Rosamund tilted her head, and the lace edges of her collar prickled her neck.
Somerville chuckled. His laugh was velvety and warm. “Miss Amberly seems to have succeeded in banishing that memory from her mind. I must confess, I’d forgotten it as well. I believe we were searching for speckled toads. London, I’m afraid, is rather limited in its variety of animals.”
“You should get my darling niece to draw one for you,” Aunt Lavinia said. “She is a most talented artist. And she has even learned to swim.”
“Indeed?” Somerville’s eyes flared again, and heat rushed through Rosamund.
“Personally I consider swimming to not belong in a lady’s repertoire,” Aunt Lavinia sniffed. “Yet society’s rules are rather laxer here, and her parents had a desire to keep her alive.”
“I am most appreciative of her continued presence,” Somerville murmured.
“Anyway,” Rosamund hastened to say. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your book on zoology was most fascinating, and I am certain you are on your way to creating another venerable work.”
Somerville blinked.
Aunt Lavinia chuckled. “I suspect the earl is mostly accustomed to being lauded by men.”
Heat prickled the back of Rosamund’s neck, but she held her head steady. “You should not underestimate us Yorkshire women.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Somerville said.
“Why, my sister is most intellectual,” Rosamund said, remembering the person whose skills she should be extolling.
“I have no doubt.” Somerville took a seat in an armchair. He crossed his legs, and Rosamund averted her gaze as his breeches tightened and revealed muscular thighs. Her collar definitely seemed too tight.
But of course Somerville would remember Fiona. The two had been closer in age. When Rosamund had been following the others around, needing to be rescued and looked after, Fiona had been an equal.
“I am happy we can become better acquainted,” Somerville said, and his lips spread into a wide smile more suited to an angel than a scientist.
Rosamund’s heart rate escalated, and she turned her head away lest she dwell on the pleasing width of the man’s broad shoulders.
“I would love to learn more about the area. It’s been so long since I last visited.”
She nodded, aware his mother’s family had lived near her, though they had since passed away.
“There’s something quite appealing about the Yorkshire accent.” His eyes sparkled, and Rosamund tightened her fingers around Aunt Lavinia’s teacup, as if that might lessen the warmth that continued to prickle the back of her neck at his every glance.
“And now is the perfect time for a break,” he continued, at least seeming oblivious to the effects the velvety sound of his voice had on her.
“The poor earl has rather confined himself in the library,” Aunt Lavinia added. “I’m so happy the baronet has been able to provide him with some company.”
Somerville nodded, and she wondered just how amiable he found her uncle’s often brusque manner.
“I have the fondest memories of playing with your sister, and I am happy to become acquainted with you as well.”
Rosamund was grateful the earl did not muse on his delight that Rosamund had now mastered the art of speaking in full sentences and had not appeared in a grass-stained dress and floppy straw hat.
The man was unfailingly polite. Gallant and courteous. He would make a perfect fiancé. For Fiona. Naturally. Not her, definitely not her.
She cleared her throat and averted her eyes from her aunt’s far too startled gaze.
After all, he’d just spoken affectionately of his memories of Fiona. Rosamund recalled falling into the pond now. She’d been fond of following her sister and him about, though they’d considered her too little to allow her to join them.
“You really should call on Fiona,” she said.
He gave a polite nod. “Yes, perhaps when I make more progress on my next book. It would be nice to see her before I depart.”
Her mind grasped for an excuse to have him spend time with Fiona.
And then she found it. She managed not to smile, but there was a reason people came to her for matchmaking advice. “I wanted to invite you to take part in a play.”
Aunt Lavinia set down her teacup with a clatter.
“A play?” Somerville repeated.
Rosamund nodded. “Oh yes, indeed. It’s tradition. I so hope you can participate.”
“This is news to me,” Aunt Lavinia said.
“It’s one of the newer traditions,” Rosamund added. “One must make one’s own entertainment in the countryside, when one doesn’t have access to London’s festivities.”
“I suppose so,” Somerville said slowly.
“And the play is most in want of a hero. I do hope you might consider joining us. My sister will be the heroine.” She paused. “I am certain you would be an ideal hero.”
“Oh?” Somerville’s cheeks darkened, and this time Rosamund was certain his pupils had enlarged.
“There are some people who may find your facial structure appealing.” She shrugged, as if to stress that she absolutely did not belong in that category. Thank goodness her voice did not quiver.
“Indeed?”
“Er . . . yes, indeed.” Rosamund plunged her eyelashes downward. No need to linger on the delight her words seemed to have given him.
“In that case I will be delighted to offer my services,” Somerville said.
“Good.” Rosamund rose.
Somerville rose and swooped down into an elegant bow that emphasized his muscular body and the pleasing cuts of his attire. It was all Rosamund could do to remember to say farewell to her aunt as she hastened from the manor house.
Chapter Four
“He agreed,” Rosamund said, settling into a chair in the drawing room.
“Mmm . . . hm,” Fiona murmured, not lifting her head from her book, The Wild and Wondrous Romans.
Truly, her sister and the earl were exceptionally well suited. Even if love never struck them for some unfathomable reason, it wouldn’t matter, for they’d always be working.
