Jacqueline digested this. “You do not go to all this trouble for nothing, Rosie. Are you trying to make a match between me and Mr. Maddox? I—I wish you would not.” Her voice trembled on the last words, and her gray eyes shimmered with tears.
“My dear, whatever is the matter?”
Jacqueline dashed moisture away from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, you have no notion! It is so hopeless. Every time I see him, I forget. And later, it comes rushing back to me and I feel sick, Rosie. Rosamund, I cannot marry Tony. Griffin is perfectly right about that.”
Shocked to her soul, Rosamund put her arms around Jacqueline and held her as close as she was able with their bonnets in the way. “But why, darling? Can’t you tell me?”
Jacqueline shook her head and burst into sobs. Rosamund murmured reassurance and tried her best to soothe her.
The carriage halted, and Jacqueline made a heroic effort to compose herself.
“Go straight up,” said Rosamund. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“No, don’t,” said Jacqueline, trying to smile. “Truly, I am well. And I—I think I should like to be alone for a while.”
* * *
Griffin arrived home late, a little jollier for the brandy he’d imbibed with Lydgate and his cronies at Lydgate’s club. A trifle jollier but by no means intoxicated.
He went to his dressing room, where his valet awaited him. “Ah, there you are, Dearlove.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Dearlove, reaching up to ease the tight-fitting black coat from Griffin’s shoulders. “A pleasant evening, my lord?”
“Yes,” said Griffin. “It was.”
Lydgate’s friends had been far more congenial than he’d expected. Whether it was out of consideration for Rosamund or a liking for him, Griffin didn’t know, but Lydgate had gone out of his way to introduce Griffin to the ton and to pave his way wherever possible.
Yes, the evening had been a pleasant one. And now he proposed to spend an even more pleasant interlude in the arms of his wife. “Lady Rosamund home yet?”
“I believe the countess and Lady Jacqueline returned an hour ago, my lord.”
“Very good.” Griffin sat in his comfortable wingback chair and extended his leg. Dearlove donned gloves to remove Griffin’s boots, handling them with as much care as if they’d been a pair of infants rather than footwear. But Griffin had become accustomed to Dearlove’s foibles and he forbore to scoff.
After a quick wash and a vigorous scrub of his teeth, Griffin dismissed his valet. He donned a dressing gown and went into the bedchamber he shared with Rosamund. Oh, she had her own apartments, of course, but she rarely slept anywhere but in his bed.
Tonight, however, there was no warm, willing woman waiting for him beneath the covers. He shrugged. Perhaps she hadn’t finished undressing.
Impatient to see her, he crossed the bedchamber to the other side of his suite, continued through two sitting rooms and into the bedchamber that had been reserved for Rosamund’s use.
Here, he found her standing before the full-length cheval glass, staring pensively at her own reflection.
And well she might stare. The breath left his lungs in an audible whoosh.
The garment was a simple robe in the Grecian style so popular earlier in the century. Low at the bosom, high at the waist. Very plain. Nothing startling in that.
But the material from which this particular garment was fashioned was so filmy as to be almost completely transparent.
Rosamund wore nothing underneath but her skin. Her firm, high buttocks and long legs showed clearly through that scandalous gown. In her reflection, he saw, with a surge of hunger, the shadows of her nipples, the contours of her breasts and hips, the slightly darker triangle of hair on her pubis.
She looked like a beautiful goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps? One of the saucier ones, anyway. Her bearing had that same mixture of regality and innocence and sinful knowing that never failed to send him wild.
“My God, woman,” he said hoarsely. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Send me to an early grave?”
She turned her head. Then she smiled that siren’s smile of hers, and he was lost.
They made love in one of their passionate frenzies, falling into slumber almost instantly. In the morning, he woke, lying on his side with her body pressed against him, her backside snuggled into his groin.
A groin that was rock hard and aching for release.
He reached around and touched her, bringing her quickly to a long, muted, shivery orgasm.
“Mmm.” She smiled sleepily. “That was a nice way to wake up.”
Deliberately, she pressed back against him. “Do you have something else I might like?”
“Let me see,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They had not left their bed yet when Rosamund finally broached the subject she’d been warming up to all night.
She had meant to raise it with him as soon as he came in, but he’d caught her trying on one of the scandalous garments she’d ordered from the back room of that clever modiste Jane had told Cecily about.
It had all gone downhill from there. Or at least, the lovemaking had been more than satisfactory, but it had made it impossible for her to mention Maddox. Nor was it the perfect time to speak of Jacqueline’s suitor now. Griffin might well see such behavior as manipulative and dig in his heels.
But, well, she had to approach him about it sometime, didn’t she? Perhaps it was manipulative of her, but she owed it to Jacqueline to tackle the issue when Griffin was in his mellowest mood.
And he was exceedingly pleased with himself today.
“I do not think I shall walk for a week,” she murmured, stretching.
Griffin laid his hand on her breast. “That would be tragic. I might have to stay here and tend to your needs.”
“How should we survive?” said Rosamund.
She sighed as he bent to lick her nipple. She caressed his hair, enjoying the exquisite sensations. Soon, however, she urged him to lift his head so that he looked in her eyes.
