by Anne Gracie
And if Aunt Agatha accompanied her she would be sure to treat Rose like a naughty schoolgirl instead of a grown-up married woman. Besides, it was Rose’s problem, and she would deal with it herself.
George might hate polite social calls, but there would be no better companion for such a visit. She wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by the duke and didn’t understand why everyone else found him so formidable. That attitude would help Rose through an interview she dreaded.
George sighed. “All right, but can we take Finn? With all the rain we’ve had, he hasn’t had a proper run for two days.”
“Of course. We can cut across Berkeley Square, and he can have a bit of a walk there, then after I’ve spoken to the duke, we can go for a lovely long walk in the park and he can really stretch his legs.”
Ten minutes later, dressed in hat, gloves and warm pelisse and carrying an umbrella each, they set out for the duke’s residence, Finn leading the way.
* * *
* * *
“Lady Rose Beresford and Lady Georgiana Rutherford to see the duke.” Rose handed the butler her card. This was another thing she needed to do: have new calling cards made. The “Duchess of Everingham” ones she’d ordered would be no use to anyone now.
“I shall inquire whether His Grace is at home.” The man clearly knew who she was, even though she’d never actually visited the duke at his home. And though he was perfectly polite, he managed to convey, in that subtle way that only the best butlers could, that he did not approve of her visiting his master, respectable companion or not. Nor, his glacial expression conveyed, was Rose forgiven for effectively jilting his master the previous day.
He stood back to allow Rose and George to enter. George gave him a friendly nod and handed him Finn’s lead.
The butler looked at it as if she’d handed him a live snake.
“It’s all right, he doesn’t bite,” George assured him. “Not unless I tell him to.”
Holding the lead between thumb and finger, the butler pulled a bell cord, and a liveried footman appeared. “Take care of this . . . creature,” the butler told him, and handed him the lead.
Finn happily went with the footman, his tail wagging slightly, his claws clicking on the marble floor, his muzzle high as he snuffed the air for potential treats.
The butler turned back to Rose and George. It was clear that Finn’s presence had sunk their credit with him even lower, if that was possible. “Would you care to wait in here, ladies?” He ushered them into the drawing room, a large, elegant salon papered in cream silk with a discreet gold pattern. Despite the lateness of the season, a fire burned merrily in the grate, and a big bay window overlooked the street.
Rose sat on an elegant straw-colored settee and looked curiously around. Everything was of the first elegance. Strange to think this might have been her home, her butler. But she had no regrets.
George stood in front of the fire and hitched the back of her skirt up, the better to warm her legs. Emm had mostly managed to break her of the habit of wearing breeches under her dresses—unless she was riding—but George, who’d spent most of her early years dressed as a boy, still complained that dresses were drafty, cold and illogical, and only good for summer wear. If that.
George glanced around and grimaced. “All this white and gold. A bit bland, don’t you think? And no books anywhere to be seen.”
“I keep my books in my library,” a cold voice said from the doorway. They turned and Rose could see from the direction of his gaze that even though she’d been quick to drop her skirt, the duke had noticed George’s unladylike pose.
“Shall I have a footman stoke the fire for you?” he asked sardonically.
George’s grin was entirely unrepentant. “No thanks, I’m nicely warmed up now.”
If Rose hadn’t been so nervous she might have laughed. Instead she clutched her reticule to her chest with cold fingers and waited.
The duke eyed George with a steely expression, then turned to Rose, who had risen at his entrance. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Lady Rose—or do you prefer Mrs. Beresford now?” The words were silkily polite, but there was an acid undercurrent to their delivery. He knew perfectly well she was still Lady Rose; only her surname had changed.
Like his butler, he had not forgiven her.
Rose stiffened her spine. She’d come here to apologize, but she was not expecting forgiveness.
She glanced at George. They’d discussed how to handle it on the way over. George obediently wandered to the far corner of the room, picked up an ugly, though probably priceless statuette and proceeded to demonstrate fascination and obliviousness. Not particularly successfully, but it would do.
“I came to apologize for what happened,” Rose told him baldly. “I’m sorry you were embarrassed.”
He gestured for her to be seated. “I was not embarrassed.”
He was going to be difficult; she told herself he was entitled to be. “Disconcerted, then.”
“Not at all.”
“Upset?” she said edgily.
“Hardly.” And before she could go on, he said, “We made an agreement to marry. It was at that point you should have told me you’d already been married. You knew perfectly well that given my position, I expect to marry a virgin. Given that you weren’t, I must consider I had a lucky escape.”
Rose gasped. “But I have only ever lain with my husband, and that was for just two weeks. And since then I’ve been celibate for four years!”
“Nevertheless, not a virgin.” He rubbed his long fingers together as if ridding himself of dust.
“Why should she be a virgin? You’re not!” George burst from her corner.
He barely turned his head, but his heavy-lidded glance was icy. “You cultivate an interest in my sexual exploits, do you, Lady Georgiana?”
George glared at him. She clutched the statuette in her fist, almost as if she might throw it at the duke. Rose prayed she wouldn’t.
