But he hadn’t said kisses, now, had he? And the flare of shock in her eyes told him she sensed his meaning, even if she had no specific knowledge of what those intimacies might be.
He wondered if Rosamund guessed just how wild his imagination could run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rosamund trembled every time she thought of the way Griffin had looked at her that afternoon. She knew enough about men from the seasons she’d already spent in London to recognize when a man desired her.
She almost laughed to recall the way he’d pressed her for “intimacies” in return for his dancing attendance on her. As if she would deny him!
But of course, a gently bred lady could not admit to desires of her own. She could not inform him that she longed for him to commit whatever intimacies he cared to name upon her person. The mere thought of it made her insides shimmer with heat.
The impropriety and embarrassment of such a frank confession had stopped her. But there was no denying that tactically, she’d been wise to appear reluctant. Now Griffin thought she’d made a costly concession in return for his compliance, whereas in fact, she was getting everything she wanted.
Almost.
No matter how often she told herself that an amicable, respectful marriage would be enough to satisfy her, she couldn’t seem to subdue a twinge of longing for the kind of passionate love her cousin Jane enjoyed with her husband, Constantine, Lord Roxdale.
While preserving their privacy to some degree, Jane had confided to Rosamund about the many and varied delights of the marriage bed. “I want you to know how it can be, darling. How it ought to be. Think what you will miss if you go ahead with this arrangement. If you love Captain Lauderdale, it would be criminal to take Tregarth.”
But she didn’t love Lauderdale. And while she might not love Griffin deVere—why, she hardly knew him!—the savage, hungry way he looked at her excited her more than all the respectful admiration of her gentler beaux put together.
Her mother came in as Rosamund finished dressing. “Rosamund, my dear, you poor, poor darling.” The words were spoken without feeling or inflection. Sometimes, Rosamund wondered if her mother possessed emotions at all.
“I suppose that means you’ve met Lord Tregarth,” Rosamund said.
“Good gracious, yes. The man is impossible.” In an elegant gesture, Nerissa threw up her hands. “What on earth are you going to do with him?”
She was going to turn him into a model husband and breed beloved children with him and make a warm, happy home for them all. That’s what she was going to do.
Instead, she said, “Andy will take care of making him more presentable. Lord Tregarth will do the pretty in Town for a while, and then I daresay we shall wed.”
“And then you will send him off to the country while you enjoy yourself in London,” said her mother, nodding as if they’d discussed her intentions already. “An excellent plan. And have you already chosen your cicisbeo? Can I guess who it might be?”
Rosamund wanted to repudiate the suggestion immediately, but with caution born of experience, she hesitated.
She needed to tread warily. If she flew to Griffin’s defense as her nature urged her to do, she risked alerting her mother to her true feelings. The past had taught her it was better that her mother remained ignorant of emotions of any kind on the part of her children. Indeed, the more Rosamund wanted something, the closer she kept that longing to her chest.
Instead of rebutting her mother’s assumption, she wiped all expression from her face. “I don’t know what you mean, Mama. Surely, it is too early to be thinking of setting up a flirt. We are not even married yet.”
“My darling, what else is a young girl’s season for but to audition lovers?” asked Nerissa, blinking in surprise. “Clearly you have wasted your time these past years.” She smiled. “Ah, but then, of course you haven’t. You think you are discreet, but the whole world knows Lauderdale is just waiting for the chance to snap you up.”
“Captain Lauderdale is an honorable man,” Rosamund began.
Her mother laughed. “He might be as honorable as the day is long and still wish to warm your bed once that ghastly ogre has done his duty upon you.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “There’s no crime in it, you know. The one benefit we ladies receive when our marriages are arranged is that we need not be faithful to our husbands. Pity those poor wretches who marry for love! Tied to one man for life?” The lady shuddered delicately.
Rosamund said nothing. Of course, she knew all about her mother’s proclivities. The marchioness moved from lover to lover in a seemingly endless, intricate dance.
