Rosamund knew he’d come because she’d prearranged it while lying naked in Griffin’s bed last night, but she couldn’t tell Tibby that.
“Why don’t you take Meg and go for a walk?” Tibby suggested.
“No, no, that won’t do.” Fuming with impatience, Rosamund checked her reflection in the looking glass above the mantel once more.
She hadn’t, of course, disclosed to Tibby any aspect of last night’s adventure. For all her companion knew, she’d been tucked up safely in her own bed, not losing her maidenhead in Griffin’s.
Did she look any different? Rosamund scrutinized her face for telltale signs of last night’s debauchery as her mother might have searched her own face for wrinkles.
Rosamund frowned. Her cheeks might be a little pink and her eyes bright, but otherwise she detected no alteration. How could that be when she felt like a totally different person?
Someone scratched on the door, and Rosamund’s pulse jumped. In as steady a voice as she could manage, she called, “Come.”
The door opened and Griffin stood on the threshold.
Rosamund froze, staring up at him, her mouth ajar.
He was dressed immaculately, from the top of his neatly styled hair to the gleaming black of his boots. She’d been privileged to admire the strength and power of his form last night, but she’d never dreamed his big body could appear to such advantage in clothes.
And his face! He was clean-shaven, for one thing, but his hair had been trimmed in a style that revealed a pair of slashing cheekbones and seemed to emphasize those storm-cloud eyes. True, more of his cruel scar was visible without that unruly mane covering it, but she was so accustomed to the sight now, she hardly noticed it.
His eyes met hers, and some protective layer around her cracked and fell away. She quivered with it, this vulnerable, unprecedented feeling.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she’d given up more than her virginity last night.
He tilted his head a little, assessing her with those hot and cold eyes of his. That made her blush furiously. She couldn’t help remembering all that they’d done together in his bed.
“Rosamund, dear,” prompted Tibby.
“Oh.” She groped about for her usual poise but failed to locate it anywhere. “How—how silly of me. Do come in, Griffin.”
Tibby tugged the bellpull. “I’ll ring for tea.”
“W-won’t you sit down?” Lord, it was like talking to a stranger. She’d been intimate with Griffin in ways she couldn’t even begin to examine in the light of day, yet in those garments, she didn’t know him at all. It was disorienting, as if she’d dismounted from a horse, only to discover the ground wasn’t where she’d left it.
He made no effort to set her at her ease. In fact, he seemed distracted. Didn’t he recall that he was supposed to express surprise about her presence at the inn?
She took the initiative. “I suppose you are wondering why I am here, Griffin.”
Confusion crossed his features. “What?”
Rosamund flared her eyes at him and glanced at Tibby. “I mean, you didn’t expect me to follow you down here, did you?”
“Oh! Right. Yes. Yes, that’s right. I didn’t. Expect it, that is.”
“And…,” prompted Rosamund.
She waited, but he merely stared at her in a baffled way.
“Since I am here anyway…”
He started. “Oh.” He glanced at Tibby. “Yes, well. Perhaps we ought to…” He cleared his throat. “Rosamund, might I speak to you in private?”
Rosamund frowned at him. This was not part of the instructions she’d given him before she left the previous evening.
Despite her minatory look, he didn’t amend his request, so she gave a small shrug and smiled at Tibby. “Would you mind giving us privacy, Tibby? Just for a few minutes?”
“Certainly, my dear,” said Tibby, picking up her book. “I will return in fifteen minutes, to be precise.”
Rosamund waited until Tibby closed the door behind her. Then she turned to Griffin and whispered, “What is it? What happened? I trust you have not changed your mind, for things have gone too far—”
“I haven’t changed my mind!” Griffin’s eyes blazed. “What kind of a bas—?”
“Hush! Keep your voice down!” She darted a look toward the door.
Lowering his voice, he said, “What kind of a blackguard do you take me for? Of course I haven’t changed my mind. But there’s something you should know.”
