And what you’re doing now—with an engaged man—is any different?
The sobering thought stunned her, and she turned to see the Duke sitting there with soft compassion in his eyes. Her gaze, however, was not as comforting, “… Just like I’m doing with you.”
“No,” Norman said as he launched to his feet, “No, Rosaline, this is very different.”
“How?” she said quietly and Norman hated himself for bringing up the subject of her sister. Just as they had gotten somewhere, things had veered left and taken a downturn. The atmosphere between them was changing fast, and he was slow in keeping up.
He circled the table and reached out to hold her but she shifted out of his reach. No, Norman refused to give in, not this! Not when we have gotten so far!
“Horenwall?”
Damnation! That was Ogbent! Norman could not deal with the man’s imperfect timing. Moving to block the door, Norman stopped him from entering the room. If he had not and the man had barged into the room, a whole plethora of questions about why Miss Hall was in his study after dark, questions which he could not answer without turning the house upside down, would be asked.
“Ogbent,” Norman frowned, “Are you foxed?”
The man blinked, “I don’ thin’ so.”
“Clearly you are,” Norman said, “Your speech is slurred, and you are staggering. Let me get you to your room before you fall down.”
Grabbing his arm, Norman steered the older man down the hallway and up the stairs to his room. He had no delusions about whether Rosaline would be back in the study by the time he got back; he knew she would be gone, and an acid feeling that he had lost, once again, burned his chest.
Damn you Ogbent for disturbing us!
Opening the door to the man’s room, Norman helped him out of his jacket and waistcoat while smelling the potent mix of alcohol on his breath. Finally, taking off his shoes, Norman threw a blanket over him and left the room in relief. He did not think the man saw Rosaline but even if he did, Lord Ogbent was drunk as a stone. It was highly unlikely that he would remember anything.
As predicted, when he got back to the study, Rosaline was gone and Norman sunk heavily into his cold chair. He should have never brought up Mary at all when things had been so light between them. His fist struck the desk in dismay. What was it about Rosaline that made all logical thought disappear from him? Why could he not think straight around her?
And damnation! I forgot to give her the comb—again!
Tugging out the drawer where the jade comb lay, he stared at it for a moment before shoving the drawer back in its place. The box of chocolates still there and after a long session of self-castigation, Norman took it and carried it to a locked cupboard and secured it there. He then went to his room in silence and disrobed.
Dressed in nightclothes, he agonized about how things had gone so well not even two hours ago. He had delighted himself in seeing the light in Rosaline’s eyes as she teased him and had loved her laugh when she had seen his revolted face at eating the chocolate.
What the deuce had possessed him to bring up the worst day in the young woman’s life when things had been going so well? Even yesterday, inside the stable, when she had let him put her on his horse, a horse that no one but he had ever ridden, and when she had told him she trusted him— it had been so precious. How could he have just destroyed that?
Pressing his palms to his eyes, Norman had not the faintest inkling of what he could to get her back for the what—the fifth time? She was already flighty as it was. Christ almighty.
Was she going to believe him when he’d tell her that he was only gathering enough evidence to get rid of them? Would she believe him when he told her that he had no desire of marrying Miss Fawcett and that he was only biding his time to the day he sent them packing?
Would she? Christ’s blood. He needed to fix this and fix it quickly.
Chapter 25
During their walk, Miss Fawcett’s chatter, though lyrical and fit for singing arias, was grating on Norman’s nerves. From her diatribe, it seemed as if she, Lady Ogbent, and his Mother had spanned the whole county of Bath and repeated it twice over.
His mental strain was already bad enough due to Ogbent’s interruption and Rosaline’s disappearing act for the hours after. No matter how he tried, he did not see hide nor hair of her. He needed to speak to her, and the need felt more pressing than breathing in air.
“...The Pump Room at Bath was divine. we sampled the healing waters and the concert in the Upper Room had music that came from heaven itself…”
Was an apology suitable enough to mend the rift between him and Rosaline? Would she believe him when he told her she did not have to fear him? Would she listen to him? Of course, he had to find her first.
“…four fireplaces! Would you believe that, Your Grace? The Octagon room had four fireplaces how large it was…”
Finding Rosaline was one thing, making her stay was another. What could he do to make her understand that what he was doing, might not look right, but the outcome was going to be worth it? He knew something was wrong with the Ogbents. He had sensed it from the day his mother had told him about them. He needed her to understand that he was only playing this game until he had enough grounds to send them home.
“Your Grace?”
Norman had the faint realization that she had asked him a question but had no idea what it was. “Pardon me, Miss Fawcett, I have a lot on my mind.”
She scowled but it vanished in the next moment, “I can understand, and I apologize. There must be more important things than hearing me prattle on about our adventures in Bath.”
