The plinth raised her many inches from the ground. Yet she had to look up into Griffin’s storm-cloud eyes.
What she saw there made her hot and a little giddy. She was conscious of a strong pull of attraction, as if his sheer size created a gravitational force all its own. She stopped herself swaying into it and stepped down from the plinth.
And found herself quite overwhelmed by the man before her. She’d forgotten how very large he was.
As calmly as she could, she said, “Excuse me. I must dress.”
He reached out to put his hand on her arm. He wore no gloves, and her arm was bare. Warmth tingled beneath his palm and flowed through her body. The memory of him picking her up and kissing her invaded her senses.
“Stay as you are,” he said. “My business with you won’t take long.”
She stepped back, breaking the contact that raced up her arm like a flash of fire. “Very well. Pray, say your piece, my lord, and go.”
It was only then that she noticed the way he was dressed, all thrown together anyhow. His hair was wild; in place of a cravat, he wore some approximation of a belcher handkerchief. He probably still had the dirt of Pendon beneath his fingernails, its mud on his boots. And he sported a great red welt covering his left jaw.
She winced in sympathy. In spite of all that lay between them, tenderness welled in her chest. Her hands itched to soothe that livid flesh.
With an inward struggle, Rosamund fought off the moment of weakness.
She’d be fooling herself to think he’d come by that bruise in some noble manner. He’d probably stopped for a taproom brawl along the way.
“My God, sir, who hit you?” she demanded.
“Your cousin Lydgate,” he replied.
“Good!” The response broke from her without warning. Then a fear clutched her. Andy had probably come off the worse in that encounter. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing at all. He’s downstairs with your mama.”
Oh, no! Poor Andy. That was worse punishment than anything Griffin could dish out with his fists.
Bewildered, she said, “But why—?”
He interrupted her. “My lady, I don’t have time for explanations. You must prepare yourself at once for our marriage and a journey back to Cornwall.”
She looked up at him in sudden consternation. “Why the rush? Has there been an accident?”
She could not imagine what—unless … “Your brother?” She knew his brother Timothy was fighting in the Americas. If Timothy had been killed, that might explain Griffin’s sudden wish to marry and gain an heir.
His heavy brows contracted, stretching the scar that slashed so close to one eye. “What? No, no, nothing like that. I’m here to marry you, that’s all.”
“I see.” Relief swelled to anger. “And after my stipulation that you must court me in form, you come to me in this guise?”
His gaze meandered down her form and back to her face, with a blatant linger at her breasts. “If we are to talk of guises…”
Heat flared in her cheeks. Of course, he would refer to her embarrassing costume, even play upon it to set her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t count on him to act the gentleman.
Her face must be as red as a poppy, but she refused to show any other sign of discomfiture. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared blandly back at him.
Griffin gave a curt shake of his head, as if to dislodge something inside it. After a pause, he said, “You will return to Pendon with me, where we’ll get married. That’s the end of it. Pack your bags, bring some female or other with you if you prefer, but we’ll be on the road in two days, ma’am.”
She gave an incredulous laugh at his audacity. “And that’s the full sum of your eloquence on the subject? I’ve never even had a decent proposal from you, you know.”
He ground his teeth in impatience, making the color in his jaw shift and deepen. The scar beside his eye stood out, stark white against his tanned skin. “If you recall, my lady, we were betrothed years ago. Will you break your oath?”
“Of course not. A Westruther always keeps her word. But, my dear Lord Tregarth, you have kept me dangling these three years, not knowing whether I’d be a maid for the rest of my days. I think some measure of openly expressed contrition—or at least, enthusiasm—is called for. If you want me to marry you, you must submit to my conditions.”
He let out a frustrated growl. Despite his assurance that there was no dire emergency, his manner was urgent. She eyed him with suspicion. “Just why are you in such a hurry to marry me now?”
There were many correct answers to this question:
Oh, dearest Rosamund, I struggled in vain. I couldn’t go on any longer without you.
