Robert was not for her. It was more than just the separation of their classes . What mattered, what separated them, was love. The sisterly love of a lifetime or the intense, all-consuming love of the moment?
Her sisters or herself? Give herself the love that she knew she deserved or deny herself that love in the hopes that in doing so her sisters might find their own?
As much as it hurt, as much physical pain as her emotions dealt, there wasn’t even a question as to whom to choose.
There was only one thing that Rose could do. And that was go home and marry the duke.
*****
In all the years he had spent trying to find a way out of the marriage with Lady Rosalyn, he had never discovered a solution. Robert could marry the biggest dowry there was and it would all be for not because, without the land to support the estate, he would eventually bankrupt.
Now, as he stood in his dressing room in Whitefield Abbey, hope had finally been restored.
His valet, Smith, had been instructed to keep an ear out below for gossip concerning the lady, and he did his job well.
Smith cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was slipping Robert’s jacket off his shoulders and hanging it nearby. Carefully, not meeting the eyes of his employer in the mirror, he answered Robert’s earlier stated question in the affirmative. “There has been some talk, your Grace.”
“Ah,” Robert said. “So it is as I have suspected. She is not ill, then?”
“No, your Grace,” Smith said with a cautious pause, before adding, “It does not appear that she is.”
That was the story that Lady Blythe recounted to him upon his arrival, his mother and sister in tow. Lady Rosalyn had taken ill to bed. While everyone else seemed perfectly content to take her word to be truth, Robert had reason to believe otherwise.
“Well, am I going to have to beat the information from you, Smith?” Robert asked good humoredly, for they both knew that despite the duke’s reputation within the ton for being as cold and hard to please as his father had been, he was never one to be cruel to his servants.
Smith sighed. It was nearly unapparent. Nearly. “Understand, the lady is still quite young, your Grace.”
Robert’s heart quickened in his chest at the idea that the lady did, in fact, have a fault upon which he could lay claim that she was not suitable for marriage. Though, he kept his temper even, his thoughts in order, and his voice cool so as to keep his plots to himself.
“She is of marriageable age. But I concede to your point,” Robert said, ignoring the fact that the lady in question was the same age as his sister. And his sister was, in his esteemed opinion, nowhere near mature enough for marriage.
“Continue,” he prompted when Smith did not immediately do so.
Smith exhaled, audibly this time. “She has been disappearing lately,” the man said, busying himself.
And when he offered no further explanation, Robert questioned as he shrugged off his shirt, “Disappearing? Whatever could you mean?”
“Just that, your Grace,” the valet answered, finally meeting his employer’s eyes in the looking glass. “For the last several days she has slipped out of the house before dawn, returning home well into the afternoon or night in varying states of disarray. No one downstairs knows where she has been slipping off to, or if they do, they certainly are keeping it tight lipped. I practically had to seduce the information out of the lips of one of the maids.”
“I see.” Robert said, buttoning up a fresh shirt, his eyes narrowing as dangerous thoughts took hold.
Was he to be taken for a fool? He had known her illness was a lie—he had seen her himself on the slope that morning. But disappearing for—if his valet’s word was to be taken as truth—the past several days? It infuriated him.
Here he was about to surrender his life to someone whom he didn’t know and she didn’t even have the courtesy to keep her reputation clean?
“Will that be all, your Grace?”
“You could assure me that it is just her nerves,” he said, his voice dry.
“And would that help ease your concerns, your Grace?” Smith asked in return.
Robert smiled at the man who had come to be as close to a friend as any servant could be. “No, it would not. You are dismissed, Smith. Though, do keep an ear out down below,” Robert reminded.
“As always, your Grace,” Smith said on a bow. Then he departed, leaving Robert alone in the dressing room attached to his assigned bedchamber with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.
He smiled at his reflection, pulling at his cuffs to ensure they were even.
A weight had been lifted from his shoulders, for at last he had found the light.
This was the answer to all the prayers he’d never said.
He would not have to marry Lady Rosalyn. She had provided him with all the ammunition he needed to squirm out of this unpleasant arrangement, and he could not be more pleased.
Robert would keep her secrets and in exchange he would get his land, sans marriage. If those terms were not agreeable, he was certain Lord Blythe would become more amenable when Robert assured him that he would personally see to the destruction of his four daughters’ reputations. Dukes had power. Even impoverished ones. If he were forced to marry Lady Rosalyn in order to gain back his land, he would ensure not a single one of her sisters made it to the alter.
He had finally found an out, and he would gladly exploit it.
Yes, he would keep Lady Rosalyn’s secret, but only for a price. And that price was much more than just the land he would demand. It would include nothing less than his freedom.
Chapter 13
Lord Brighton found himself sipping tea in the presence of a houseful of guests in the crowded drawing room overlooking the main drive, trying in earnest to appear the proper amount disgusted as he rose the cup to his lips.
It was needless to say that Robert did not enjoy drinking tea. Or at least, not publicly. He quite fancied the beverage in the privacy of his own thoughts—though, to admit that to anyone outside of the close company of his mother and sister would surely be the most humiliating thing imaginable. Particularly, if word of his affinity were to get back to his male acquaintances.
