Mad About the Earl
CONTENTS
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Christina Brooke
CHAPTER ONE
CORNWALL, ENGLAND, SUMMER 1812
THREE YEARS EARLIER …
Lady Rosamund Westruther caught her first glimpse of Pendon Place from the carriage window and fell deeper in love with her destiny.
From this distance, the grand Elizabethan manor house loomed over the landscape, a massive expanse of gray stone with Gothic arched windows and crenellated turrets. Only the tendrils of deep green ivy climbing its walls softened the austerity of its aspect.
The house was gloomy, brooding, and utterly romantic.
A thrill of anticipation ran down Rosamund’s spine. Today would seal her fate as the future mistress of this house.
She fingered the engraved surface of a large gold locket that hung by a chain around her neck. She resisted the urge to open it. Cecily would mock her mercilessly if she caught her mooning over the tiny portrait of Griffin deVere, a gentleman she’d never met. Besides, his features were now so familiar to her, she shouldn’t need this keepsake for remembrance.
A giddy mix of delight, anticipation, and fear washed through Rosamund. Her guardian, the Duke of Montford, had chosen the heir to this fine Cornwall estate to be her husband. On this visit, she and Griffin deVere would pledge their troth, and she would set her slippered feet on the path she’d always been meant to tread.
She’d whirled in a flurry of excitement since the duke had proposed the journey, so eager to meet her intended husband she could have sprouted wings and flown to Cornwall, never mind the tedious carriage ride.
Would Griffin go down on bended knee when he paid his addresses? Surely he would. And give her a betrothal ring he’d designed especially for her. And perhaps even a posy of wildflowers he’d picked with his own hands. Or a poem, tied with a sprig of lavender …
Rosamund repressed a chuckle. The young gentlemen of her acquaintance wrote shockingly bad verse. But if Griffin should break into an ode to her left earlobe or some such thing, she’d keep a straight face, no matter what it cost her. For the thought was what counted, wasn’t it?
Perhaps … She squeezed her eyes shut as a thrill skittered right down to her toes. Perhaps Griffin might even take her in his arms. And kiss her. A sweet, tender, cherishing kiss. Oh, wouldn’t that be—
“Rosamund! Rosamund, I am
talking
to you.”
Startled from her daydream, Rosamund glanced down at her fifteen-year-old cousin, Lady Cecily Westruther. “What is it, dear?”
Cecily rolled her eyes. “Look at you! You are being sold body and soul to a man you’ve never met, and all you do is sit there, looking cool and composed and utterly beautiful. As if you visited any old acquaintance.”
“I’m glad I
look
cool and composed, for that’s the last thing I feel inside.” Rosamund gripped her cousin’s mittened hand tightly. “Oh, Cecily! What if he doesn’t like me?”
Cecily snorted. “Not like you?
Everyone
likes you, Rosamund. Even the duke holds you in affection, and his heart is as cold as an arctic winter.” She patted Rosamund’s arm. “Griffin deVere will fall desperately in love with you, just like every other gentleman you’ve ever met.”
Cecily leaned forward to gaze out the window, her dark ringlets bobbing beneath her bonnet. “Do you think it’s true this branch of the family descends from pirates? Perhaps there’s treasure buried somewhere on the estate.”
“I beg you not to mention pirates to the earl,” said Rosamund. “He is extremely proud, by all accounts.”
“I’m not afraid of any old earl,” said Cecily. “I can handle the duke, can’t I?”
Yes, Rosamund was forced to admit that even at fifteen, her precocious cousin seemed to sail without a care through the treacherous shoals of life as the Duke of Montford’s ward. How Rosamund envied Cecily her odd mixture of charm and audacity. She’d have Griffin’s grandfather eating out of her hand by teatime.
The clouds shifted, and a thick shaft of summer sunlight beamed down on Pendon Place. The pale gray stone of the manor house glittered with a silvery sheen. Suddenly the gloomy mansion sparkled with promise, transformed into a castle for a fairy-tale princess. Delight lit Rosamund from within. She could not wait to see inside her future home.
They rounded a bend in the drive, and the house was lost from view. The rich green landscape of a well-kept park opened up before them. A russet-colored doe lifted her head to gaze softly at the carriage as it rolled past. Rosamund recalled the charming legend about the herd of fallow deer that roamed the park at Pendon Place: If the herd ever died out, so would the deVere family.
The carriage finally crunched to a halt outside the front door. Rosamund’s breath stopped, most likely obstructed by her heart, which had jumped into her throat.
