Mad About the Earl

by Christina Brooke

  Griffin eyed his kinsman shrewdly. “Make it known that I shall settle a generous dowry on her. The Berkshire property, too.”

  At this, deVere’s scowl lightened. He rubbed his big hands together. “That’ll set ’em by the ears!”

  “No doubt.”

  DeVere cocked an eyebrow. “She must have a chaperone who is up to snuff. Not only that, you’ll need someone to school the girl in the ways of society. You’d best wed Lady Rosamund without delay.”

  The sudden urgency of it punched the breath from Griffin’s lungs, made his heart pound in his chest.

  He hoped to God Lady Rosamund would agree.

  And what about this Captain Lauderdale fellow? Her tendre for him complicated matters, didn’t it?

  That some other man showed serious interest in Rosamund was no surprise. She’d caused a sensation when she debuted; Griffin knew all about that. How could it be otherwise? But if his sources were correct, she’d never shown a marked preference for any of the gentlemen who courted her.

  This Lauderdale fellow was a different kettle of fish. Rosamund did, it seemed, display a decided partiality for him. And who could blame the chit for her infatuation? By all accounts, the man possessed wit, charm, and audacity, not to mention a head like a Greek coin. On the battlefield, it was said his bravery was second to none.

  The bastard.

  Still, Lady Rosamund had not openly repudiated her engagement to Griffin. That must mean one of two things: She was biding her time, waiting to secure the duke’s approval to switch grooms; or she intended to take Lauderdale as her lover after she was wed. That’s what ladies in their circle did, wasn’t it?

  A growl formed in his chest. Over his dead body. If he was going to subject himself to the torture of marriage to Lady Rosamund Westruther, he was damned if he’d be cuckolded, too.

  He looked up at deVere. “I’ll send for her today.”

  DeVere scoffed. “You’re a fool not to have snapped her up when you had the chance. Who knows whether she’ll have you now?” He shook his head. “I might not know much about women, but if you take my advice, you’ll go to her. She’s in London, you know.”

  Griffin would rather be boiled in oil than grovel to Lady Rosamund Westruther, particularly if that meant dancing attendance on her in fashionable London. He ground his teeth at the mere notion.

  Besides, it was as well that Lady Rosamund knew from the start who would be master in their household.

  He tapped a broad fingertip on the special license. “No. I’ll send for her. We might as well get married here. Pendon Place will be her home, after all. I’ll send for Jacks, too. We ought to begin preparing her for the season as soon as we can.”

  A creeping feeling of unease stole over him. How could he bring Rosamund here? The house was a shambles. Those servants he hadn’t dismissed after his grandfather died had deserted him upon the music master’s untimely demise, leaving one family to do the necessary labor in the house. The gloomy old pile was airless, dank, and full of dust. As unappealing as its master, in fact.

  “That’s settled, then,” said deVere. “You’ll marry Lady Rosamund. She’ll give Jacks a season, and we’ll get the chit riveted all right and tight.”

  “Send me that list of eligibles, will you?” said Griffin. “I want to know all about them in advance.”

  “Odd filly, your sister,” remarked deVere. “Think she’s up to the task?”

  “Of course she is.”

  DeVere grunted. “You’d best win Lady Rosamund to your side as soon as may be.” He regarded Griffin with a sapient eye. “You’ve got your work cut out for you there.”

  As his relative took his leave, Griffin wondered whether he referred to Jacqueline or to Griffin’s beautiful betrothed.

  Either way, deVere would be right.

  * * *

  Madam,

  It is high time we were wed. I shall expect you at Pendon Place next week.

  Yours, etc.,

  Tregarth

  P.S. Bring your riding habit. The blue one.

  Sir,

  I confess I find myself Bewildered at this Summons, arriving as it does Out of the Blue. You must forgive me if I say that at first I was at a Loss to recall who you were.

  I have obligations in Town which I cannot break. Even were that not so, I should never answer such a Peremptory Command, and certainly not from You.

  You may, if you choose, call on me at Montford House.