The duke shrugged with an ineffable air of cynical ennui and continued. “Virginity is a requirement for any bride of mine. There must be no question of the paternity of my heir.”
Rose swallowed her temper. He was right. “I should have told you,” she admitted.
“I appreciate that a lady”—an ironic two-edged cut aimed at both Rose and George equally—“might feel too delicate to speak of such matters as virginity, but your guardian had no such excuse. There was no mention of such a thing when we were drawing up the settlements.”
“Cal didn’t know,” she said quickly.
A dark brow winged upward.
“I never told him, never told any of my family.” She swallowed. “I married in secret, and just a few weeks later my husband was reported dead. Cal was away at the war at the time, and . . .” She made a vague gesture. “By the time he came back there didn’t seem to be any point in telling him.”
“And Lady Salter? Am I to understand that all the while she was promoting the match, she was also ignorant of your true state?”
“Yes. Nobody knew, nobody at all. I am the one to blame—the sole person responsible. I deceived everyone, including you. I’m so sorry.”
There was a long silence. He crossed one long, booted leg over the other and contemplated his foot. “Secret from everyone? To what purpose?” he said eventually, sounding less sardonic and more curious.
She shook her head, not knowing how to explain, especially to such a cold man. But she was here to make amends, so she forced herself to try. “It was too painful to speak of. I tried to put it out of my mind.”
“Successfully, I gather.”
Remembering her thoughts during the first part of the wedding ceremony, she said nothing.
There was another long silence. Coals hissed and settled in the fireplace.
The duke rose to his feet. “So you came to apologiz
e. I accept your apology. Was there anything else?” He was reaching for the bell pull as he spoke, clearly intending to end the interview.
“Well, actually . . .” Rose fished in her reticule. “I wanted to give you this, in person.” She handed him a folded note. “It’s about the ball. The one we planned for the week after next.”
His brow rose. “Canceled, I presume.”
“No, it’s going ahead. We’re going to use it to introduce Thomas, my husband, to the ton.”
He didn’t even glance at her note. “And what has that to do with me?” The cutting tone was back.
She took a deep breath. “I’d like you to come.”
Her words hung in the air.
“Let me get this straight. The ball that was intended to celebrate my wedding—the wedding that ended in a debacle before it even started, the wedding that was touted as ‘the wedding of the season’ and is now being spoken of as ‘the scandal of the season’—that ball? And you want me, the jilted groom—is that the right word? Jilted? Or perhaps spurned is better. Or what about supplanted? Yes, supplanted will do nicely—so you want me, the supplanted groom, to come and give the newly reunited happy couple my blessing? In front of all the ton?”
Rose swallowed. Put like that, it did seem rather outrageous. “Yes?” she said in a small voice. “Please?” It would help smooth things over wonderfully.
He gave a harsh bark of laughter and rang the bell pull.
“If you came, you could demonstrate to the ton your supreme indifference,” George said helpfully. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He gave her a cutting glance, but otherwise ignored her.
Seconds later the butler appeared in the doorway. “Show these ladies out, Fleming,” the duke said. “Good day, Mrs. Beresford, Lady Georgiana.”
* * *
* * *
“So you think someone’s been masq’rading as you?” Ollie, sprawled almost horizontally in an armchair, regarded his wineglass somewhat muzzily. They’d eaten their dinner at Ollie’s club and had now retired to Ollie’s apartment to drink port. Quite a lot of port, after a very excellent claret at dinner.
“Forging my signature and stealing my money, certainly.” Thomas was as much bemused by the fact that his uncle had continued paying his allowance as by the knowledge that someone else had been systematically robbing him for the last four years. Who could it possibly be?
And why would his uncle keep paying an allowance into his account when he knew for a fact that Thomas couldn’t touch it? Because as far as Uncle Walter was concerned, Thomas was still rotting on the other side of the world. He’d gone out of his way to ensure it.
It made no sense.
He was going to have to go to Gloucestershire and confront him. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
“The bank manager agreed to advance me some money, so I’m in funds again, at least.”
“Good work. How d’you get on at th’Admiralty?”
“It’s hopeless. I practically battered down every door there; none of the bastards is the slightest bit interested.” He was going to have to find the money elsewhere.
A sly little voice in his head kept reminding him that while his marriage remained unannulled, he was, legally, entitled to full control of Rose’s entire fortune. But he’d wrecked her life enough; he wasn’t going to rob her as well. There had to be another way.
“Good thing you decided to be sens’ble then,” Ollie said drowsily.
Thomas thought for a minute but couldn’t make sense of his friend’s words. “In what way sensible?”
“Staying married to your heiress.”
“But I’m not. Her family want better for her than I can provide and I agree. I’ve advised her to agree to an annulment.”
Ollie heaved himself up sufficiently to turn his head. “Then why are they holding a ball for you?”
“A ball? What the devil are you talking about?”
“The Ruth’fords are holding a ball th’week after next to introduce you to the ton. Cel’brate your return from the dead or some such thing.”
Thomas had never heard anything so ridiculous. “You’re foxed.”