The gravity of his expression alarmed her at first. But then she remembered her conversation with Griffin’s sister.
Rosamund decided to keep Jacqueline’s disclosures to herself. She wanted to hear the story from Griffin.
Before he could begin, the maid came in with the tea.
They both fell silent, waiting for the serving girl to leave. China clattered together as the maid walked across the room with the tray and set it on the table between Griffin and Rosamund.
As the girl set out the tea things, Rosamund saw that the face under the mob cap displayed abject terror. She kept darting glances at Griffin, and nearly upset the sugar bowl in her nervous distraction.
“Leave it,” said Rosamund with a snap in her voice. “Good God, girl, do you suppose he’s going to eat you?”
The maid gave a whimper and wiped her hands down her apron, as if they’d grown clammy in her fear.
“Off you go. I shall pour.” Rosamund waved a hand and the girl scampered.
Rosamund turned to look at Griffin. “My goodness, if that is what you must put up with around here, I don’t wonder at your habitual ill temper.”
“I am not ill tempered,” growled Griffin.
“You are, but I am not going to argue with you over it. Tell me what you wanted to tell me. I am eaten up with curiosity.”
Her light words seemed to relax him a little. Good.
He leaned forward to accept his cup from her. Absently, he took a sip. Then looked down, raising his brows. “How did you know how I like my tea?”
Strong, with a dash of milk and three lumps of sugar. Ugh!
“Is that how you like it?” she said innocently. “What a happy coincidence.”
She would hardly admit that she’d memorized every scrap of detail about his likes and dislikes she could glean while she’d been at Pendon Place. So utterly mad for him, despite the horrid welcome he’d given her. So determined to be the perfect wife.
She fingered her locket, then snatched away her hand. She must stop doing that.
“Hmph,” said Griffin.
“Pray, begin.” Regally, she inclined her head.
And so he told her. About threatening Allbright, then finding him dead on the rocks beneath the cliff.
“I see,” she said slowly. She saw the struggle he went through as he related what had happened that day. Had he told another living soul this tale?
“But that’s not the worst of it,” he said, rising, as if he could no longer keep a leash on his turbulent emotions. He paced to the window and looked out. “There are rumors of fresh evidence. A witness, perhaps. I am still the prime suspect, so of course, if they reopen the investigation it will embroil me.”
“But you are innocent,” she pointed out.
He looked at her strangely. “You believe me, then.” He blew out a breath.
“Well, of course I do! That’s why I don’t understand your concern about a witness. Surely if there is a witness, he or she can clear your name.”
He folded his arms; his expression grew tight. “What if there was no witness and this is a malicious attempt to finger me for the crime? No one has come forward with these accusations. But while the rumors persist, and while any investigation which comes out of that proceeds, Pendon Place will be a mighty unpleasant place to be. As my wife, you would have much to bear.”
A sudden insight struck her. Why hadn’t she seen it as soon as Jacks told her? “That was why you didn’t come for me. Isn’t it? First your grandfather di
ed, and then this cloud of suspicion hung over your head.”
He said nothing, but she knew she’d hit on the truth. Relief and exhilaration filled her—selfish emotions when he’d suffered so cruelly, but she couldn’t help it. He had stayed away to protect her.
* * *
“You still want to marry me?” Griffin said hoarsely. For the first time since the business began, he felt hope.
“Of course I still want to marry you!”
She said it as if it were a matter of course. He could only stare at her, speechless as she fingered her lip in thought.
He longed to taste those lips, to kiss her senseless for her unquestioning trust, but there wasn’t time for that. And he’d probably take it beyond the line of pleasing just as that infernal companion walked through the door.
“The only point against you is that you threatened him before he was killed,” said Rosamund. “Why did you do that, Griffin?”
He hesitated. It made his blood boil even now to think of it. “Allbright had designs on my sister. He was her music master and a cousin of a family friend.”
