Free Red Rose by Mary Balogh

benefit, was it not? Your revenge for what you consider to be tyrannical treatment?”
    “Yes,” she said, a light of triumph in her eyes. “You insisted, my lord, against my wishes, that I meet the ton. Well, tonight the ton met me. Me!” She pointed to herself emphatically. “If people are to meet me, they must know that there is more to me than black hair and dark eyes and clothes that Madame de Valéry has made as flattering as she can. They must know that there is more to me than a name and a comfortable dowry. They must know that I have two legs, just like them, but that one is shorter than the other. I showed them what you had so carefully tried to conceal.”
    “Fool!” he said through his teeth. “Do you expect that any man will wish to ally himself with you now that you have shown such shocking lack of taste? I have been working for your own interests, trying to find you a husband. You seem bent on alienating everyone who is anyone.”
    “Do you think I would care for any husband who was tricked into offering for me?” she cried. “Do you think the only purpose of a woman’s life is to find herself a husband? If I ever marry, my lord, it will be to a man who loves me just as I am, limp and all, to a man who will not care that much”—she snapped her fingers above her head—“for the fact that I cannot walk elegantly or dance.”
    “Love!” he said, throwing a world of scorn into the word. “Have you been living with your head in the clouds all those years in the country? Here you will learn that marriages are alliances, carefully made for the advantage of both parties. And who would wish to ally himself to a woman who can so brazenly make herself the laughingstock in public?”
    “Then let me go home,” she said, “where I may dream of love if I wish and you can forget about alliances.”
    “Home!” he mocked. “Is that what this is all about? Have you been hoping that I will pack you off back to the country? You can forget that, my dear. Raymore Manor is my home. Do you think I wish to encounter you there every time I decide to visit?” The words were meant to be brutal and had their effect.
    “Then I shall stay,” she spat out at him, “and you may find me a husband if you can. But from now on, my lord, your prospective buyers must see me. Bring them here to the house and I shall strut up and down the drawing room for them. If any man can tolerate what he sees, he may make you his offer.”
    Her voice had risen to near-hysterical pitch. She held her arms out to the sides and demonstrated the strut she had described. She greatly exaggerated her limp as she walked the length of the library and turned to walk back again.
    “Stop it!” he hissed.
    She looked across at him haughtily and continued to move. “Can you not see me walking down the aisle of St. George’s, Hanover Square, toward my bridegroom, my lord?” she goaded. “On your arm?”
    “Stop it!” he repeated. When she continued to prance past him, he strode across to her and grabbed her by the shoulders, “Stop it, do you hear me?”
    “Perhaps you would like to offer for me yourself, Edward,” she said, her voice becoming even more shrill. “You spend little enough time at home and would not have to look at me often. I might be prevailed upon to accept, you know. You are handsome enough.” She smiled dazzlingly and tried to whisk herself away.
    “Stop this, Rosalind,” he ordered again, pulling her against his chest. “Enough!”
    And because indeed she had no more to say, Rosalind did stop. They glared at each other for a few seconds, both breathing hard, and then inexplicably his mouth was on hers, pressing her lips against her teeth quite mercilessly.
    They both jerked away almost immediately and gazed with something like horror into each others eyes. There seemed no sensible reason why a moment later they were kissing again. This time his mouth came down across hers open, and it seemed the most natural thing