Or:
My darling, I contracted a wasting disease, which laid me low these past years. I could not ask you to share in my misery. But now that I have recovered, we can be together at last.
“My sister,” he said bluntly. “She’s to make her come-out this spring. She needs a chaperone. You’re it.”
Rosamund’s heart plummeted, even as her ire rose. She might have counted on the reason being a prosaic one, grossly unflattering to her vanity. How could she be so stupid as to keep hoping for more?
She masked her anger and disappointment with an icy smile. “I see.”
She had a vague recollection of the lanky, awkward girl she’d glimpsed on her sole visit to Pendon Place. Poor little thing, growing up under Griffin’s harsh, ham-fisted rule. Of course, Rosamund would see to it that Griffin’s sister had a magical debut.
But first, she’d make Griffin pay handsomely for it.
“So…” Rosamund took a step toward him. “Am I right in saying you need me?”
He looked even more ferocious when he gritted his teeth. “Yes, I do. Damn it.”
She ignored his shocking language. “Well, then. You will simply have to play by my rules. You must do as I requested at the outset and court me in form.”
He made as if to interrupt, but she overrode him. “Ah, but let us be more specific, shall we?” She counted off on her fingers. “A drive in the park, two routs, a musicale, a picnic, and one ball. I shall see that you get the requisite invitations. You will squire me about and make it clear to the ton that although you neglected me shamefully for three years, you are now ecstatic to take me as a bride. I shall display similar devotion—”
The words burst from him. “Damn it! No!”
“Oh, I assure you,” she said sweetly, “I am very good at acting a part.”
“What?” He looked as if steam would shoot from his nostrils at any second. She began to feel quite cheerful.
“You will do this,” she continued, “or I will not marry you at all. Not now. Not ever.”
His entire frame tensed. He turned away from her. “I can have the duke command you, you know,” he said in a low voice.
Rosamund shrugged. “You can try.”
Montford would never coerce her into marriage, particularly not when her prospective groom had hitherto shown himself so reluctant.
Yet, the tension in Griffin’s massive shoulders told her his unwillingness to join in the festivities of the season ran deeper than mere reluctance. Rosamund realized that from his perspective she seemed frivolous and selfish. But he was wrong. She fought for her happiness. And ultimately for his happiness, too.
After that disastrous first meeting with Griffin, she’d made up her mind. She could never be content with a man who didn’t respect her. She no longer required love—his behavior had brought home to her how unlikely that was. But civility and respect? Those were not negotiable.
Surely it was not too much to ask that Griffin show himself to be a willing suitor, and not a put-upon groom. Raised without a mother in a household dominated by males, he had no earthly idea of how to treat any female, much less a wife. She pitied his poor sister.
Well, she could take it upon herself to train Griffin to the task, but she needed some sign that he was willing to meet her
at least partway.
For good measure, she added, “You must see to a new wardrobe if you are to enter society. My cousin Lydgate will advise you.”
He turned at that. “Ha! That man-milliner.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You are mistaken. Andy has excellent taste. Oh, he might favor the exquisite in his dress, but he won’t force that on you. You must choose exceedingly plain styles, of course. Find a coat to set off those magnificent shoulders of yours. You won’t be sorry you did.”
A startled look passed over his face. Then he scowled. “You speak as if this is already settled, but let me tell you—”
She put up her hands, palms out, in an arresting gesture. “Don’t bother, for I’m not interested. Those are my terms. You may take them or leave them.”
Ah, Hell. Griffin had been on the verge of unleashing his pent-up frustration when Rosamund had uncrossed her arms from her chest and put out her hands, causing those glorious breasts to give a small bounce.
He swallowed hard. Not only could he see the shadow of her nipples through those outrageous layers of gossamer-fine covering, but he could clearly make out the precise, mouthwatering contours of those lush, creamy mounds. For such a slender woman, she had a stunning bosom.