He didn’t blame Maddox, of course. Maddox couldn’t have known Allbright’s propensities or he would never have recommended the man as a music master for Jacks.
He drew a tattered breath. “I trusted him. I left them alone together. And then I found him…” Rage at Allbright, at himself, suspended his power of speech. He wanted to put his fist through the wall.
Rosamund paled. “I assume his attentions were not welcome?”
Griffin shook his head. “She was such an innocent, she didn’t even know what he was trying to do to her.” Another area in which he’d failed Jacks. A sensible female companion would have informed her of such dangers. “She certainly didn’t like it. I came in because I heard the struggle.”
“I wonder you didn’t slay him on the spot!” said Rosamund, firing up. “In fact, if you had killed him, I would not blame you. In fact,” she added, narrowing her eyes, “I should have killed him myself, if I were you. What a dastardly fellow to take advantage of a young girl.”
That did it. He strode over and plucked her off the couch, hauled her up against him, and kissed her.
Emotions roiled inside him. Fury at Allbright’s lechery and the trouble he continued to make long after his death, gratitude that one person on this earth understood. Jacks might understand, but what right had he to seek comfort from his sister when he’d failed her so miserably?
Relief flooded him so quickly and completely, he felt off balance, dizzy with it.
Rosamund’s response to his kiss was gratifyingly eager. He devoured her and she matched him every step of the way. Thank God she believed in him, because he couldn’t live without her.
When he finally raised his head, they both panted like hounds after a long run. Tenderly, she smoothed her hands through his hair, cradling his head. That gentle gesture nearly undid him. The blessed relief of her understanding and support flooded his body, weakened his knees.
“We must find a way to clear your name once and for all.” Those impossibly blue eyes sparked with determination. “Griffin, we must find the real killer!”
His arms fell from about her waist, and he took a hasty step back. “What? Don’t be a damned little fool!”
“It’s not foolish. It’s the only way to settle the matter.”
Before he could reply, the door opened and Tibby walked in.
“Well, my dears?” Tibby said.
Rosamund glowed. “Oh, Tibby, you may be the first for wish us happy. Griffin and I are getting married today!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rosamund hurried into the parlor to check her appearance in the looking glass over the mantel.
Griffin had taken himself off to fetch the vicar and to allow her the chance to dress more appropriately for the occasion. She’d chosen a white muslin gown sprigged all over with forget-me-nots.
“Aren’t you being a trifle hasty, my dear?” Tibby looked up from her tambour frame with her soft gaze that saw far more than most people realized. “Surely you want Cecily with you, at least. And His Grace and Lord Steyne, too. On such a significant occasion—”
“The circumstances are hardly ideal,” admitted Rosamund, fixing a gold earbob into her lobe with fingers that trembled from excitement. “But Tibby, you must understand how—how desperately impatient I am to begin my new life as a married lady. I’ve been on the shelf too long.”
“Two seasons!” Tibby sniffed. “If you knew how many seasons I had, you would call me an ape-leader, my dear.”
Rosamund regarded her with amusement. “I’d wager you didn’t lack for offers, Tib.”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” said Miss Tibbs primly, but with a sparkle in her eye. “But believe me, if I had accepted an offer, I would have made sure I was thoroughly acquainted with the man before I granted him ultimate power over me.”
Rosamund widened her eyes. “Why, you speak as if men are monsters, Tibby. I’m persuaded that is not the case.”
“Some of them are monsters, Rosamund. You have led a very sheltered existence in many ways, so you might not be aware of the way a husband can—can quite simply crush a wife. Then, too, no one speaks of it, so it is not likely you would hear of such things unless they happened to one of your nearest and dearest. But I have known more than one young lady who entered marriage starry-eyed and came out of it black-eyed.” Tibby shuddered. “And worse.”
“Griffin would never hurt me,” said Rosamund, shocked at the mere suggestion. She sensed the innate gentleness in him that so few others perceived when confronted with that massive exterior.