“Griffin, I need to talk to you about something.”
His eyes took a moment to focus. Then he muttered what sounded like an oath under his breath and flung himself onto his back. “I knew it was too good to last. Talk away.”
“I want to ask you about Jacqueline. And Mr. Maddox.”
He muttered an oath but she held up a hand. “I am not going to pester you any more on the subject of his courting her—although I still cannot see the objection—but Griffin, Jacqueline was in tears yesterday afternoon, and I want to know why.”
Griffin kneaded his temple with the heels of his hands. “How should I know? Females turn into watering pots at the drop of a hat, don’t they?”
“Not Jacqueline,” said Rosamund quietly. “In fact, the only other time I’ve seen her tearful was when you—” She broke off, realizing that what she’d been about to say would scarcely lighten his mood.
“When I what, my lady? I am quite accustomed to figuring as the ogre, so you needn’t think to spare my feelings.”
“All right, then. She thought you’d sent her to Bath because she was too much trouble and you didn’t want her.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, as if someone had punched him. “She didn’t think that! She can’t think that.”
“It is probably illogical, but I am afraid that she does,” said Rosamund. “I tried to reassure her, but I scarcely knew her then, and I am afraid it did little good.”
“My God, what a mess,” said Griffin in a hollow voice, staring up at the blue silk canopy above them.
“But that is not what I wanted to ask,” said Rosamund. “Jacqueline told me she agrees with you that she must not marry Mr. Maddox.”
His body relaxed a little. “I’m glad the girl has some sense, then.”
“But why?” said Rosamund. “He is eligible in every way. He even lives close to Pendon Place, for goodness’ sake. We would not even have to part with her.�
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He turned his head at that. “You would miss her if she went?”
“Oh, yes! Jacqueline is dear to me, Griffin. It is why I cannot bear to see her unhappy. And I don’t think she will be happy unless she marries Mr. Maddox. Why can they not be together?”
“DeVere won’t allow it.”
“Oh, my dear Griffin, do but say the word, and I shall take care of deVere. The Duke of Montford has been running rings around the fellow for years. I daresay he could come up with a scheme to secure deVere’s consent in the time it would take most people to add two and two together. Surely that cannot be the sole objection. And if it were, surely Jacqueline would not so wholeheartedly agree with it.”
“Leave it be, Rosamund,” said Griffin. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Looking back at her, he said, “Just trust me.”
“Trust you?” She sat up, too, clutching the sheet to her breasts in a really rather absurd attempt to cover herself. “Why should I trust you when you have absolutely no faith in me?”
His mouth was set in a grim line. “I cannot tell you, because it is not my secret to tell and knowing it could be dangerous. But the reason is a damned good one. Even Jacks thinks so. If you don’t trust me, then at least respect her judgment!”
“Good enough to trump love, Griffin?” said Rosamund softly. “But how can that be? Surely nothing is more important or more powerful than love.”
“Is that right?” Griffin yanked on his trousers and buttoned them. Then he reached for his shirt. “Did you put love before your duty when you married me?”
Oh, God. She’d walked straight into that trap, hadn’t she?
“No,” she said quietly. “I did not.”
He looked at her then, and the stark pain on his features wrung her heart.
In that moment, she felt defiant and reckless and entirely without hope. But she would say it to him so that he would know. How it might change things between them she couldn’t guess, but it was past time for her to be honest with him and remove all these doubts that seemed to fester inside him.
In a stronger voice, she continued. “I did not put duty above love, because in this case, they were one and the same.” She met his gaze, hoping against hope that he would see all he needed to know right there in her eyes. “I love you, Griffin. I always have.”
* * *
The magnitude and power of Rosamund’s words hit him with such stunning force that he couldn’t get his mind to take them in. They seemed to have bypassed his brain and driven straight through his heart.
But the feeling was less like the prick of Cupid’s arrow and more like the plunge of a knife.
No one had ever told him they loved him before.
He didn’t know how that could be, but it was. Surely his mother had loved him, but she’d never actually said it that he could recall. It was only now that he discovered how starved of love he had been since her death.
And it was cruel, so damnably cruel, that the first person ever to say those words to him should be so deluded. She was fooling herself, and she was killing him.
He stared at Rosamund, who sat up in bed, still clutching the sheet to her breast. She gazed up at him, clearly willing him to respond. As if it were a simple thing to comprehend, this love of hers for him.
“I don’t know what to say.” And he didn’t, because she clearly believed what she’d said, even if he knew her love was the product of wishful thinking. She wanted, quite desperately, to love the man who was her husband. That just happened to be him.
If deVere and Montford’s scheming had produced a different candidate, she would be saying those words to that fellow now, he was sure.
Rosamund tried desperately not to look crestfallen, but he knew she was. What woman wouldn’t be? Or what man, for that matter? If he’d been so reckless and foolish as to express the depth of his feelings for her … He dragged his hands down the side of his face.
In a shaking voice, she said, “You don’t have to say anything, Griffin. You simply have to believe it’s true.”