  Yours, etc.,

  Lady Rosamund Westruther

  P.S. I do not know to which riding habit you refer.

  “Another year, another collection of broken hearts.”

  Lady Cecily Westruther inspected the bower of floral arrangements that typically arrived for her cousin each day she spent in London. Though the season had not yet begun, enough of the ton had returned to the metropolis to fill Rosamund’s calendar with social engagements. “Rosamund, I vow you single-handedly keep London florists in business.”

  “Mmm?” Rosamund had been listening with half an ear while perusing an elegantly worded card attached to a posy of violets.

  “How very kind,” she murmured.

  She handed the posy to a maid and took up the next offering. She must endeavor to keep who gave her what straight in her head so that she could thank them properly when next she met them.

  Men, she’d discovered, were surprisingly sensitive souls underneath all that muscle and swagger. She took great care not to wound them, and a tricky time she had of it, too. Sometimes she longed to tuck herself away in the country during the season, but that would be poor-spirited. She’d rather die than wear the willow for Griffin deVere.

  The Earl of Tregarth, he was now. But she was not his countess.

  Yet.

  Rosamund buried her face in a creamy, ruffled bouquet, breathing in the musk-sweet scent of roses. She repressed a sigh. How ungrateful of her to feel a thorny stab of pain in her heart each time a gentleman sent her a tribute such as this. The gesture only reinforced the fact that Griffin had never given her so much as a dandelion to mark his regard.

  Not that she cared about flowers so much; the occasional letter would have sufficed. At least by such communications, her betrothed might acknowledge she existed.

  But in almost three years, he hadn’t made a single attempt to further his acquaintance with her.

  And now, all of a sudden, Griffin ordered her to marry him, posthaste! Even more galling, he sent her a rude, peremptory summons, as if she were a servant, not his future countess.

  Well, she’d learned something since the age of eighteen. Men never valued what they won too easily. If Griffin wanted her, he’d have to work much harder than this.

  “Another letter arrived yesterday,” she murmured, handing on the rose bouquet.

  Cecily looked up from a bunch of lilies she was arranging in a vase. “What did it say?”

  Rosamund made a face. “More bluster, I’m afraid.”

  “The man is an oaf!” Cecily’s strongly marked brows drew together. “You will not give in to him.”

  “Of course not,” said Rosamund.

  Yet, how she wished he’d hand her the smallest excuse to do so. One tiny sop to her pride, one small compliment, the slightest glimmer of affection, and she’d race down to Cornwall like a shot.

  She lifted her chin. “I’ve told him if he wishes our wedding to go forward, he’ll come here and court me properly.”

  But Griffin deVere was as stubborn as a rock.

  “Let him but show his face,” grumbled Cecily. “I’d have some words to say to him.”

  “No doubt.” Rosamund smiled at Cecily’s vehemence. “You are the most fearsome creature. Even I quake in my shoes when you frown like that.”

  Cecily’s scowl deepened. “If I were a man, I’d run him through. Do you think Captain Lauderdale will challenge him to a duel? I’d like to see that.”

  Rosamund bit her lip. Like everyone else, Cecily thought Rosamund was in love with Ph
ilip Lauderdale. Guiltily, she acknowledged the misunderstanding was all her fault.

  Despite her whirlwind success in her first season, when another year passed leaving her unwed, there’d been a constant, underlying question in everyone’s gaze. Why didn’t her betrothed claim her? Was there something amiss with Lady Rosamund that others couldn’t see?

  The Westruther ladies commiserated that she should be landed with such an uncouth beast for a fiancé; her male relatives had proposed several increasingly violent ways of bringing Griffin to heel.

  Even her brother had offered to fix the matter. She’d no doubt Xavier would do it, too, in a manner so subtle and diabolically clever as to be worthy of the duke himself. Of course, one word to her former guardian, the Duke of Montford, and all would be settled.

  But Rosamund didn’t wish her family to intercede for her with Griffin.

  She wanted Griffin to want her.