Gentlemen had no choice in the matter of drinking the “vile” substance when in the presence of ladies. It was practically a requirement of being a gentleman. Though, Robert mused, there were a great many more men who rather enjoyed a steaming cup of tea than they would allow the others to believe. One need only let their eye stray to Lord Stratham who had, in the last half hour, finished off three cups and was making quick work of his fourth.
Yes, indeed, Robert did believe that a great many of men enjoyed tea nearly as much as he.
Finally finishing his first cup, Robert placed it in its saucer, setting it upon a delicate table and strolled across the room, carefully avoiding the myriad of conversations taking place.
The room definitely wasn’t as ornate as his own drawing room. Though, that wasn’t to say that it was anything short of grand, with its wallpaper with less than subtle gold hues that picked up the gold embroidery in the green rug that stretched across the entire floor of the large room, and the gold-leaf molding outlining the ceiling. The fireplace was large and it too was adorned with gold-leaf trim. The furniture was upholstered in a shade of green that served to complement the rug. And from the ceiling hung chandeliers made of crystal that could nearly hold a candle to his own. Nearly.
It was a rather impressive room, he had to admit. The colors had been cleverly chosen to complement the centuries old trees that the room looked out upon.
Robert would have been satisfied immersing himself in discovering the further details of the room but, alas, conversation could not be avoided. He cursed silently as a lady captured him with her determined gaze and began her approach. In a room filled with aristocrats he was not so much of a man than he was a title, and everyone always sought to capture the ear of a duke.
Dukes had power.
/> He scowled at the middle-aged woman who had caught him in her trap and then proceeded to carry on about the daughter positioned to her left. Robert couldn’t remember either of their names, and he had no intention of doing so.
It wasn’t that Robert lacked the necessary skills to carry on a proper conversation. Indeed, he was quite an accomplished conversationalist. However, he could not care less about what either lady before him had to say. That, and his mind was decidedly elsewhere.
It could not be more painfully obvious the purpose this house party served. How could it not be, after all? It had been dubiously obvious since the moment his mother first mentioned it to him, followed on the heels with the news of Lady Rosalyn’s fast approaching come-out. They might be neighbors but he’d had no acquaintance with the family since he was a boy, so why else would they reach out now?
Clearly, it was just as obvious to his fellow guests.
It was upon this occasion that he was to meet his future bride for the first time, as an adult. They were to become acquainted and he was to propose marriage.
Just like their marriage, their meeting and subsequent proposal had all but been planned. Perhaps, he thought rather bleakly, their parents would arrange their wedding and wedding breakfast as well. And while they were at it, why not let them plan the wedding night.
Robert shuddered.
Could it be possible that just yesterday he had been holding Rose in his arms, desiring never to let her go? And now he was to meet and marry a cold, proper lady.
A cold, proper lady who could not even find the due courtesy to greet her guests as they arrived.
Lady Rosalyn was, of course, not present for tea either—an absence which was noticed by more than just he. The room was buzzing with gossip, for everyone knew that Lady Rosalyn was to make her come-out shortly and that she was kind-of, sort-of, completely meant to marry The Duke, as they all referred to him when they thought he couldn’t hear.
He ground his teeth together, pressing his lips into a severe line. The woman before him, finally recognizing his bleak mood, extricated herself—and her daughter—from his presence, leaving Robert once again alone with his thoughts which were none too pleasant.
She was making him look a fool. Lady Rosalyn, that is.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched the rotund, red-faced Baron eat half a biscuit in one bite and accept yet another cup of tea from Lady Blythe with his free hand.
Good God, was that his fifth cup? Or was this now his sixth?
It was no wonder the man looked as though the buttons on his waist coat were ready to burst and take out an unsuspecting eye in the process. With the amount he ate he no doubt had to make weekly visits to the tailors to have his clothes taken out and made to fit once more.
Of course, it wasn’t Lord Stratham’s fault for Robert’s foul mood.
And he wasn’t so much annoyed with Lady Rosalyn’s lack of presence either. It was good that she was not here, for every second that she delayed was one more that he did not have to endure her company.
No, what had Robert in such a foul disposition that made even his tea taste of disgust upon his tongue, was that the Blythe’s were trying to force him to marry her at all.
Robert didn’t much care for the thought of living the remainder of his life shackled to an emotionless board. Though, he would have made the best of the situation. He would have tried in earnest to make Lady Rosalyn appeasing, desirable. He had enough practice with the female sex that he knew he could lure a great deal of passion out of a woman. If he could draw that same passion out of his wife, then life wouldn’t be quite so bad.
If their relationship worked only in the bedroom, that would be sufficient.
But, he thought rather miserably, if she was the same in the bedroom as the rest of the ladies of the ton were during the day, then their marriage would be a dismal one indeed.
He could not bear the thought of spending his marriage forever wanting something that his wife did not have the ability to give. And for all the wickedness his reputation bore, he took the sacrament of marriage seriously enough. He would not disgrace it by taking a mistress.