Rosamund had experienced firsthand the destruction such conduct wreaked and vowed long ago never to follow in Nerissa’s dainty footsteps. Once she married Griffin, she would make a secure home and a content and peaceful family.
Nothing was going to stop her achieving her dream. Not her mother. Not even her future husband.
“Will you be at Lady Bigglesworth’s rout tonight, Mama?” she inquired, changing the subject. “The duke has made up a family party.”
Too late, she realized her mention of a family party to which her mother had not been invited was hardly felicitous. It was just that she considered the duke, her brother, and her cousins more her family than the marchioness had ever been.
Nerissa seemed unperturbed. “No, I have another engagement. I daresay it will be a little livelier than yours, darling.” She licked her lips. “Have you never tired of living with that dull dog of a duke of yours?”
Montford and Lady Steyne had never been friendly, but a special animosity sprang up between them when Montford took Nerissa’s children away.
The duke claimed to have done it in accordance with the terms of their father’s will. Rosamund suspected otherwise but had never sought to raise the matter with her guardian.
“I am content, thank you, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll not live with the duke much longer, in any event.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Well, do send me a card for the wedding, won’t you, my dear?”
Guilt washed over Rosamund, as her mother had no doubt intended. Resolutely, she stemmed the flow. Hadn’t she suffered enough at her mother’s hands that afternoon?
She forced a cheerful smile. “Oh, I daresay we shall see one another before then.”
Lady Steyne did not mention any need for Rosamund to return to have the portrait completed. Rosamund would not raise the matter if Nerissa forgot. With any luck, the painting would simply languish, unfinished, in an attic somewhere. She’d been foolish and weak to let her mother persuade her to pose. Next time she paid a call here, she would bring Tibby.
“Au revoir, my love,” said her mother, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.
Rosamund knew better than to kiss her. Instead, she merely curtsied and rang the bell for her maid.
* * *
“You did not ask him to stay here!” Rosamund gasped, horrified. “Andy, you cannot be serious! For goodness’ sake, why?”
They’d gathered before dinner in a small, cozy parlor that had been their retreat since they were children. This room, adjacent to the nursery, had a comfortable, homey feel to it, and contained only the slightest odor of dog.
The parlor’s sole canine inhabitant at present was an ancient Great Dane with a black and white harlequin coat. Her black spots had faded to gray, and her movements were slow and lumbering. She looked well loved and worn, much like the overstuffed furnishings and outdated draperies in this room.
The Westruther cousins had refused to allow even the most minute change to this parlor since they’d taken possession of it years before. Their static surroundings only served to remind Rosamund of how much she’d changed since the day Montford brought her here. Then, she’d been bewildered, lost, her spirit as thin and hollow as a husk.
Now, she stood decked out in a robe of blue sarcenet over a white satin slip, perfectly matched pearls at her throat and ears and wrists, her hair elaborately arra
nged. A young woman confident in the love of her family.
Montford had done that for her. Montford and her beloved cousins.
Andrew inspected his fingernails. “I thought having Tregarth to stay might speed things up a little.”
“But you don’t want me to marry him,” objected Rosamund.
Andrew took a seat by the fireplace and stretched his legs before him. “I didn’t say that. I quite like the fellow, in fact.”
“I wish I’d seen you hit him,” said Cecily, plunking down on the rug next to Ophelia. The old dog lifted her head and rested it in Cecily’s lap with a soulful expression, then closed her eyes.
Rosamund frowned. She’d forgotten to reproach him about that. “Not the friendliest overture, Andy.”
“My dear girl, I’ve knocked down most of my friends at one time or another.”
Cecily shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”
Andrew narrowed his eyes, as if to bring Griffin’s image into perspective. “He’s determined to have you, Rosamund. If you mean to give him the go-by, you ought to do it cleanly and do it now and not string the fellow along, making a fool of him.”