They came to a blooming rosebush and circled the water fountain that was behind it. “Lord Ogbent and I spoke, and I have relented. The ceremony will be in two weeks.”
“La!” she exclaimed and clutched at this arm, “That is wonderful. I must thank Father for championing for me.”
Norman’s smile was faint, “He did.”
“So, have you gotten your fitting yet?” Miss Fawcett asked, while daintily stepping away from a clump of leaves.
“A fitting?”
“I told the seamstress that I would like you to have a vest of the same cloth of my dress,” the lady said crossly, “I am sure Her Grace must have mentioned it once or twice.”
Sighing internally, Norman replied, “She has, but it slipped my mind. I do not think it necessary though.”
“It is to me,” she pouted, “think of it, the both of us in the brilliant gold. It will be a wonderful image. Please go see the seamstress. If she has any aptitude, the vest can be done in a few days, and enough time for the wedding.”
The Duke still did not see the sense behind that notion, but if it made her happy, he would go see Rosaline and that would make him happy. “Very well. So, what else did you do in Bath?”
While she chattered and they walked, Norman actively listened and made a few comments here and there. When the sun got too harsh, he directed them back into the room and accompanied her toward a sitting room.
“Excuse me,” he bowed, “I have some work to finish. Perhaps I can see you at supper.”
“I would love that, Your Grace,” Miss Fawcett smiled. “By the by, I have my final fitting this evening. I am sure the seamstress can take your measurements and make your vest in the two days we have left. If she is worth her salt, that is.”
Norman’s jaw clenched, “She is. Good day, Miss Fawcett.”
I must get that report! Norman’s mind was on edge as he went to his study. Mr. Dodge, what the deuce is taking so long?
“This is my last fitting,” the lady told her pompously, “Mother and Her Grace are out seeking the best flowers to adorn the church and you will need to make all the adjustments needed. That is the only reason you have stayed this long. Not because of Her Grace’s generosity to urchins like you, but to have you on hand when the time came.”
A fierce urge to snap and tell the pompous lady to keep her thrice-damned conde
scension to herself nearly overtook her, but then she remembered her promise to the Duchess.
“Of course, My Lady,” she said, “Allow me to ready the workroom.”
She left the room without another word and hurried to the workroom. She pulled back the curtains to allow the light in and arranged her materials if the dress needed adjustments. Somewhere between settling the seam ripper in place and locating the spool of golden thread, her eyes begun to burn and bead up with tears. Her palms were braced on the desk’s flat surface as she fought the tears down.
“Are you done?” Miss Fawcett’s icy voice cut through the air, in shock she nearly sent the tray of instruments clattering to the floor.
“One moment, My Lady,” Rosaline dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. When she felt composed enough, she turned, hurried to the door and closed it, “Please, undress.”
Upon the dais, Miss Fawcett took her leisurely time in disrobing and through the folds of her chemise, Rosaline was sure the puffiness that Miss Fawcett had attributed to her monthly was now extended. She was indeed pregnant.
Removing the chemise, stays, and dress Rosaline set each item on the dressmaker’s stand. “Miss Fawcett, are you increasing?”
The lady paled before her cheeks reddened, “Yes, and you cannot tell anyone…this child is His Grace’s.”
Perched on the edge of the platform, Rosaline nearly fell over. The Duke! Miss Fawcett was bearing the Duke’s child? How had Lady Ogbent with her overprotectiveness allowed this to happen?
“I cannot afford for him to be mired in a scandal,” Miss Fawcett said grimly, “This is why I wanted my chemise to stay on before. No one can know that we had congress before our marriage. Please, Miss Hall, this is important to us. I love him and he loves me. We must keep this a secret.”
Then what is he doing with me?
Despite her misgivings, Rosaline nodded, “Not a word will pass my lips, My Lady. Shall we go on with the fitting?”
By the end of the fitting, Rosaline made mental notes on how to adjust the corset and stays–again. With the lady dressed in her own clothes, Rosaline bade her good day and escorted her back to her room.
Returning to the workroom, she mechanically took out her seam ripper and turned the corset inside out. While trying to figure out where to add additional cloth so it would not look too obvious, her mind jarred to a halt.
I love him and he loves me. We must keep this a secret…what then was… taking my hand…hugging me…kissing me…telling me he loved me? What is this?
Looking down at her trembling hand, she sighed. Mechanically, she worked until evening and finally had all the adjustments made. All through her work, an emptiness had settled into her chest that then slowly deadened everything inside. By the time evening fell, she was completely numb.
The garden was cool and getting colder but she was sure her emptied soul could rival the frostiness outside. The Duke was out again, to the main town or the village or possibly London. Her mind was so devastated that she barely remembered where he had gone.
“Miss Hall?”
