"Oh, dear," Lady Elise said when Rosalind had finished. "You see? I was quite right earlier when I said that you cannot judge another. I have been feeling very happy for you, assuming that you must be deeply in love. However, you must not despair, Rosalind. I think I can assure you that Bernard would not do anything just for the sake of gallantry. He is close on thirty, you know, and has successfully avoided all the matchmaking females of the last several years. I do not believe that he would have offered for you if he did not really wish to marry you. As you have explained to me, he did not seriously compromise you and could easily have refused to offer had he wanted to."

"Do you really believe so?" Rosalind asked hopefully.

"And you must not give in to overmodesty," Lady Elise said severely. "Because your disability precluded you from many activities as you grew up, you have convinced yourself that you are worthless and ugly. I told you when I first met you that in fact you are not so. And indeed your new clothes and your changed hairstyle make you look quite striking. I might almost say beautiful. I find it not at all difficult to believe that Sir Bernard Crawleigh has developed a tendre for you."

Rosalind smiled.

"And do not be afraid of your own feelings," her companion said. "If you love him, Rosalind, admit it to yourself and to him. You must not feel that you are unworthy of his love. "There," she said, laughing suddenly, "Henry always says that sometimes I talk so much that I forget the necessities of life. I have not even rung for tea yet. How rag-mannered you must think me."

Whenever she could, Rosalind spent time in the music room. She felt she would have gone insane without her music. Her uncertainty over her own feelings and those of Bernard, her unhappiness in her guardian's house were all accentuated by the steady stream of visitors who came to congratulate both her and Sylvia on their good fortune. Rosalind, who had been so accustomed to privacy and even loneliness for many years, found the tension almost unbearable. In the music room she could forget. Her singing helped her to escape into an imaginary world of love and dreams. Her pianoforte playing made such demands on her skill and concentration that the real world receded for hours at a time. She had almost mastered the Moonlight Sonata. She wished to eliminate the few remaining flaws and hesitancies in the few days before she left for the country. But it was not easy. She found herself becoming more and more emotionally involved in the music. A few times she found herself actually sobbing as the third movement built in tempo and volume. And she could not understand why. She knew only that her technique was faltering, that she increasingly stumbled over passages that she thought she had mastered.

Raymore, frequently listening in the anteroom, found that sometimes he could not remain seated but paced in frustration, wanting to rush into the music room and shake her, rant and rave at her to concentrate. He sensed her pain but felt powerless either to explain it or to alleviate it. On one occasion, when she had played the same passage through half a dozen times and finally crashed her fingers down on the keys, he felt her despair. He stood with his forehead against the screen, eyes closed, one fist clenched against the lintel above his head. She was his red rose and he fought the impulse to go to her, to hold her to him and soothe away the darkness.

On a seventh attempt, she finally played the passage without a flaw. He opened his eyes, and with sight came the realization that it was Rosalind in the next room. His lip curled in a sneer that was directed entirely against himself and he left the room and the house immediately. He did not go near the music room the next day.

The day for the journey to Broome Hall turned out to be chilly, a brisk wind sending clouds scudding across the sky. But it was a pleasant enough day for a journey. Rosalind and Sylvia traveled together in the Earl of Raymore's new and quite luxurious traveling carriage while their baggage loaded down a second coach. Sir Bernard Crawleigh rode alongside them, occasionally galloping ahead, sometimes riding beside the window, which Rosalind lowered so that they could speak with him.

"I am most honored to be your only outrider, ladies," he said once, tipping his hat further back on his head, "but, alas, there is not one highwayman in sight. How am I ever to convince you of my courage and gallantry if we do not encounter at least one gentleman of the road?"

"Oh, dear," said Sylvia, "do not joke about such things, Sir Bernard. I shall be quite contented if I never see a highwayman."

Rosalind grinned. "Perhaps another time, Bernard, when Sylvia is not with us," she said. "I should be more than delighted to have some excitement to liven up a very dull journey. But Sylvia is so chicken-hearted, you see.

"Ah," he said, and tipping his hat forward again with the end of his whip handle, he spurred his horse forward out of their sight.

Lord Standen and his brother had made the journey a day earlier so that they would be present to greet the arrival of their guests. Sylvia was quite subdued during most of the journey, occasionally giving in to bursts of nervous excitement. The prospect of spending a week in the home of her intended husband frightened her more than she cared to admit. She was not sure that she would be able to spend a great deal of time in his presence with ease. And she was terrified about meeting his mother.

"Poor Lady Standen," she said. "Nigel says that she is frequently in poor health and rarely leaves the house. I do hope she likes me."

"How could she not!" exclaimed Rosalind. "Now, do not go getting yourself into the fidgets, Sylvie. You are the sweetest person I know. If she fails to love you instantly, I shall refuse to be civil to her at all."

"Well, I shall try to please her," Sylvia said anxiously, and lapsed into silence again.

They were the last of the house guests to arrive. Lord Standen greeted his bride-to-be with flattering deference, not waiting for the ladies to enter the house, but coming down the marble steps outside the imposing front doors to help them alight. He did look rather splendid, Rosalind thought, in dark-blue coat and cream-colored buckskins, the white tassels of his gleaming Hessians swaying as he walked. He was a tall man, dark and good-looking. They made a very handsome couple, in fact, Rosalind decided, as he bowed over Sylvia's hand and raised it to his lips. She smiled shyly up at him and then beamed beyond him in a much more relaxed manner at Nigel, who had also come out of the house to greet the new arrivals.

It was hard for Rosalind to see the two men as brothers. Nigel Broome had none of the advantages of his brother. He was half a head shorter and rather too slim to be imposing. His dark hair stood out from his head in unruly curls, and his thin face usually looked earnest. He certainly seemed to have taken upon himself the task of caring for the welfare of his future sister-in-law. He shook hands with her warmly and led her indoors, while his lordship was busy welcoming Rosalind and ushering her into his home.