Always a Scoundrel (13 page)

For a long moment, Phin stood where he was. Then he turned around and went back into the morning room for paper, ink, and pen. Bram embraced trouble, but clearly this was different. And worrisome. It seemed to be time to request reinforcements.
Whether Sullivan Waring disliked London or not, he was needed.

Rosamund held her sheets up to her nose and breathed in. Whether it was all in her imagination or not, Bram’s scent seemed to linger, a masculine smell of soap and leather.

Thank goodness he’d left, especially after that kiss. If he’d stayed…

She sat up, pushing the sheets aside and going to splash water from the wash basin on her face. If he’d stayed she would have begun listening to his advice about fleeing, and she would have done something foolish like begin to fall for a man with no clear allegiances or morals and very questionable taste in certain friends.

He’d done as she’d asked, and not only allowed her to best Cosgrove in the only way she could think of, but he’d also shown her what Cosgrove’s mysterious, awful-sounding threats had meant. She feared the act less now, though the thought of Cosgrove touching her as Bram had last night left her chilled and sick. So she’d exchanged one troubled thought for another, and at the moment she couldn’t say whether she was the better for it.

Except that she felt better inside. Stronger. She’d had no idea that intimacy with a man could feel as alive and wondrous as it had. Was it always that way? Or was it just because she’d been with Bram Johns? She hoped not, because after what she’d said to him last night, she wasn’t going to be seeing him again, for kisses or for anything else.

Her door opened. “Good morning, Lady Rose,” her
maid said, hurrying inside to pull open the curtains. “Your sister says you’re to join her for shopping.”

“Tell her I’ve an aching head, Martha,” Rose replied, collapsing back onto the bed. The last thing she wanted was to spend the morning being talked at by Beatrice. She wanted to think—though at this point she was in all likelihood beyond finding help through thought.

“She said you would say that, my lady, and that she won’t take no for an answer.”

“Come along, Rose,” Bea’s voice echoed up from downstairs at the tail end of Martha’s comment. “We have a great deal to do.”

“Oh, bother.” Dragging herself upright again, she went to her dressing table while Martha found her a suitable morning gown to wear. “Did she happen to mention what we’re to shop for?”

“I heard her telling your mother the countess that gathering her own wedding trousseau was such a delight, and she can’t wait to help you with yours.”

Rose’s response to that couldn’t be said in the maid’s presence if she wanted to retain her standing as a lady. Instead she sighed and picked up her hairbrush to begin combing out her hair—and looked down at Bram’s black leather gloves. With a squeak she swept them onto her lap.

“Is something amiss, my lady?”

“Oh, no. I hadn’t realized my hair was in such a state,” she offered, gesturing at the dressing mirror and making a face. “Would you open the windows? I feel the need for some fresh air.”

“Right away.”

As soon as Martha turned her back, Rose stood and
hurried over to shove the gloves into one of the less-used reticules in her wardrobe drawer. That done, she returned to her seat. “What time is it, anyway?” she asked.

“Half ten. You slept quite late.”

“I was quite tired.”

After she dressed in a white and yellow gown of sprigged muslin and Martha helped her put up her hair, she took a deep breath and went downstairs to the breakfast room. The rest of the family, including Bea and her husband Peter, Lord Fishton, sat around the table, chatting.

“There you are,” Beatrice trilled. She’d always been far too happy, and that trilling had only gotten worse once she’d married and begun producing offspring. “Do come sit beside me. I was beginning to think you meant to sleep the day away.”

“Apologies,” she returned, selecting her breakfast from the sideboard before she took her seat. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Is something troubling you, Rose?”

No, I had a man in my bed
. She looked at her sister for a moment. “Nothing other than the fact that I would prefer not to marry the Marquis of Cosgrove.”

“Oh, do stop complaining, dear,” her mother said airily. “You’re marrying a very wealthy and titled and handsome gentleman.”

Rose had her doubts about the “gentleman” part, but arguing was clearly useless when no one cared to see the truth. “Do you think it’s wise for me to purchase a trousseau when my engagement hasn’t yet been announced?”

