“I have no idea how to make a love spell.” Rosalind laughed. “Wherever did you get the idea?”
“You’re a witch. Everyone knows witches sell love charms along with dark spells. The cows on Mansfield’s estate have gone dry.” She thrust a finger at Rosalind in dramatic statement. “Are you responsible?”
Rosalind rolled her eyes just as the music of the harpsichord came to a crashing halt. She picked up her fan and opened it with a snap.
“What’s going on?” Lady Augusta’s strident tones snapped across the parlor.
Rosalind knew she must face the charge without a flinch. She might not be able to stop the gossip in the village, but she could halt it here. “Lady Sophia was kind enough to repeat some unpleasant gossip doing the rounds in the village.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Wright stepped up beside Rosalind. “I’ve never heard so much nonsense in all my life. How could anyone think Lady Hastings is a witch? She’s an angel. Only yesterday my husband commented on how good she is in treating the sick in the village.”
“Have those silly rumors about witchcraft surfaced again?” Lady Augusta demanded. “Stuff and nonsense! I expected better of you all. Lady Sophia, will you honor us with a rendition on the harpsichord? I’d like you to play a lullaby, if you please.”
Lady Sophia’s scowl and flashing eyes suggested Rosalind hadn’t heard the end of the matter. She swept away in a swish of skirts to seat herself at the harpsichord.
Rosalind sat to take the weight off her aching ankle and knee and plied her fan vigorously. Maybe she could fan away her apprehension. “Thank you for your defense, Mrs. Wright.”
“Call me Katherine. Please.” Katherine arranged her skirts so they wouldn’t crease. “Lady Sophia is spreading wicked gossip. I grew up in a village called Little Neston in Cheshire. When I was ten, one of the old women in the village was accused of witchcraft.” Katherine’s voice trembled. “I heard my parents talking. She wasn’t a witch. She was eccentric, but we all have our quirks. Stephen says we must accept each other’s shortcomings.”
Rosalind nodded, smiling inwardly at Katherine’s speech. The minister’s wife never said much, but it was obvious she felt strongly on this matter.
The door of the parlor opened and the gentlemen drifted inside.
“Rosalind, how are you feeling?”
“I am fine, Mansfield, thank you.” She set her fan on her lap.
Charles sauntered up to them, holding his quizzing glass high. “Devilish clumsy, aren’t you?”
“And you’re no gentleman, commenting on the fact.” Rosalind folded her fan with a flick of her wrist and stood.
“Are you going to sulk?” Interest colored Mansfield’s voice.
“No, I’m not! The two of you are impossible.”
“Just like my brothers,” Katherine said. “Always teasing.”
Rosalind turned to Katherine, surprised she was actually contributing to the conversation. “I’m an only child. I grew up with my cousin Miranda. I’ve no experience with brothers.”
“Lucky you didn’t grow up with us around,” Charles said with a grin. “We would have dared you to climb trees and crawl through dark passages. You’re so clumsy, we’d have been forever rescuing you.”
There was a moment’s startled silence, then the four of them laughed aloud.
“What’s the joke?” Lucien asked, coming up beside Rosalind.
The casual slide of his arm around her waist caused a hitch in her breath. She breathed carefully, savoring his closeness. “They’re laughing at my expense,” she said, shaking her head in mock sadness.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Katherine tense at Lucien’s appearance. Her gaze held both fascinated horror and pity. If Lucien saw, he gave no indication, but Rosalind felt irritation. It was a scar, that was all. He wasn’t a monster or a freak for people to pity. He was her husband. She rested her gloved hand on his arm to align her loyalties.
“Is your knee paining you? Your ankle?”
His warm, moist breath blew against her cheek, drawing a sweet shudder. In truth, her knee and ankle were both throbbing and, since the hour grew late, Rosalind had no compunction in retiring before the guests called for their carriages to leave. “I am a trifle sore.” The moment she uttered the words, the aches intensified. “Nothing some salve and rest won’t cure.”