His head swam. A fierce hunger and a driving need to assuage it burned inside him. His brain disconnected from the rest of his body. At that moment, any wish to deny this heavenly, luscious creature every little thing her heart desired fizzled and died.
He groped for one last grain of sense. Hoarsely, he said, “No balls.”
“What?” she said faintly. Hope dawned in her face.
“I’ll do those other things, but I’m not going to any blasted balls.”
He eyed her belligerently. “Don’t try to gammon me that the rest isn’t enough for your purpose. If I take you about London a bit and we announce our engagement, and I appear suitably—” He waved a hand as words failed him. “—pleased with the arrangement, the news will be all over town in the blink of an eye. There’s no need for me to caper about at some damned ball.”
Stupid bloody idiot! This was going to be pure purgatory for them both. But how could he resist her when she’d looked at him with that roguish, calculating gaze?
“But I do so love to dance,” she said, staring up at him with those china-blue eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to dance with me?”
Even the mighty pull of attraction between them couldn’t overcome his horror at the mere mention of it. “No.”
She must have accepted that his word on this was final, for her shoulders dropped and she emitted a little “Humph!”
Then her pretty mouth firmed with resolve. “Two rout parties, one musicale, one picnic, and one drive in the park,” she said. “And a new wardrobe. For you, I mean.”
She dared to bargain with him over this? He stared at her, struck dumb by the way the mulish determination on her face sat so oddly with her dazzling beauty.
The combination completely undid him. “Done,” he heard himself say.
Oh, Hell.
Her face flooded with happiness. She was incandescent with it. The temptation to reach for her and claim some of that glowing delight for his own became almost unbearable.
He managed to resist the promptings of his baser self by thinking about all the gallivanting she had in store for him.
With a groan, he said, “It’s going to be Hell on a man, all this gadding about.”
Clearly delighted with her victory, she made a teasing and quite voluptuous little pout. “Ohh, the poor bear will have to come out of his cave and dance.”
“Ha! And you’re the bear-leader, I suppose.”
She laughed. “Yes, something like that. How unromantic. But you will do this for me, Griffin?”
“I’ll do it. I won’t like it.”
She tilted her head. “Oh, you never know what you might like until you try.”
“No, I’m pretty certain I won’t.”
A notion occurred to him, so outrageous yet so potentially satisfying, that his mind briefly drifted into fiery fantasy. Griffin hesitated. If she’d met him in any other costume, he might never have dared to suggest it. If she’d had less backbone, if she’d been more meek and compliant, he wouldn’t have dreamed of demanding something in return. But …
He took one step toward her, closing in. “And now, my pretty, I have a condition of my own to make.”
Her eyes widened, but not, he thought, with terror. Aye, he admired her pluck. Come to think of it, unlike most females, she’d shown no inclination to shrink from him at all.
“What is it?” she breathed.
Could he do this? According to the pounding pressure in his groin, most assuredly, he could. With a rasp in his voice, he said, “As a reward for my good behavior, I get something from you.”
“Something?” Her gaze drifted to his mouth, and his lips heated under her regard. The memory of the one time he’d kissed her surged back, vivid and hot.
“Yes.” Oh, but not just kisses. He cast about for a way to express what he wanted without making it sound coarse or, worse, desperate. “Intimacies. My choosing.”
Those heavenly blue eyes grew so huge and deep, he could drown in them.
He’d shocked her and it made him feel a brute. Unaccountably annoyed, he said, “We are to be husband and wife. You ought to get accustomed to the fact.”
The soft light died from her gaze. “Of course,” she said in a subdued voice, her lashes modestly lowered, her color rosy. “I agree to your terms, Lord Tregarth.”
She stuck out her hand like a man offering to shake on a wager. He took it in his big paw, feeling an almost overwhelming urge to raise that delicate appendage to his lips and cover it in passionate kisses, to fall down at her remarkably pretty feet and promise her the moon.