Rosamund lifted her chin. “When I want your advice on my affairs, I’ll ask for it, Andy. Besides, the duke approves my strategy.”
“Don’t look down your nose at me,” he retorted, unimpressed. “Just take care you don’t send him running in the other direction with all these conditions of yours.”
Rosamund’s heart thumped in her chest. Her gaze flew to Andrew’s. “H-he told you of our bargain?”
Intimacies, Griffin had said. She repressed a reminiscent shiver.
“Ha!” said Andrew. “Call that a bargain? Don’t see what he gets out of it, dragged along to picnics and parties when it’s clear the fellow’s no more up to snuff than old Ophelia here.”
At the mention of her name, the Dane’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry and her eyes opened a fraction. Then she gave a cross between a moan and a sigh and went back to sleep, her looping jowls whiffling with each breath.
Thankful that Griffin had been discreet enough to keep the extremely improper aspect of their agreement to himself, Rosamund said, “I trust I can rely on you, Andy, to see that Lord Tregarth is up to snuff.”
“Oh, I can rig him out in style. In fact, I mean to do so. But I can’t change the man, can I? And why the Devil should he take direction from me? Damned impertinent thing to tell a fellow how to behave.”
“And yet, I am positive you will find a way to do so without putting up his back,” said Rosamund. She softened, gazing down at him imploringly. “For me, Andy.”
“Don’t try to gammon me with that look,” said her cousin. “You might have the male half of London at your feet, but you don’t have me.”
She laughed. “As if I’d want you at my feet, Andy. You have a heart of stone, for all your charming ways.”
A frown creased his brows before he smiled. “Oh, not of stone, m’dear,” he said softly. “I’m reliably informed that I don’t have a heart at all.”
How comfortable that must be, she thought.
Rosamund blinked, surprised at herself. “Nonsense! Of course you have a heart, my dear. But sentiment aside, you will admit you owe me a favor after what happened last year.”
“That’s quite true,” said Cecily. “Rosamund saved you from accidentally compromising that odious Lady Emma Howling. That puts you greatly in her debt, I should say.”
Andy blanched at the memory. He never could resist damsels in distress. Even shrill, unprepossessing damsels who’d been on the shelf for ten years. If it weren’t for Rosamund’s quick thinking last season, Andrew would be married to the lady now.
“There, you have me,” he said, holding up a hand in defeat. “Very well. I shall do my poor best, dear Rosamund.”
A complicated tattoo sounded on the door. The secret knock, known only to the Westruther cousins and certain other trusted individuals.
Cecily jumped up to unlock the door, and Andrew rose from his chair as Tibby walked in, pulling on her gloves.
“It is time to leave for the rout party, my dears,” said their companion.
Rosamund smiled at her. “Thank you, Tibby.”
She kissed Cecily and bade her farewell, taking Andrew’s arm as they left the room. “I wish I could stay home with Cecily,” she said. “I do not feel like going out tonight.”
He cocked a brow and glanced down at her. “Mooning over your giant?”
She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Mooning? Good God, no! What nonsense you talk, Andrew, dear.”
* * *
The rout party was a dreadful crush, as they might have expected from a gathering of Lady Bigglesworth’s. The flounce of Tibby’s gown tore as someone trod on it in the press of bodies flowing up the staircase to the drawing room. While Tibby retired to mend it, Rosamund made a beeline for the card room.
She found Andy, who had just sat down to whist with another gentleman and two ladies. She stood silently behind him, watching the play and wishing the night would end.
“Ah, you are in fine beauty tonight, my dear. As always.” The murmur filled her ear before she’d fully registered the presence of a man beside her.
“Oh!” She jumped and put a hand to her breast, turning to see who had accosted her. “You startled me, Captain.”
Philip, Captain Lauderdale, appeared so vividly gorgeous in his scarlet regimentals that it hurt the eye to look at him. Indeed, he was the most dazzling creature she’d ever seen, with his golden hair, soulful dark eyes, and a classical profile that would put any Greek statue to shame.