Now she just needed to convince Fiona to be the heroine in the play.
“Lord Somerville,” Rosamund said. “Your childhood friend.”
Fiona raised her head. “Marcus? What did he agree to?”
Rosamund inhaled. “How would you like to be in a play?”
“No, thank you.” Fiona laughed and scribbled something with her quill.
Rosamund succeeded in retaining a smile. “I would love to put one on. Other people do it.”
She may never have attended the season, and she may not have traveled farther than Harrogate, but everyone adored the theatre. Though she had never actually been invited to a party at a country home, she did know that putting on plays was a frequent practice. There was no reason in the world why she might not do the same thing.
“I am most in need of a heroine,” Rosamund continued, and Fiona gazed up. “You are very good at memorization, and I—I would find it most enjoyable to design the sets.”
“Right.” Fiona straightened. “I suppose if you truly desire—”
“I think Somerville would make a very suitable emperor. Or Roman god.”
Fiona blinked.
“Those dark features. Quite appropriate for Olympus.”
Fiona raised her eyebrows.
“Rather Mediterranean,” Rosamund stammered.
She didn’t like Somerville in such a manner. She must remember that.
Fiona shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since he was ten.”
No need to explain to Fiona that Somerville would be Fiona’s future husband and that she would see very much of him in the future. News like that had a tendency to make a woman nervous.
“When he learned you would play the heroine, he seemed quite pleased at the opportunity of playing the hero.”
“That can’t be true.” Fiona tilted her head. “Though we were once very
good friends.”
“Wonderful,” Rosamund squeaked, recalling the earl’s flush and obvious pleasure earlier today. “Tomorrow we’ll start putting on the theatrical show.”
In the meantime, she had a play to choose, a set to build, and costumes to make. She smiled. She enjoyed being busy, but she’d never been so grateful for an opportunity to occupy herself.
*
The following day, rain pattered against the stained-glass windows and gusts of wind tore leaves down with such force that Rosamund wondered whether Somerville would decide to postpone his visit.
She’d spent the day painting. Her sister had informed her that the only accurate attire for Roman gods would be togas, and in the end they’d chosen a medieval play with which they would have less chance of scandalizing Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia.
A knock sounded on the door, and Evans cleared his throat. “Lord Somerville is here.”
Rosamund set down her sewing and her gaze flickered to her hands. Dabs of paint speckled her fingers, and she’d chosen one of her plainest frocks.
She shook her head. Never mind how she looked. The earl hadn’t come to see her.
The man strode into the room.
Columns of gold buttons glimmered from his woolen jacket, emphasizing the width of his chest. He was all Corinthian, and his cheeks were as pink as if he’d stepped from the racket court. He headed for her, and she just had time to note his height, and the way he managed to loom above her, before he dipped into a bow.
Goodness, her sister was a fortunate woman.
A ridiculous urge to trace the elaborate curves of his snowy-white cravat overcame her, and warmth rushed to her cheeks. Rosamund started her curtsy a second too late, and her heart continued to hammer.
Well, his opinion of her was largely irrelevant. She was the younger sister, the sister-in-law to be, the person whom Fiona and the earl might discuss together for the rest of their lives.
“Hello.” He beamed at her. His eyes were warm, brown mixed with gold flecks, and Rosamund had to fight the urge to smile back into them.
Goodness, she hadn’t imagined the velvety sound of his voice. Not at all. Underestimated it if anything. A shiver coursed through her body, and she darted her hand to her chest as if to check if it was still beating. “I’ll find my sister.”
His eyes flickered with uncertainty, and her cheeks heated. “Forgive me. Do take a seat, my lord. I’ll get Cook to prepare some tea and sweets. Or do you prefer chocolate?”
For whatever reason, she found herself babbling in his presence. She turned abruptly. Cook could prepare everything; this man deserved it all.
Her sister would be a lucky woman, once she and Somerville realized their supreme suitability.
Fiona entered the room, dropping into an appropriately-timed curtsy. Somerville gave her a deep bow, and something in Rosamund’s heart panged. Her older sister seemed at ease with him, perhaps a fact generated by all the time they’d spent playing together in the mud. Rosamund gripped onto her armrests. She’d never toppled from a chair before, but in the presence of Lord Somerville’s courtship of her sister, the barriers seemed of some use.
“How are you, Miss Amberly?” The earl’s voice continued to be warm and courteous.
Fiona dipped her head, and the two were soon having a passionate discussion of the weather and the possibility of procuring more snow than the year previous. The farmers had noted a profusion of red berries nestled in the hedges, something which tended to be followed by a profusion of snow. Fiona and Somerville determined that it would be best to wait to see what happened and mused about the merits of tracking the link between the red berries and snow, and how they might best accomplish the necessary measurements and calculations.
Rosamund had been wrong. If the two married, they would never want for conversation.
Fiona’s and Somerville’s banter didn’t manage to fill her with quite as much happiness as she’d anticipated. Rosamund’s chest tightened, and she strove to remind herself that this was exactly what she’d desired.
No matter. This was about Fiona, not herself.
