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. "Thomas?
When the footman had left her alone with her meal, Rosie considered some of the other appetites she'd indulged during her stay in London—appetites she hadn't even known existed. The longer she stayed with Fanny, the more she came to realize how much of her life in Devon had been spent as a spectator, watching her siblings' lives unfold but almost never taking part in the action herself. So many wasted years!
She was almost thankful for the dread disease. Without it, she would never have had the courage to do some of things she'd done. In fact, she would have been mortified at her indecorous behavior. However, knowing she had but a few short months left on this earth, she had ceased to care what anyone thought of Rosalind, including the ever reserved and proper Rosie.
With so little time left, she was pleased to have worked her way through so much of her list. She had indeed managed to achieve the two major objectives set for the evening. She had waltzed with Max, and she had been kissed.
When she had agreed to stroll on the terrace with Lord Radcliffe, she knew he meant to kiss her. Of all her admirers, she had hoped it would be him. She liked him. He made her laugh and flirted outrageously. She had been told he had a reputation as an active rake, but nothing quite as wicked as Max or Lord Overton. Just your ordinary, everyday rake.
Rosie smiled to think how low she had sunk to consider a rake as ordinary. What would her sisters, especially Ursula, say if they knew the sort of men with whom their spinster sister consorted?
Last evening, she had most definitely consorted with Lord Radcliffe.
She had wanted more than a simple kiss—she had been kissed before, twice, by young men in the neighborhood near Wycombe Hall. Rosie had wanted to be thoroughly kissed, whatever that meant. She had once overheard her sister Pamela telling Ursula how John Stansfield, now Pamela's husband, had thoroughly kissed her the night before. Ursula, ever prim and proper, had shushed her youngest sister before Rosie could hear any more. But the dreamy tone of Pamela's voice told her it had been wonderful.
There was no question that Lord Radcliffe had been thorough, and Rosie had enjoyed it. He had held her very close and had done more than simply press his lips against hers. Much more. Why, then, was she somehow reluctant to check the item off her list, as though the kiss had been less than satisfactory? Or less than thorough?
"Heavens, child, are you going to eat all that?" Fanny swept into the breakfast room and took a seat opposite Rosie. Her aunt seldom joined her for breakfast, and Rosie wondered what brought her downstairs so early this morning.
The footman had followed Fanny into the room and proceeded to serve her tea, bread, and jam from the sideboard. She looked across at Rosie's plate and grimaced. "Do you eat like this every morning? I do not know how you do it."
"I am not usually so piggish, aunt, I assure you. But I am especially hungry this morning." Rosie grinned sheepishly. "And I did not think anyone would be witness to my gluttony."
"Caught out!" Fanny said. "How you stay so slender on such a diet is a mystery to me."
"What brings you down so early?"
"I wished to have a word with you. I forgot to mention it last night. It just flew right out of my head."
"What did?"
"Who, not what. Thomas. I saw Thomas at Almack's."
"Thomas?" Rosie looked around for the footman of that name. Surely he had not been at Almack's.
"Your brother, my dear. He was watching you waltz with Max."
Rosie almost choked on her eggs as a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. "Thomas?
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