But he had his pride. So he merely gave her hand a businesslike shake and released it. He bowed to her; she curtsied with a queenly dignity not many ladies could assume in such a costume.
His final view of Lady Rosamund Westruther was of a goddess standing there in a slanted shard of pale sunshine, the lines of her body clearly delineated beneath that gauzy material, her tumbled golden hair burnished in the light.
And a speculative expression in those heavenly blue eyes.
* * *
Griffin had been tempted to leave Lydgate to Lady Steyne’s tender mercies, but what Rosamund said was true: If he was to squire her about in London, he’d require the right wardrobe. For that, he needed Lydgate.
Griffin knew nothing at all of fashion or where to buy clothes. He’d visited London only once before. On that occasion, he hadn’t wasted his time shopping.
He didn’t want to waste time shopping now. Lydgate might be rather too fine for Griffin’s plain tastes, but surely he could find him a good tailor. Despite Griffin’s mammoth proportions, he didn’t expect ordering a couple of coats would be too onerous. They could probably knock it over in an hour that afternoon.
He found his own way down to the library and took care to make a deal of noise outside, stomping down the corridor, clearing his throat, fumbling with the door handle for an age before letting himself in.
He needn’t have bothered with all that nonsense. Lydgate stood alone, staring into the empty grate with an indecipherable expression on his face.
“Ah! I was about to come up.” The fair-haired man straightened and moved toward him. “You were gone so long, I thought Rosamund might have slain you with a fire iron or some such thing.”
Griffin grinned. “Partial to violence, is she?”
“No, but women tend to get a trifle tetchy when their fiancé ignores them for years on end.”
They left the library. “Well, she’s getting her revenge,” said Griffin. “I’m to dance attendance on her in society, if you please.”
“Good for her,” said Lydgate. After a pause, he said, “You’ll need dressing, of course.”
“Before or after she roasts me?” Griffin said glu
mly. “I feel like a great fat goose, so I suppose that’s appropriate.”
They received their accoutrements from the beautiful footman, whose sullen scowl showed he hadn’t forgiven Griffin’s earlier behavior.
As they went down the front steps, Lydgate set his beaver hat on his head. “Where are you staying?”
“At Limmer’s.”
Lydgate shook his head. “You can’t possibly put up at Limmer’s for more than a night or so. Dashed rowdy place. All the bucks of the town gather there of an evening to carouse.”
The fellow had a point. Griffin hadn’t intended to stay more than one or two nights, but now …
“If you’re moving anyway, you might as well come to Montford House,” said Lydgate. “Don’t know why the duke didn’t invite you in the first place.”
“He did.” Montford had written a month ago. The invitation had smacked of appeasement or perhaps some deep scheme to set him at a disadvantage.
Griffin remembered the duke very well from his visit to Pendon Place, and he also knew him by reputation. But now that Griffin had seen Rosamund, he no longer cared what plans Montford had for him. There were many tactical advantages to living under the same roof with his chosen bride.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Lydgate picked up the pace. “I’ll inform His Grace. I believe there’s some jaunt planned for tonight.” Again, Lydgate’s gaze swept over Griffin’s form. Yet again, he shuddered. “But perhaps you’d prefer a quiet evening instead.”
“Until I get togged out, I can’t go anywhere respectable, I suppose,” said Griffin, far from displeased by this.
“Never fear. Tomorrow, we shall see to your wardrobe.”
“Hmph. I was hoping we could knock it over in an hour this afternoon.”
Lydgate laughed gently. “My dear Tregarth. How much you have to learn.”
Griffin rolled his eyes heavenward. Was it all worth it? Making a fool of himself for a woman?
Not just any woman, by God. Merely thinking of her made his heart race.
While Lydgate expatiated on gentlemen’s fashions, Griffin’s thoughts slid into lust-fueled daydreams. Rosamund had granted him carte blanche with her body that afternoon. Did she know it? Perhaps she counted on him stopping at kisses as he had all those years ago.
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