Lifting her head, she barely registered Lord Ogbent nearing her and his face was one of alarm. “It is unseasonably cold out here, Miss Hall, aren’t you afraid of catching a cold or God forbid, consumption?”
Death might be more merciful. My heart is shattered.
“I had not noticed,” Rosaline lied, “But thank you for telling me.”
Suddenly, her shoulders were weighed down with the man’s warm jacket. “Please, until we get inside.”
The unexpected kindness kindled a little warmth inside her, but then again, it could be the latent heat from the man’s jacket. Miss Fawcett was carrying the Duke’s child. Every time she thought of it, a piece of her brittle soul shattered. The questions kept rummaging around in her head.
Had I been too naïve? Had I pinned my hopes on an unattainable dream? How could I think the Duke, a man of his stature, would care for someone like me? Had I allowed my fantasies to take over my reality?
She was just about to take the jacket off when the Lord extended his hand, “Please, accompany me to a sitting room, I would like to talk about Isabella’s dress.”
How can he be asking me this? Doesn’t he know it is not right?
“My Lord, I do not—”
“It will be quick,” he assured, “no one is going to know as no one is here. It is just you and I for a short time.”
She wanted to say no, but could she? “I suppose, only for a little while though.”
“The sitting room is on the left,” he said, “I’ll be there shortly.”
Smiling tightly, she went to the room but did not sit. Her insides were uneasy and the feeling carried to her feet. She found herself pacing as her mind spun. Was this what the man had done to Mary? Was this why she had been sent away?
“Miss Hall,” Lord Ogbent said from the doorway, “Or may I call you Rosaline?”
Her head snapped up to see the older man holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. “My Lord?”
He chuckled and let the objects down on a table. He then popped the wine and poured out two glasses. Rosaline was frozen where she stood as every bone in her body prodded her to leave, but her limbs did not get the message.
Shakily, she took the glass he handed her and sipped it. Her eyes met his and the look he gave her chilled to her toes.
“You are absolutely beautiful,” he murmured. “From the moment I saw you, I knew you would be special.”
“M-my Lord…” she stuttered, “Aren’t we here to talk about the dress?”
“In a moment,” he replied, set his glass on the table and closed in on her. “Rosaline…such a beautiful and fitting name for one who is so entrancing. Have you thought about my proposal?”
Her heart was in the middle of her throat, and as he came nearer and nearer, she saw the look on his face, felt his intentions, and fear overcome her. Her anxiety came to a crescendo when his hand lifted to cup her cheek. “I’m sorry, I cannot do this.”
She nearly dropped the glass while putting it down on the nearest flat surface and darted out of the room without looking back. she ran past the Duke who was just coming in and he spun on his feet. “Ros— Miss Hall?”
By the time he had spoken, she was up the stairs and disappeared around a corner. In a blur she was in her room and made sure to lock it from the inside. After panting, she grabbed the bedside table and shoved it against the door for good measure.
Sinking to her bed Rosaline, grabbed a pillow to her chest and cried. “Why is the happening to me?”
Norman had no doubt what had caused Rosaline’s fright—Ogbent. That was the only sensible conclusion. Seeing the fright on her face caused his blood to boil. He was a hairsbreadth away from finding the man and wrapping his hands around his neck, and if he saw him in the next moments, he would probably do it too.
Norman had not felt this level of bloodlust in his life. This fire ripping though his was for Rosaline. She deserved better, and he was better! He had to get rid of this odious family, but he had to wait to do it. He had to control his temper, but he still ached to plant a facer on the man. Had Ogbent not remembered his vow to not chase after Rosaline?
Clearly not, Norman seethed.
He has just come from setting a fire under Mr. Dodge, as the day of his ill-fated nuptial was closing in too quickly and he needed that report. Though he had all the reason to send the Ogbents away, he wanted more— much more.
Time was ticking away and the only woman he truly loved was in pain, and curses, he could not see her. The only solace had was to lambast Ogbent. From the direction Rosaline had run from, he suspected she had come from the sitting room.
Striding in, he found Ogbent sitting with a glass of wine in his hand and another was on a table. Had he tried to get Rosaline inebriated to have his way with her?
“Ogbent,” Norman said tightly, “care to tell me why Miss Hall ran past me with fear in her eyes?”
The Viscount mass
aged his brows, “A misunderstanding, Horenwall. A very bad misunderstanding. I saw her in the garden and she looked strained. I wanted her to be at ease so I invited her to talk about Isabella’s dress. It was my mistake thinking a glass of wine would ease her troubles even more. She must have mistaken my intentions and ran. Like I said Horenwall, it was a misunderstanding.”
That was no misunderstanding, you tried to seduce her.
“It seems to me that you have a lot of those,” Norman’s words were arctic, “I will not stand by if she tells me your misunderstanding was more than that.”
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