“Got invited to it myself. ’S up there.” Ollie gestured vaguely to the mantelpiece. He peered blearily at Thomas. “What? Di’n’t you get an invitation? Poor Thomas, left out of his own ball.” He sank back into his chair, chuckling.
Thomas found the invitation on the mantelpiece. He opened it and read it swiftly. Sure enough it invited Ollie to attend a ball at Ashendon House in a fortnight’s time, to celebrate the return of Lady Rose Rutherford’s long-lost husband, Commander Beresford, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.
He stared at it, turned it over, read it again. It had to be a hoax.
“Did you write this? Is it your idea of a joke?”
Ollie snorted. “Zif I’d joke about such a thing. No, looks to me like the girl’s d’termined to have you after all, and has talked the family around. So, old friend, all your troubles are over. Lovely girl, rich wife, aaaall settled. Except—oh, no!” He sat up, suddenly serious.
Thomas blinked at his friend’s sudden urgency. “What?”
“You don’t have a thing to wear! I’ll introduce you to m’tailor first thing in the morning.”
“Not first thing.”
Ollie regarded him with owlish surprise. “Why? What could be more important than ordering your clothes for the ball?”
“A ride in the park.” Thomas tapped the invitation thoughtfully. He’d given her fair warning—more than fair; he’d told her repeatedly—but she’d gone ahead regardless and declared her marriage to the whole world.
Be it on her own head. She was stuck with him now.
* * *
* * *
Thomas rented a hack, a bay gelding who wove through the morning London traffic without turning a hair at dogs or barrow-boys, wagons or anything else.
He arrived at Ashendon House just before seven o’clock, just as several grooms trotted up, leading a string of thoroughbreds. Whatever else he was, Ashendon was a good judge of horseflesh.
The front door opened and the Rutherford ladies, dressed in stylish habits, hurried down the steps. “Thomas! You’re joining us! I’m so glad,” Rose exclaimed.
He greeted her family members and was rewarded by a warm response from her sister and niece and the big gangly hound, a brusque nod from Ashendon and a slightly less stiff one from Galbraith.
The gentlemen tossed the ladies into their sidesaddles. Thomas was surprised to see Lady George mounted on a spirited black stallion that looked far too strong for her. He danced and shied and caracoled, but she only laughed at his antics, seeming quite unworried. All the Rutherford ladies, it seemed, were at home in the saddle.
The small cavalcade set out, two by two, Lady Lily with Lady George, the hound at her heel, followed by Rose and Thomas, then Ashendon and Galbraith. A dour-looking Scottish groom came up in the rear.
Thomas could feel the eyes of his brothers-in-law boring into his back.
Rose gave him a sunny smile. “Isn’t it a glorious morning?” She was dressed in a blue habit that matched her eyes, trimmed with silver in a vaguely military style, with a saucy shako perched on her head.
“Wonderful,” he responded dryly. She looked glorious, but the day was gray and chilly, with a brisk breeze sending the clouds scudding across the sky. The middle of spring; to Thomas’s bones, it felt like winter.
Rose leaned across and said softly, “It’s a bit like a school crocodile, going in pairs, I know, but once we get to the park we can spread out and be more private.”
He was glad to hear it. He had no intention of saying what he had to in front of her brother.
“You said you wouldn’t visit. What changed your mind?” she asked as the gates of the park came into view.
He gave her a si
deways glance. “Ollie received your invitation.”
“Oh, good. You got yours, too, of course.”
“There wasn’t one for me.”
She turned in surprise. “You mean we didn’t send you one?”
“Apparently not.”
She gurgled with laughter. “George,” she called. “We forgot to send Thomas an invitation.”
George turned her head. “He doesn’t need one, he’s the guest of honor.”
Rose laughed again. “There’s your answer. You’re the guest of honor.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
Her face was full of mischief. “When I saw you next, of course.”
“And if I didn’t visit? What if I decided to go to the country and didn’t hear about the ball? What if I didn’t turn up?”
She gave another merry peal of laughter. “That would have been embarrassing, wouldn’t it? I’d get an even worse reputation than I already have for being careless with bridegrooms, and Aunt Agatha would crow with triumph.” He was humbled by her utter confidence in him, but it was foolish.
They passed through the gates of Hyde Park and their pace picked up. At this hour the park was virtually deserted, the earth fragrant and damp after the recent rain and the grass so green it almost hurt Thomas’s eyes. He’d forgotten grass could be so green.
Lady George twisted around in her sidesaddle, winked at Rose and called, “Cal, race you to the big tree on the other side of the park.” And before her uncle could answer, she was off and racing, riding like fury, ventre à terre, her dog streaking along beside her.
Ashendon, cursing reckless young women who obviously wanted to break their necks, set off after her. Galbraith, chuckling, joined his wife. They rode off together, leaving Rose and Thomas alone with the grim Scottish groom.
“That’s Cal sorted,” Rose said with satisfaction. “And Kirk won’t bother us. He looks fierce but that’s just an expression he uses to intimidate people. He’s really very sweet. Now come along, a quick gallop to blow away the cobwebs and by the time Cal gets back we’ll be nicely out of sight and able to talk.”