  And then along came Philip Lauderdale, a dashing cavalry officer. The most honorable, handsome gallant any girl’s heart could hope for. He adored her. Everyone said so. Not only that, he was intelligent, amusing company, the kind of man who cast all others into the shade.

  Despite Rosamund’s longstanding engagement and her insistence that she could give him no hope, Philip remained flatteringly persistent. He was so ingenious at cutting out his rivals that it soon appeared to everyone that Rosamund favored him.

  That had not been her intention. She’d tried to show no preference for any gentleman, for the last thing she desired was to be labeled a flirt. But by the time she realized how particular her friendship with Philip must appear to the world, the damage was done.

  Far from dubbing her a flighty miss, the ton had been captivated by these star-crossed lovers. Everyone murmured what a pity it was that the Duke of Montford remained adamant, a travesty that the exquisite Rosamund must be paired with the boorish Tregarth.

  Rosamund—vain, stubborn fool that she was—made no real attempt to correct society’s assumption. It was pleasant to be wanted by a gentleman whom all the other ladies fawned over. Philip’s determined attentions were so soothing to her pride.

  Pleasant. Soothing.

  Hmm …

  With all his myriad stellar qualities, she ought to be in love with Philip Lauderdale.

  There was just one giant, rude, infuriating reason why she was not.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Duke of Montford paused on the threshold and raised his quizzing glass to examine the motley assortment of relatives ranged around his breakfast table.

  Rosamund and Cecily were there, of course. And he’d rather expected Xavier, Rosamund’s brother, to join them this spring. Understandable in the circumstances, if not altogether welcome at this delicate juncture.

  Andrew, on the other hand …

  “Good God,” said Montford faintly. “You here, Lydgate?”

  Andrew Westruther, Viscount Lydgate, smiled at him, sleek and self-satisfied as a cat. “Delighted to see you, too, Your Grace.”

  Xavier, Marquis of Steyne, said nothing, either by way of greeting or explanation. One side of his mouth twitched at his cousin’s facile pleasantry, but his blue eyes remained hard and bright.

  Had Montford wished to needle Xavier, he might have quizzed him about the reasons for his presence. It happened that Montford saw no benefit in doing so. At least, not this morning. The marquis could remain at Montford House as long as he wished, provided he didn’t interfere with Montford’s plans for his sister.

  With a glance at Rosamund, Montford took his plate from the head of the table and moved to the sideboard to make his selection.

  He decided to tackle Andrew first. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Lydgate? Pockets-to-let?” Andrew had yet to reach his twenty-fifth year, upon which he would inherit the full sum of his fortune. Until then, Montford held his purse strings.

  Not too tightly, however. It disturbed him just how enterprising Andrew could become when in need of ready cash.

  “How can you think it, sir?” returned the young viscount, his tone a mixture of amusement and indignation. “You know the business that has occupied me these past months.”

  Ah. Yes, indeed. Montford knew all about Andrew’s latest scheme. Or one of them. They would not discuss it in front of the others, however.

  He gave a slight smile. “Then what can I say but that I am honored?”

  The duke returned to the table with a full plate and a sense of anticipation. One might find the presence of one’s extended family a little trying at times. One could not complain, however, that life was uneventful with them around.

  “If only Beckenham and Jane were here, we’d be one big happy family,” said Cecily, clasping her hands at her breast with mock soulfulness.

  Xavier looked up at that. “Bucolic bliss must have kept them at their respective estates this spring.” He sipped from a tankard, his eyes glittering. “But then, Beckenham lost his taste for London, didn’t he?”

  An infelicitous remark that no one cared to answer. Montford reflected that Xavier had always possessed the curious talent of halting a conversation in its tracks.

  Andrew carved himself some ham and transferred it to his plate. “I doubt we’ll see dear Cousin Jane before her confinement.”

  Rosamund turned her head to frown at him. “What is this? Jane’s not increasing.”

  Andrew snorted. “She will be.”