“Come, say your good-nights, and I’ll escort you to your chamber.”
“Good night, Katherine. Thank you for keeping me company. Mansfield. Charles. No doubt I will see you on the morrow.”
After further farewells, Lucien and Rosalind left the parlor and made their way through the Long Gallery. At the base of the stairs, Lucien paused. “Would you like me to carry you?”
“I’ll manage.”
Lucien took one look at her pinched face and lifted her into his arms. She felt so tiny cradled next to his chest, a sensation he’d become used to recently. His English mouse possessed strength of character that made the rest of the women in the parlor look ordinary. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore her charms.
He paused outside Rosalind’s chamber to open the door. A sound coming from inside the room made him halt.
Rosalind tugged his sleeve in a silent demand for him to put her down. Lucien frowned and indicated with a hand gesture for her to stay outside. He moved silently into the chamber. A whisper of silk behind him made his teeth clench.
Rosalind sidled up to him and tugged on his sleeve once more. “Who is it?” Her blue eyes flashed excitement, and Lucien groaned inwardly.
“Stay there,” he mouthed.
A flurry of movement coming from Rosalind’s dressing room made her leap into action.
“If someone is destroying my clothes again I’m going to scream.” She limped past Lucien, evading his grasp and shot into the dressing room.
“Damn.” Lucien hurried after her to avert further injury.
Rosalind slammed to a halt. “What on earth do you think you are doing?” Her severe voice sounded surprisingly like Lady Augusta at her most imperious. Her eyes narrowed a second before she darted from sight, then a feminine screech rent the air, loud enough to make his ears ring.
“What’s going on here?” Lucien burst through the doorway in time to see Rosalind grab the dark-haired maid by the shoulders, the one who was always dropping sly hints about joining him in his bed, and shake her vigorously.
“I asked you a question,” Rosalind snapped.
Beth glared at Rosalind, her mouth firmed in a stubborn line of mutiny.
“Tell me.” Rosalind shook the maid again.
“I came to turn down your bed and light the candles,” Beth said. “Ask Tickell. He sent me.”
“He told Maria to do it,” Rosalind countered, releasing her.
“No, he…How did you know?” The maid edged away.
“I just do.” Rosalind folded her arms and glared down her upturned nose, her chin jutting upward in a pugnacious manner.
Lucien bit back a smile. Rosalind was handling this interview well without his help. And she was right to question the maid. Several gowns lay on the floor in a puddle of silk, and the maid was still grasping a lacy shawl in her right hand.
“Would you like to hand over the knife from your pocket?” Rosalind’s tone was as pleasant as if she were breaking a fast with acquaintances.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rosalind pointed. “The knife in your pocket.”
The maid’s shoulders slumped. She yanked the knife from her pocket, and Lucien stood poised, ready to intercede should she threaten Rosalind.
“They’re right,” Beth said with a snarl. “You are a witch.”
Lucien took two steps forward, but Rosalind stilled him with a look.
She grabbed the maid’s forearm. “Who says I’m a witch? Who’s spouting such falsehoods?”
Beth tried to ease from Rosalind’s grip. “I have more rooms to ready for the guests. Tickell said I
have to finish them by midnight.”
“You’re going to clean up the mess here first,” Rosalind said. “But before you do that, you’re going to tell me who suggested you destroy my gowns. I presume it was you who ransacked my room last week. You must have laughed when I asked you to help me clean up the mess. How much did Lady Sophia pay you?”
The maid gasped. The color fled her cheeks, leaving her pasty white.
Lucien leaned against the doorframe and waited. He hoped Rosalind knew what she was doing, because when she blurted out things like that without warning, damned if she didn’t sound like a witch.
Beth refused to meet Rosalind’s gaze. She mumbled under her breath and this time Lucien heard Rosalind gasp.
“You were responsible for me falling down the stairs tonight. Why?”
“I was not!”
But one look at the maid’s face told Lucien she was guilty. She had caused Rosalind’s fall.