“You need to have one, goose,” her sister countered.
“And Papa said that Lord Cosgrove means to marry you immediately after the end of the month.”

“Do we know Cosgrove’s politics?” Fishton asked abruptly.

“No, dear,” Beatrice answered. “We will discover them. Oh, perhaps we could meet Lord Cosgrove for luncheon. The more everyone sees you together, the better.”

“I don’t want to have luncheon with Cosgrove.” Just the thought of it spoiled her appetite for breakfast. “Why don’t you dine with him, Fishton, Papa? If he’s to be part of the family, the rest of you need to become better acquainted with him.”

Fishton nodded as he sipped his tea. “You know, that’s a fair idea, sister. The—”

“I say,” James put in around a mouthful of poached egg, “I did notice that you left me out of that invitation. But it just so happens that
I’m
having luncheon with Cosgrove, so if any of you want to join us, you’d best tell me.”

“Oh, we should all go,” Bea seconded, clapping her hands together.

While James and Beatrice compared the merits of various dining establishments, Rose picked at her buttered toast. Why was it that the only one who’d even suggested a way for her to escape this mess was someone of equally poor reputation? Busy as her thoughts were with planning how she could avoid luncheon with her future husband, this morning visions of coal black eyes and elegant hands and warm skin crowded out even the dread of Cosgrove. It helped, but for how long could she steel herself against one man with thoughts of another?

“No,” James was explaining, “he said something about fetching a special license from Canterbury. He said it would save waiting about for no good reason.”

“Then I hope he’s already begun making arrangements for a church. And if we’re to hold an engagement ball, I certainly need to know when he plans to make the announcement.”

A shudder ran through Rose at her mother’s pronouncement. “I know you all want everything to appear happy and proper,” she forced out, “but I would appreciate if in private you would at least acknowledge that you understand I would rather marry a fishmonger than Cosgrove.”

“What’s done is done,” Beatrice said in her bright voice. “And of course we know you’re not overly fond of him. But many a match has begun with bare acquaintance and ended in friendship and love.”

“And what of his reputation?” Rose pursued.

“His connection with us can only improve it. And he is a marquis, after all.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. It wasn’t that her family didn’t or couldn’t understand her reservations. It was that they understood them and set them aside as insignificant. She fell into the same category; nothing more than goods with which they could settle a gambling debt. Didn’t they see that she could run away if she chose to? That she’d decided instead to do as she always did—make certain everyone else was taken care of? For the first time she considered that a little blasted appreciation and gratitude might be appropriate.

“Then let’s be off and purchase my trousseau, shall we?” she said as she opened her eyes again. “Clearly there’s no reason to wait.”

“You’re being sarcastic,” Bea returned, standing, “but I shall ignore it until your spirits improve. James, we shall be on Bond Street. Send a note to Cosgrove about luncheon and then come and inform us.”

Anger tickled at the back of Rose’s skull. Before now she’d never minded that no one knew of her contributions to the household. She could see for herself that she’d done well—with the notable exception of James and his wagering. As far as her family was concerned, though, she’d been…invisible. Until now.

Once she left, they would notice her absence. At the moment she had a value—ten thousand pounds. And she felt more unappreciated than ever. Was she simply expecting too much of them? Or too little of herself?

For the next two and a half hours she followed Beatrice from shop to shop, collecting armfuls of bonnets, hair ribbons, night rails, shawls, and other baubles that had little importance to her and were even less her own taste. When Bea selected a particularly pink and frilly hat, she shook herself and attempted to distract Lady Fishton from it. That, at least, kept her from dwelling on the fact that in less than twenty minutes she would be sitting across a table from Kingston Gore.

The very pink and very frilly matron’s cap went into a hatbox and into her arms—and then vanished.

“This is interesting,” a deep, familiar drawl came from beside her. Bram held the hat up in his fingers, looking at it as if it were some kind of insect.

The hairs on her arms lifted, warmth flowing like liquid fire down her spine. Rose took a hard beat of her heart to compose herself, then turned to face him. “What are—” She stopped, surprise pushing at her. “What are you wearing?”

He looked down at himself. “Clothes.”