Though, perhaps he would have no other choice.
He wouldn’t think on that. Not now. Not any longer.
He was embarrassed—an emotion he was neither familiar with nor pleased to bear—knowing that everyone in the room was watching him quite cleverly so that he never actually saw them looking but could still feel their curious stares just the same.
It was all because of her.
Oh, yes, they would have gossiped if Lady Rosalyn were here. They would have commented on what she was wearing, and how they interacted with each other—all done discreetly, of course—but it would not have been the same. Now they had only him upon which to feast, and how his wife-to-be could not even brave a mild-headache to finally feast her eyes upon him.
He may not want to marry the lady, but neither did his pride wish to be mortally wounded by her lack of etiquette.
Robert scoffed.
That version of events—the version that was being whispered about the room, that Lady Rosalyn was suffering from a headache—was embarrassing enough as it was, and it wasn’t even the truth.
Lady Rosalyn was not in bed nursing a headache.
He had seen a vision of a woman, tall and proud in a saddle, just outside the stables as his carriage pulled up the drive. It was impossible to mistake her for anything but a lady. She looked formidable, staring up at the house with a ferocity that could not be mistaken, even at a distance. For the second he had glimpsed her out his window, he felt that he could not peel his eyes from her.
There was something in her eyes, something familiar. Though, truth be told, he couldn’t actually see her eyes.
But when he descended the steps of the carriage, she was sparring her heels into the sides of the animal and stampeding in the direction opposite. Her green frock became all but a blur and Robert couldn’t help but watch as she disappeared from sight.
Lost in his reverie, Robert’s jaw as hardened against the lady as his heart. Staring out one of the large windows that looked out upon the tall trees sprouting with fresh green leaves, Robert hardly noticed Lady Blythe’s approach until she was at his elbow.
“Your Grace,” she curtsied.
“Lady Blythe,” Robert murmured in return.
“I’ve been neglecting you,” she said with great drama. “Try as I might, every time I turned a toe in your direction I seemed to run into a new conversation that delayed my approach. I feel positively ashamed. Do let me introduce you to all of my acquaintances.” Lady Blythe flourished her arm, indicating the roomful of people.
Robert stopped himself just short of groaning. He could make up an excuse—any excuse—and be on his way hence. But such would be rude. And he was anything but that. He might have an icy demeanor that he portrayed to keep others at arm’s length, but he couldn’t very well do the same to his host. Like it or not, he needed her. If he openly spurned her, he would never get what it was that he now sought, and then the good of his well-being, and his dukedom, would both be thrown into jeopardy.
Besides, his own mother was staring at him quite intently from across the room, her eyes not quite the same ice-blue daggers as his but still thick with a warning of what he stood to lose if he displeased Lord and Lady Blythe, and a reminder of his breeding, the gentleman she’d raised him to be.
And so, even though he had no doubt been introduced to every lord and lady in the room at some time or another, he offered Lady Blythe his arm and allowed her to usher him about the room, introducing him to what seemed like the entire ton. There had to be no less than fifty in attendance.
Actually, ushering was quite the most inappropriate word. It was more like she was dragging him around the room like he was a doll. It was maddening, and more than once Robert found himself devising schemes in his head to unhand himself from her grasp and make a hasty retreat back to the safety of Br
ighton Castle.
If only he didn’t need this family so very much, he might have.
After five minutes, he hardly heard what Lady Blythe said, or the words of greeting spoken by his new acquaintances. And after forty-five such acquaintances, he was completely unaware of what was even flowing from his own lips in acknowledgment to each new face standing before him.
He was itching to move, to be away from this place, these people, this woman. The ladies were insufferable, fawning over him like a puppy. Mama’s pushing their daughters in front of him and listing off their myriad of minor accomplishments—as if one could even consider playing the pianoforte an accomplishment rather than a mere ability, for he doubted there was a Mozart among their ranks. As if all of them didn’t already know who he was to marry.
All the while, Lady Blythe was eating it up. She looked at him like he was a meal. Perhaps he was. He may not be a considerably wealthy duke thanks to his father’s incompetence, but he was wealthy enough, and even if he weren’t, the title alone was enough to draw a vast amount of attention.
“…postponed.”
Robert caught exactly the last word from Lady Blythe’s mouth and realized that he was supposed to be listening. He was usually quite skilled at listening while his mind found itself elsewhere, but he hadn’t the patience for it today.
Robert cocked his head to the side, in an arrogant fashion, and raised a brow in question. “Hmm?” he inquired. He did not attempt to hide his bemusement. He was a duke after all, it wasn’t expected that he hang on every word of every “lesser” equal.
Lady Blythe patted his arm in that maternal fashion that made all men feel like little boys. He looked down upon the gesture disdainfully, spurring Lady Blythe to remove her gloved hand at once.
“I was saying,” she began again, lending a smile to her overly animated voice, “how I had planned a tour of the house for this afternoon and that I do apologize that it has to be postponed.”
He acknowledged her statement by raising yet another arrogant brow.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 15