Lucien closed the distance between himself and the two women. Fury whipped him at the idea of losing Rosalind. Francesca’s death had been bad enough, but to lose another wife was unthinkable. “You could have killed Lady Hastings.”
“I think that was the idea,” Rosalind said. A look passed between them requiring no words.
“Don’t joke.” Lucien turned a glare on the hapless maid. “Why?”
Beth tossed her head and tried to tug free of Rosalind. “Let me go. I haven’t done anything.”
Rosalind’s mouth firmed. Lucien watched her tense then relax. She loosened her grip on the maid. “Go,” she said. “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”
About to protest, Lucien snapped his mouth shut when he saw the warning Rosalind sent him.
Freed, the maid shot past them. Her hurried footsteps resounded as she raced across the room. The door creaked and slammed, indicating her exit.
Lucien stepped from the cramped dressing room into the more spacious chamber. “Do you think she was acting on her own or is someone paying her to cause mischief?”
“Lady Sophia paid her.” Rosalind settled onto a wooden chair with a relieved sigh. She rubbed at her knee through her skirts and winced. “I feel as if I’ve been used for target practice. I think my bruises have bruises. I’ll talk to Lady Sophia in the morning. She won’t get away with this.”
Lucien frowned. “She didn’t admit that Lady Sophia paid her. Why are you so sure Lady Sophia is responsible?”
Rosalind’s eyes flashed. “Because I read the maid’s thoughts. Lady Sophia is responsible.”
“You read her mind?” Lucien seized Rosalind’s words and threw them back at her in clear disbelief.
Rosalind’s glance contained a mixture of guilt and frustration, tinged with something that looked like hope.
She read the maid’s mind? How was that possible? He laughed and heard uneasiness in the sound, the shock and disbelief. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No,” Rosalind said, holding his gaze and maintaining it with a steady look. “I have…a gift. Sometimes I’m able to read minds. My grandmother had the same gift.”
Lucien felt an urgent need to move, so he walked to the door and returned. “How does this gift work?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I…it seems unusual.” He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of her eavesdropping on his thoughts. She’d said she could only read people sometimes. Hope surged and withered at her look of sympathy. “You can read my mind.”
“Mostly.”
Lucien stiffened. “So you know of my past.” Her knowledge of his inner thoughts seemed obtrusive.
She met his gaze fearlessly. “Yes.”
He compressed his mouth. “Good night, Rosalind.” He strode to the door connecting their chambers and jerked it open. It was only with the greatest willpower that he didn’t slam the door shut. God forbid, he wanted to. He paced the length of his chamber, ignoring the luxurious surroundings and the softness of the Persian rug beneath his shoes.
What the hell was he going to do?
The door burst open before he could even begin to think.
“Don’t walk away like that.” Rosalind limped into his chamber, her blue eyes blazing fire.
The door slammed behind her, and Lucien suppressed a flash of dark humor. He’d restrained his temper while she hadn’t even tried.
“How would you feel if I knew your every thought and not one single thing was private? You’d hate it,” Lucien answered his own question.
Rosalind’s chin jerked upward. “I don’t know your every thought.”
“That’s not what you said before.”
“I said I knew your thoughts, but only if I’m touching you. I don’t know what you’re thinking now.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Although I could take a guess. Do you think I enjoy knowing what the maid thinks, what Lady Augusta thinks? All my life this gift has set me apart. Do you think I want to be different from everyone else? Do you think I want people to look at me and call me witch? Why do you think I wear gloves most of the time?” She paused, her chest heaving with indignation. “The only reason I’m trying to read people now is so I can discover who killed Mary and who’s trying to hurt us.”
Lucien stiffened. Us. “Don’t,” he snarled. “It’s too dangerous.” The idea of taking responsibility for another death appalled him.
She approached him and stopped an arm’s length away, so close he smelled flowers on her skin and hair. “Do you think the accidents have something to do with Francesca’s death?” She stepped even closer until a mere hand span separated them.