“Physical harm is only one of the terrors that may be inflicted on ladies by their husbands,” said Tibby, snipping a vermilion thread with her scissors. “I won’t say more on that head, but before you proceed with this wedding, ask yourself if you are prepared to put yourself entirely at this man’s mercy. Do you trust him that far, my dear?”
“Why, of course.” Rosamund picked up the other earbob and fiddled with the hook, frowning. “I can manage him, Tibby. I won’t let him tyrannize over me. And I know I can make him comfortable.”
“I am sure you can,” said Tibby. “But what about you? Is he truly the man you want, above all others, forsaking all others?”
By others, she presumed Tibby meant Philip Lauderdale. “Yes. Quite sure.”
The small noise Tibby made in response was a cross between a choke and a snort. “You might well change your mind about that one day.”
Rosamund looked sharply at her. “Do you speak of love, Tibby? Do you really? For I thought you would have learned by now that we Westruthers do not ever marry for love. I accepted my duty at the age of seventeen, and I will fulfill my duty now. I will be content with Lord Tregarth. I will make a happy home with him and if God blesses us with children, I shall love them and—and care for them with all of my heart and soul.”
Even as she said these things, a large sob seemed to stick in the region of her throat. She battled to force it down. She’d rather die than weep and show Tibby that her concerns might be justified.
Confound Tibby for ruining it! She’d been waiting for this day all her life.
“I see,” said the companion at length. “And what of Lord Tregarth? Doesn’t he deserve love?”
Pain stabbed Rosamund’s chest. What could she say to that?
“How will you feel if he finds love with someone else?” pursued Tibby. “Such things happen, you know. More often than not in these arranged marriages, or so I’m told.”
The thought of Griffin being unfaithful had simply never entered into Rosamund’s visions of wedded bliss. Why hadn’t it? As Tibby said, infidelity was more common than not among their set. Her own parents …
She shivered as a cold, cruel hand closed around her heart. The sob in her throat built and built.
Lifting her chin, she said, “I shall see to it that he doesn’t stray.”
She
didn’t need to see Tibby’s skeptical look to know it was there.
Rosamund swallowed hard past the sob that threatened to burst from her at any moment. “Now,” she said in a strained, brittle voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall go to my bedchamber and finish getting ready.”
Rosamund barely closed the door on the hired parlor before she burst into tears.
* * *
All that morning, Rosamund tried to resist, but it was like digging in her heels in the middle of a landslide. No use at all.
She couldn’t deny the truth any longer. She was hopelessly in love with Griffin deVere.
She was in love with her husband.
Rosamund moved through the short marriage ceremony shrouded in a mist of shock. Jacqueline was there, in high spirits and seeming well pleased with the event. She was accompanied by a handsome, dark gentleman she introduced as Mr. Maddox. Peggy and Joshua and their silent daughter were there also. And of course Tibby, who seemed to have abandoned her former objections and now beamed on the proceedings with a lace-edged handkerchief in hand and sentimental tears in her eyes.
The vicar seemed like a friendly, amusing fellow, and she was pleased to see clear evidence of his regard for Griffin. But she couldn’t find anything to say to Mr. Oliphant that wasn’t vague or embarrassingly banal. Her new discovery possessed her thoughts.
Griffin appeared striking in his elegant, well-fitting clothes, but that was not the reason she couldn’t stop looking at him. In fact, a small part of her resented that his new dress and careful grooming made him seem less fearsome, yet infinitely more unapproachable. The same part of her wanted him back the way he used to be, with that wild, unkempt veneer only she could penetrate.
But that was a selfish, unworthy impulse, one she quickly quashed.
If people saw Griffin as she always had, they might be better disposed to treat him with courtesy. Even in the short time she’d been in Cornwall, she’d been shocked at how the locals viewed him. That poor maid in the inn had nearly dropped the tea tray, she was shaking so hard.
Mad About the Earl Page 17