  A general snicker greeted this statement. Montford was aware that such ribald talk ought not to be encouraged in front of Rosamund and Cecily. He let it pass, however. He’d never believed in sheltering young ladies from every stray innuendo.

  He didn’t doubt that Andrew was correct. The excessive passion between Jane and her new husband would probably bear fruit before too long. Montford wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about that.

  The answer came to him: old. But then, the guardianship and care of six children tended to age a man, didn’t it? Regardless, he absolutely refused to act the role of grandfather to Jane and Constantine’s progeny. Damn it all, he was in his forties, not his dotage.

  Montford’s correspondence awaited him at the table, as did a crisp, pressed copy of The Morning Post.

  He leafed through the large stack of letters and cards. “Hmm. I wonder what threats I shall receive from Tregarth today.”

  The earl’s demands that Rosamund marry him forthwith had become a running joke in the family. All eyes fixed upon Rosamund.

  “We are out of chocolate,” she said, lifting the lid of the silver pot to peer inside. “I’ll ring for more.”

  Before she could rise, Lydgate demanded, “Tregarth? What’s the fellow got to say for himself now?”

  Sinking down again, Rosamund sighed. “He commands me to travel down to Cornwall so that we can be married.”

  Montford observed her keenly. Rosamund’s face, however, remained a beautiful blank.

  “Commands you?” Xavier’s sleek black brows rose. “One might suppose the man to be deranged.”

  “Not deranged,” said Montford. “Rather … lacking in polish, perhaps.”

  “Which is quite as bad in its own way,” murmured Xavier.

  “No matter,” said Rosamund. “I have told the earl he must come to Town and court me properly or I shall have nothing to say to him.”

  “Quite right, my dear.” Montford was in no hurry to lose Rosamund. Certainly, it would be to everyone’s practical advantage for her marriage to proceed, but until Rosamund had schooled her affianced husband to her liking, Montford was prepared to wait. He’d rattled deVere’s cage to see if he might move the process forward. However, he had no intention of terminating this betrothal if Rosamund was content to have the Earl of Tregarth.

  It rather baffled him that the new earl had remained recalcitrant when every other red-blooded male in Rosamund’s vicinity tumbled over one another to worship at her feet. Yet Tregarth had ignored her for nearly three years.

  Montford didn’t believe in love wit
hin marriage, but he did believe in loyalty and respect between spouses. Until Griffin could show Rosamund those things, Montford would not countenance their alliance. He was not unduly concerned, however. He did not doubt Rosamund’s ability to bring Griffin to heel.

  The duke leafed through the various invitations and some correspondence to do with the Ministry of Marriage, which he set aside for later.

  He sniffed one elegantly addressed missive, grimaced at the cloying sweetness of its scent, then handed it to Lydgate. “Do you mind telling me why your billets-doux are addressed care of my house?”

  With a flashing grin, the young man took the note and tossed it down beside his plate without so much as glancing at it. “Oh, didn’t Rundle tell you? I’m moving back in.” He shrugged. “Why keep rooms in Town when I’m never there? Dashed expensive practice.”

  “I see,” said Montford. “Instead, you intend to live at my expense.”

  “Well, you did tell him he should economize,” said Xavier.

  Montford’s lips twitched. “I have only myself to blame, in fact.”

  Truthfully, he welcomed Lydgate’s company. But that was something he preferred to keep to himself. Lydgate’s conceit was part of his charm, but Montford saw no cause to inflate that quality further.

  Montford turned his attention to Rosamund. “My dear, are you at liberty this afternoon?”

  “I am promised to Mama,” said Rosamund. “Do you wish me to send my apologies?”

  He could imagine the marchioness’s reaction. “No, no. You must not disappoint Lady Steyne.” He glanced over at Xavier, who looked more like a satyr than ever. “Do you accompany your sister to Steyne House?”

  “No.” Xavier’s face—never expressive at the best of times—seemed to slam shut.

  “I myself am engaged this afternoon.” Montford pursed his lips. “Someone ought to go with Rosamund.”

  “I would, but I am not out yet,” said Cecily.