Hearing Francesca’s name on Rosalind’s lips shocked him. Pain, sharp and jagged, wrenched his heart, and the ring of truth made him draw a sharp breath. It was obvious she was using her gift, trying to help him locate Francesca’s murderer, even though it put her in danger. The selfless act battered down the last flimsy defenses he’d erected between them.
“Hell, Rosalind.” His voice broke on her name. He closed the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around her body and drawing her to his chest. He smoothed his hand over her hair and noticed it trembled. He moved it again, smoothing and petting, savoring the softness of her. It was a long time since someone had looked at him with such belief. He pressed a kiss to the fragrant blond hair at her temple. He didn’t know how he’d inspired such loyalty in not one, but two women. But he had, and it was a precious gift—a second chance at love—if he wanted to take it.
“Lucien?” Her upturned face shone with trust, but underlying the conviction was clear determination.
Lucien sighed. He just knew she was going to be difficult about staying out of his investigation. “Yes?”
“I would like to have a child.”
Her words were like a spear piercing his heart. Sudden and unexpected. Painful.
“No,” he said harshly. He wrenched away from the temptation to seize her in his arms and offer comfort. Guilt and confusion made him unable to face her hurt expression.
“Why not?”
She’d had to ask. The raw emotion he’d held in check since Francesca’s death bubbled out before he could stop it. “Because I don’t want to go through the same thing all over again. I don’t want my wife and child to die and leave me alone.”
Chapter Sixteen
Harsh finality enveloped his voice. Rosalind felt her uncertain grasp on her dreams slipping. Her stomach roiled with fear, followed swiftly by anger. She’d fought for everything in life. Why should the fight for Lucien’s attention be any different?
So, she’d resort to her original plan and seduce him. Not that she knew how to go about a seduction. However, she’d watched her cousin flirt with male visitors often enough. Men flocked to Miranda in the hope of her bestowing them with one of her pretty smiles or a gurgle of laughter. It would work. It has to work.
She turned to face her brooding husband. Ignoring the nervous stutters inside her chest, she said, “I’m frightened to sleep on my own. Can I sleep in yo
ur chamber again tonight?”
At first, she thought he’d balk at her suggestion. His muscular body stiffened beneath the black jacket. Hands fisted at his sides until he caught her watching him. He flung off his tenseness as easily as she discarded a shawl, except in his eyes. They still held pain and wariness. Rosalind edged closer. Before the thought even entered her head, she reached out to offer comfort.
“Don’t touch me.” Lucien wrenched away before her hand contacted his skin.
Pain sliced through her. Another rejection. Her throat closed up with a giant knot of emotion. She wanted to rail and scream at the unfairness of the situation. Why had it been her who received the gift and not Miranda? Gift! Huh! It was a curse that kept coming back to haunt her with the regularity of the monsters in Mary’s ghostly tales.
She turned away to hurry for the door connecting their chambers before Lucien witnessed the tears leaking from her eyes. The only good thing about her gift was she knew for sure Lady Sophia was directly responsible for a lot of the occurrences since her arrival at Castle St. Clare. She’d paid maids and some of the other servants to make life difficult for her. Rosalind had her suspicions why but needed to confront the woman to confirm plain jealousy was responsible. Lady Sophia coveted Lucien’s title and would do anything to remove her.
Huh! Rosalind tried to dislodge the achy lump in her throat with a swallow. Lady Sophia would laugh hysterically if she learned Lucien didn’t want her, that he consistently pushed her away.
“Wait.” He caught her upper arm and forced her to stop. His hand dropped away the instant she halted.
“I don’t bite,” she snapped.
Lucien raked a hand through his hair, leaving dark tufts sticking out of his queue. “Hell. I’m sorry, but it’s difficult. This isn’t an ordinary situation.”
“I have to live with it every day.”
“Please, go ahead. Make me feel better,” he said in a dry tone.
Rosalind stared. Was that a twinkle lurking deep in his dark eyes? Had he made a joke?
“You can sleep in my chamber tonight.”
The Spurned Viscountess Page 21