A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek. He wanted to go to her, to hold her in his arms and kiss her tears away. But his own pain was so great that if he didn’t leave, he might say something to hurt her even more.
There was nothing he could do. No genuine sentiment he could utter that would make her feel better. He could not even give her the satisfaction of believing in her love, much less tell her he loved her in return.
He could lie. Perhaps he would, when he could force the words beyond the lump of pain that obstructed his throat. He could say he believed her.
But he could not tell her he loved her, even as a kindly lie to stop her tears.
He could not say it back, because in his case, it would be true.
* * *
They dined with the family at Montford House that night. Rosamund did her best to appear in good spirits, but by the time the ladies left the gentlemen to their drinking and smoking, she was all but worn out with the effort.
Her worst fears had been confirmed that morning. Griffin didn’t return her love. She wished she hadn’t given in to the impulse to make that declaration herself. Now she knew his sentiments beyond doubt, when before she’d been at liberty to dream of a happy ending for them both. Against all common sense, she’d hoped Griffin’s tenderness in the bedchamber signaled the depth of his feelings for her. How could a man be so considerate and passionate with a woman he didn’t love? She didn’t know. All she could do was hope his feelings for her would change.
She wished that tonight, of all nights, she hadn’t agreed to dine with her uncomfortably perceptive family. A small measure of relief came when she could finally escape with the ladies to the drawing room. She trusted Cecily and Jacqueline would not quiz her in front of Tibby.
But before she could even lay her hands on a cup of tea, Xavier appeared and asked to speak with her.
“Is anything amiss?” she inquired as he ushered her to the library. Instead of taking Montford’s seat behind the desk, her brother led her to a cozy grouping of chairs by the fireside.
Ah, so this was to be a subtle interrogation.
Her head began to ache.
Xavier crossed to the sideboard and plucked the stopper from a crystal decanter. Unusually, he chose two glasses and sloshed a finger of brandy in each.
“You look like you could use this,” he said, handing it to her. “Or would you prefer me to ring for sherry?”
Rosamund took a small sip, choking as the liquor caught her throat. “My goodness, how can you drink that stuff?”
Then the burn turned to a pleasant warmth, and the tendons in her neck relaxed just a touch.
Xavier merely smiled and watched as she sipped again.
He asked her about Pendon Place and Cornwall and their journey back to London. Rosamund answered each question with a wary vigilance. He was lulling her into a false sense of security. At any moment, he would pounce.
Then it came. “Your wedding was very sudden,” he observed. “I would have made the journey down to Cornwall for it, but I understand why you did not want to wait.”
She wrinkled her brow. What was he getting at?
“The impatience of two people in love,” he murmured on a note of explanation.
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Xavier,” said Rosamund lightly.
“On the contrary. It becomes me very well,” he returned. “But that was not sarcasm, Rosamund. I saw the pair of you gazing at each other like moonlings this evening. A decided whiff of tragedy in the air, too. Something wrong in paradise?”
She forced a laugh. “My goodness, brother, you go too fast for me. One minute, you accuse me of cuckolding my husband before we are even married, and the next, you scent a lovers’ quarrel between us!” Her voice had risen to an embarrassing pitch at the end of that speech.
Xavier stood and crossed to the couch where she sat and dropped his hand on her shoulder. “Tell your big brother all about it.�
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In other circumstances, she wouldn’t have dreamed of confiding in her cold, unfeeling brother. But she was so very heartsick, and his usually clipped, cool voice was gentle and warm with understanding.
“Oh, Xavier!” she said on a sob. “I don’t know what to do!”
He sat beside her and put an arm about her shoulders and let her weep the long, involved tale into his coat. The comfort that gesture gave her was immense.
“If only I’d never met that rotten Lauderdale,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Oh, I am a mess.”
“Never mind that.” Xavier frowned. “Did Lauderdale offer you insult?”
“Oh, no!” She said it with every ounce of conviction she could muster. The captain would be a dead man twice over if Xavier found out about that dreadful proposition.
“Hmm.” Xavier sat back, steepling his fingers together in a pose that reminded her of the duke.
Too late, Rosamund realized the error of confiding in Xavier. He always wanted to fix things for her. But she sensed this was a problem she had to solve alone.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles. Please do not interfere, Xavier,” she said. “I am sure that in these matters it is only worse when third parties get involved. I should not have told you at all.”
He wasn’t listening to her. “I shall contrive something. The Devil of it is that I must go out of town tomorrow for a week or so. I have a commitment I cannot break.”
“With the added advantage that you will miss Mama’s rout party next week,” said Rosamund.
“That, too.” Xavier frowned. “I wanted to speak with you about Lauderdale. Our mother has invited him to the party.”
She gasped. “But he is on the Continent by now.”
“That he is not. I heard he sold his commission and has returned to London. For what purpose, I wonder?” He sipped his drink, eyeing her. Did he still suspect her of harboring tender feelings toward the captain?
On top of her troubles with Griffin, this seemed too much. “Oh, no! What on earth shall I do?”
“You must go, of course. If you stay away, you will cause people to talk, not least of all, Nerissa. But you must take Griffin with you and show the world—and Lauderdale—what a devoted couple you are.”
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