Rose reached out and touched a finger to his chest. “Your waistcoat is gray.”

Black eyes, amusement in their depths, regarded her. “Dark gray. And you should probably stop touching me.”

Oh, dear
. Hurriedly she clenched her fingers and lowered her hand again. “Apologies.”

“No need. I know I’m difficult to resist. As would you be, in this hat.” He twirled it on his finger.

“Stop it,” she muttered, snatching the chapeau back and trying to resist her silly urge to smile. But he’d come to see her, in a dress shop of all places, after she’d practically thrown him out of her bed last night. “Beatrice thinks I’ll look fetching in it.”

“You would look fetching in anything,” he countered, “or nothing. But that does not change the fact that this is an ugly hat.”

The unexpected humor and the even more surprising compliment made her pause—and immediately aroused her suspicions. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear that I appreciated your…assistance, and that I don’t…trust you any further.” Wanting him about was something else entirely, but it was also far too disruptive. She remained uncertain whether encountering Bram Johns was rendering her decision to do her duty easier or more difficult.

Deprived of the hat, Bram picked up one of her new night rails and examined it. “I got quite drunk last night after we parted company,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “Generally I take most of the supposed insults people hand me—when they dare to say them to my face—as compliments.”

Oh, dear
. A shiver of much less warmth ran through her. She had enough trouble and misery ahead of her, and she absolutely did not want Bram Johns as an enemy. Not him. “We were both quite tired,” she offered. “The—”

“I have to admit,” he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken, “since meeting you I’ve realized that, as far beyond propriety as I roam, I do seem to have my limits.”

She gazed at his face, studying the inscrutable coal-colored eyes, the tired lines around them, the tight set of his jaw. He actually looked troubled. Whatever he’d been contemplating had clearly kept him from a good night’s sleep, unless he’d simply had another assignation after he’d left her bed and that had caused his sleeplessness. Rose didn’t like that idea, and she covered her abrupt discomfiture by retrieving her garment from him and stuffing it back into its box.

“You don’t agree with me. I don’t blame you; until last night, I wouldn’t have believed me, either. I’m still not all that convinced.”

He didn’t sound either angry or resentful, but he was also a master of trickery and deceit. The last thing she needed was for him to announce to everyone in the shop that she’d invited him to stop by and ruin her last night, and that he’d done a very fine job of it. That was for Cosgrove to discover. “And what do you mean to do about this epiphany?” she asked carefully.

“I’m going to rescue you.”

She snorted. Immediately horrified that she’d just made things worse, she tried to turn the sound into a cough.

Bram looked insulted, but recovered his expression so quickly that she couldn’t be certain. Then he lifted an eyebrow. “Ungrateful chit.”

“You’ve already helped me,” she returned quickly, sending a glance at her sister as Lady Fishton had half the shop’s staff running about to gather up their purchases. “I don’t think there’s anything more you can do.”

“Then I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

“Bram, you—”

“Rose, come along or we’ll be late,” Beatrice broke in, hurrying over with still more packages in her arms. How nice that the bride-to-be wasn’t needed in the purchasing of her own trousseau. Her sister abruptly stopped, her eyes widening. “Lord Bramwell Johns,” she exclaimed, her warbling becoming distinctly wobbly.

“Lady Fishton, I presume,” Bram returned, sketching a shallow bow.

Rosamund looked on with interest. Her sister’s cheeks had paled, then darkened as Bram gazed at her. She’d felt the same sensation herself upon first meeting those eyes; she was being watched by a lean, dark predator, and while it was very unsettling, a good half of her wanted to be caught.

Beatrice was petite, slender, and had golden blonde hair and bright green eyes. Had Bram looked at her before? She very much seemed to be the sort of woman he would pursue. Rose found herself stepping forward, in between them.

“Lord Bram is a friend of James’s,” she explained, picking up an armload of packages only to have Bram take them from her.

“Where are you off to?” he asked, falling in beside her as they left the shop for the Fishton coach.

“We’re meeting Lord Cosgrove for luncheon,” Beatrice supplied as she stepped up into the carriage. “Good afternoon, my lord.”