Not for the first time, Rosamund wondered what was wrong with her that she could remain unmoved by all this masculine glory, yet yearn for …
No. She did not yearn for Griffin deVere. She wanted him to marry her; that was all. She was tired of waiting for her life to begin.
Lauderdale drew her apart from the card tables, leading her to sit on a bergère couch against the wall. He was adept at finding appropriate places for an intimate conversation among a crowd of people.
She gave him an impersonal smile. “How do you do, sir?”
He looked beyond her with a faint, mocking smile curving his lips. “Not well, I confess. Not since I heard the most disturbing news this afternoon.”
“News?”
“Your dreaded betrothed has arrived in Town. They tell me he has come for you, Rosamund.” He hit her with a full blast of those melting brown eyes. “My dear, how could you? And not a word to me.”
She glanced away from him, nodding to an acquaintance who had been trying to catch her eye.
“How could I not?” she said quietly, turning back. “I agreed to this betrothal, Captain. Indeed, I have no wish to repudiate it. And please refrain from addressing me so familiarly. I never gave you leave to do so.”
His head tilted in an ironic bow. “Of course, Lady Rosamund. I apologize if my … feelings for you led me to be overly familiar.”
He sent her a sidelong glance. She raised her eyebrows in haughty inquiry.
“It is not a surprise to you,” he said. “You knew Tregarth was in Town.”
“I … Yes.”
She wanted to protest at his questioning her thus, but guilt trickled through her. Had she encouraged him to believe she might welcome his suit? She had not meant to do so, but with some men, it did not take much to convince them the object of their attentions reciprocated their regard.
He registered her answer with a tightened jaw. “But Lord Tregarth is not here with you tonight?”
“He is not.”
He laughed softly. “What a trusting fellow he is. If I were the earl, I would not let you out of my sight.”
“His trust is certainly not misplaced,” said Rosamund coolly. To steer the conversation to less personal waters, she added, “Tell me how you go on, sir. How is your wound?”
“Healed very nicely, or that’s what the sawbones says, anyway,” said Lauderd
ale. “I’m to return to active service immediately.”
Fear for him clutched her. With Napoleon on the loose again and amassing forces at an alarming rate, war was inevitable. Oh, she didn’t care for Lauderdale as a sweetheart might, but as a friend, she couldn’t help a craven regret that his wound wasn’t serious enough to keep him from duty. He, of course, would never see it that way.
“You will leave soon?” she said.
“Next week.” Bitterness laced his voice. “Tregarth has come for you, hasn’t he? After all this time. He ought to be horsewhipped for treating you so.” He met her gaze and said softly, “And you, a diamond of the first water.”
Her throat seemed to close over. “Forgive me, but that is not your concern. I do not wish to discuss—”
“But I am glad,” he interrupted. “I’m glad that you’re finally to be wed.”
Glad? She blinked at him in surprise.
He edged closer, close enough that she could smell wine on his breath. “Do you know why, Lady Rosamund Westruther? Can’t you guess?”
Shaking her head, she glanced away from him. “No, I cannot, and I can’t imagine why you would—”
“Rosamund, darling, don’t you see what this means? We can be together at last. In all the ways that truly matter.”
Rosamund choked, her gaze snapping back to him. “What?” The word would have been a shriek if she’d had sufficient breath in her lungs. As it was, it came out as a hollow whisper.
“Oh, you must do your duty by him,” said Lauderdale soothingly. “I loathe the very idea of you in the arms of another, but we both know it must be done. With any luck, by the time I return home from battle, you’ll be with child. And then you and I, my very dear…”
He trailed off, his heated gaze fixing on her mouth before sliding down to linger at her breasts.
She stared back at him, so appalled she could not think clearly. Surely she’d misheard or misconstrued his words? But no, his meaning was far too plain to be mistaken.
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