This was it.
The moment she’d been waiting for all her life.
* * *
Rosamund knew it was the height of bad manners to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation. In ordinary circumstances, upon hearing the low rumble of male voices in her host’s library, she’d either make her presence known or leave.
But this time, extreme measures were called for. Upon their arrival at Pendon Place, none of the deVere family had greeted them. The Duke of Montford had ridden ahead of their carriage and must have arrived earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen. The housekeeper had shown Rosamund and Cecily to their respective bedchambers and asked them to wait.
Cecily had immediately disobeyed, slipping out for a ramble in the house and grounds, presumably to hunt for signs of buried treasure. A full hour passed before Rosamund gave in to impatience and made her own escape.
Rosamund sent a quick glance over her shoulder to sweep the empty corridor. Edging closer to the open library door, she pressed one hand to the green Spitalfields silk that papered the wall and canted her head to listen to the discussion within.
The drawling accents of her guardian, the Duke of Montford, met her ear. “Oliver, I realize the fellow is half-savage, but this is the outside of enough. Where the Devil is he?”
A deep grunt came from much closer to the door than she’d expected. Rosamund jumped and drew back, poised for flight. Then a voice she recognized as belonging to Oliver, Lord deVere, said, “Down at the stables. But he’ll come about.”
Rosamund bit her lip. At the
stables
? When he ought to be here, proposing marriage to her! There must be some mistake.
“What?”
The duke’s tone could have frozen water. “Do you mean to tell me Griffin doesn’t wish to pledge himself to my ward? Do we waste our time here?”
“Not a bit of it!” blustered Lord deVere. “He’ll marry her, or by God, I’ll know the reason why.”
The implications of this speech had all the shock and sting of a slap in the face. Not only was he purposely absent, Griffin deVere didn’t
want
to marry her. Rosamund turned cold. All her joy and anticipation shriveled like autumn leaves.
Montford spoke. “As I am sure you’re aware, deVere, any number of candidates have been beating my door down for the right to wed Lady Rosamund Westruther. The Ministry—”
“To Hell with the Ministry! The boy is difficult, I’ll not deny it. This is a show of bloody-mindedness, but he’ll knuckle under. I’ll see to it.”
“
I
always found a thorough thrashing did wonders for disciplining Griffin as a lad.”
This voice, Rosamund did not recognize. A breathy wheeze punctuated his speech, as if the speaker were old or ill. “But the boy grew to such an ungodly size, by the time he was thirteen, I was obliged to have three men hold him down to administer the whipping. Two years later, I’d have needed a regiment, so I had his younger brother thrashed instead while he watched. It answered.” A long, weary sigh. “Shall I have my men bring them in?”
Rosamund gave a horrified gasp, then clamped her hand over her mouth. The duke had never favored corporal punishment. Why resort to violence when his mere words were such a powerful lash? But deVere might be of a different mind. Would she be obliged to intercede? Would they heed her if she did?
The third gentleman must be the Earl of Tregarth, Griffin’s grandfather. What a horrid, cruel old man he sounded. Pity filled her at the thought of Griffin’s sufferings, and those of his younger brother. Was that where Griffin had come by the ugly scar over his eye?
There was a pause. “That will not be necessary,” said the duke. “No doubt, we’ll see Griffin at dinner. In the meantime, we might as well discuss other business.”
“More matchmaking?” panted the earl, his tone laced with disgust. A chair creaked. “I’ll leave you two old women to your scheming.”
Rosamund turned on her heel and fled back down the corridor, the skirts of her muslin gown flurrying around her ankles. She’d changed into her best morning gown upon her arrival, of course. Such an auspicious occasion merited an exquisite ensemble. Purest white sprigged all over with primroses and a wide sash in the same sunny yellow.
She slowed to a more decorous pace when she reached the wainscoted hall. Crushing disappointment made her heart heavy as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Why had she hoped so hard for love in her marriage when she’d been brought up from birth to expect nothing of the kind? Clearly, Griffin didn’t want her at all.
What an utter fool she was.
Ever since Montford had informed her of his choice of a husband for her six months ago, she’d awaited this first meeting in a fever of anticipation.
She’d even sent a miniature portrait of herself to Griffin. After several promptings, he’d responded in kind. No letter had accompanied the token. Not even a note of thanks for her own portrait, much less the poetic outpouring of devotion her romantic heart had hoped for.