Not that the conversation seemed particularly romantic. Somerville was recounting his skills in catching frogs as a child, and Fiona was remarking on her past habit of stuffing them in her hat, all the better to startle her aunt and uncle.
“Now tell me about this play.” Somerville directed his attention to Rosamund. “Did you write it?”
She smiled. “I’m no writer. Really—Fiona is the gifted one of us.”
And it was true. Fiona had excelled in the lessons their governess had assigned, memorizing details with little effort. Rosamund had preferred running about outside, exploring every valley, striving to copy the curve of every flower with her watercolors.
“We’ve chosen one of Loretta Van Lochen’s plays,” Fiona said.
“Ah,” Somerville said. “I must confess an unfamiliarity with that scribe.”
Rosamund recounted the plot, the oft-tragic tale of a beautiful young Frenchwoman.
“Rather like The Mysteries of Udolpho.”
“We’ve shortened the cast,” Fiona said.
“In addition,” Rosamund said, “the story is not set in the Apennines and Pyrenees. It is set entirely in the Alps.”
Somerville nodded gravely. “Then it is quite different indeed.”
Rosamund’s lips twitched. “I would not have needed to use as much white paint, were it set elsewhere.”
Somerville’s gaze dropped to her still-stained hands.
Fiona smiled. “My sister is an excellent artist.”
“Your aunt mentioned,” Somerville said.
Rosamund shrugged. “I am grateful to live in Yorkshire. The Dales are beautiful.”
Fiona laughed. “Rosamund finds beauty in everything. Even insects and reptiles.”
“Indeed?”
“The variety of colors and the novel forms are intriguing,” Rosamund said, conscious that her skin likely verged on a pink shade.
Somerville smiled. “I’ve never heard a lady say that before. I agree completely.”
“You’ve rather made a name of yourself for your study of species,” Fiona said.
“Perhaps.” Somerville’s gaze continued to rest on Rosamund. “You are fortunate to live in this area.”
“Oh, I do adore it,” Rosamund replied.
“You are not in a rush to visit London?”
Her smile wobbled. She had dreamed of life in the large city. Perhaps she might visit after her sister married. Fiona had cut her own season short, and she did not speak highly of the city. “I must confess to some curiosity, but I am content with my family.”
Marcus nodded solemnly. “That is admirable. You are fortunate to be so close to them. I have always had a fondness for your sister and grandmother.”
She nodded, and a lump in her throat thickened.
“I must show you some of her work.” Fiona clapped her hands. “My sister is skilled with oils as well as watercolors. I was quite impressed with her portrait of me.”
“I would be delighted to see that.” Somerville brightened as they departed the room.
Rosamund followed them into the corridor, observing as Fiona showed Somerville various paintings.
Fiona gestured to her. “Come, dear.”
Rosamund joined them, though Somerville’s eyes did not turn to her. They remained fixed on her sister’s portrait, and the earl appeared fascinated. His gaze seemed to roam over each curve of Fiona’s face. “How beautiful.”
“You’ve done her hair remarkably well.” Finally, Somerville turned to her, and even though his cheeks were flushed from seeing Fiona in all her finery, Rosamund still shivered.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered.
“The detail on these curls. It must have been quite difficult.” Somerville returned his glance to the painting. “And the dress. It appears almost satin-like. Her skin is luminous. You’ve captured her freckles too. So very marvelous.”
/>
Rosamund reminded herself that this was just what she’d longed for. “My sister is most beautiful.”
Somerville’s eyes roamed the crisscrossings of oil paint. “Yes, indeed.”
Rosamund swallowed hard.
Fiona had laughed and jested with Somerville today, even if Rosamund hadn’t convinced her sister she should abandon her half-mourning clothes. That would happen later. The main thing was that her sister was happy.
“Shall we begin practicing?” Fiona asked.
“Certainly.” Somerville smiled.
This was everything Rosamund had hoped for, but somehow the happiness she should have felt, the happiness she knew she must be experiencing, was not as pleasant as she’d envisioned.
Chapter Five
Marcus prided himself on knowing his mind. It was what had sustained him while studying science, even when his peers threw themselves into frequenting gaming halls and indulging in all manner of vices.
He knew two things, each fact as clear as the rules of mathematics:
1.) He abhorred acting and dreaded the eventual performance before the sisters’ relatives.
2.) He was determined to marry Miss Rosamund Amberly.
They’d spent every day together, laughing and chatting. Rosamund would paint, and Marcus and Fiona would rehearse their lines. Sometimes the sisters would ply him with questions about his scientific research. Both seemed genuinely interested in his studies of animals, and he’d convinced Rosamund to show him her sketchbook, which was every bit as wondrous as he’d imagined.
Rosamund was perfect, completely and utterly. In his dreams they would wander the Dales together. Perhaps sometimes they would venture to the Moors. And since the war had finally ended, they might even travel to the continent. He would work on categorizing the various species, and she would draw.
Unfortunately, recently it was becoming dashed difficult to find the chit. Most days the women’s grandmother chaperoned when he rehearsed his lines with the elder Miss Amberly. The only thing that made Rosamund’s absence bearable was that she did not then need to witness him transforming into a stammering mess in her presence as his affection had grown.
The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) Page 3