Mad About the Earl (11 page)

But he hadn’t
said
kisses, now, had he? And the flare of shock in her eyes told him she sensed his meaning, even if she had no specific knowledge of what those intimacies might be.

He wondered if Rosamund guessed just how wild his imagination could run.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Rosamund trembled every time she thought of the way Griffin had looked at her that afternoon. She knew enough about men from the seasons she’d already spent in London to recognize when a man desired her.

She almost laughed to recall the way he’d pressed her for “intimacies” in return for his dancing attendance on her. As if she would deny him!

But of course, a gently bred lady could not admit to desires of her own. She could not inform him that she longed for him to commit whatever intimacies he cared to name upon her person. The mere thought of it made her insides shimmer with heat.

The impropriety and embarrassment of such a frank confession had stopped her. But there was no denying that tactically, she’d been wise to appear reluctant. Now Griffin thought she’d made a costly concession in return for his compliance, whereas in fact, she was getting everything she wanted.

Almost.

No matter how often she told herself that an amicable, respectful marriage would be enough to satisfy her, she couldn’t seem to subdue a twinge of longing for the kind of passionate love her cousin Jane enjoyed with her husband, Constantine, Lord Roxdale.

While preserving their privacy to some degree, Jane had confided to Rosamund about the many and varied delights of the marriage bed. “I want you to know how it can be, darling. How it ought to be. Think what you will miss if you go ahead with this arrangement. If you love Captain Lauderdale, it would be criminal to take Tregarth.”

But she
didn’t
love Lauderdale. And while she might not love Griffin deVere—why, she hardly knew him!—the savage, hungry way he looked at her excited her more than all the respectful admiration of her gentler beaux put together.

Her mother came in as Rosamund finished dressing. “Rosamund, my dear, you poor, poor darling.” The words were spoken without feeling or inflection. Sometimes, Rosamund wondered if her mother possessed emotions at all.

“I suppose that means you’ve met Lord Tregarth,” Rosamund said.

“Good gracious, yes. The man is impossible.” In an elegant gesture, Nerissa threw up her hands. “What on earth are you going to do with him?”

She was going to turn him into a model husband and breed beloved children with him and make a warm, happy home for them all. That’s what she was going to do.

Instead, she said, “Andy will take care of making him more presentable. Lord Tregarth will do the pretty in Town for a while, and then I daresay we shall wed.”

“And then you will send him off to the country while you enjoy yourself in London,” said her mother, nodding as if they’d discussed her intentions already. “An excellent plan. And have you already chosen your cicisbeo? Can I guess who it might be?”

Rosamund wanted to repudiate the suggestion immediately, but with caution born of experience, she hesitated.

She needed to tread warily. If she flew to Griffin’s defense as her nature urged her to do, she risked alerting her mother to her true feelings. The past had taught her it was better that her mother remained ignorant of emotions of any kind on the part of her children. Indeed, the more Rosamund wanted something, the closer she kept that longing to her chest.

Instead of rebutting her mother’s assumption, she wiped all expression from her face. “I don’t know what you mean, Mama. Surely, it is too early to be thinking of setting up a flirt. We are not even married yet.”

“My darling, what else is a young girl’s season for but to audition lovers?” asked Nerissa, blinking in surprise. “Clearly you have wasted your time these past years.” She smiled. “Ah, but then,
of course
you haven’t. You think you are discreet, but the whole world knows Lauderdale is just waiting for the chance to snap you up.”

“Captain Lauderdale is an honorable man,” Rosamund began.

Her mother laughed. “He might be as honorable as the day is long and still wish to warm your bed once that ghastly ogre has done his duty upon you.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “There’s no crime in it, you know. The one benefit we ladies receive when our marriages are arranged is that we need not be faithful to our husbands. Pity those poor wretches who marry for love! Tied to one man for life?” The lady shuddered delicately.

Rosamund said nothing. Of course, she knew all about her mother’s proclivities. The marchioness moved from lover to lover in a seemingly endless, intricate dance.

Rosamund had experienced firsthand the destruction such conduct wreaked and vowed long ago never to follow in Nerissa’s dainty footsteps. Once she married Griffin, she would make a secure home and a content and peaceful family.

Nothing was going to stop her achieving her dream. Not her mother. Not even her future husband.

“Will you be at Lady Bigglesworth’s rout tonight, Mama?” she inquired, changing the subject. “The duke has made up a family party.”

Too late, she realized her mention of a family party to which her mother had not been invited was hardly felicitous. It was just that she considered the duke, her brother, and her cousins more her family than the marchioness had ever been.

Nerissa seemed unperturbed. “No, I have another engagement. I daresay it will be a little livelier than yours, darling.” She licked her lips. “Have you never tired of living with that dull dog of a duke of yours?”

Montford and Lady Steyne had never been friendly, but a special animosity sprang up between them when Montford took Nerissa’s children away.

The duke claimed to have done it in accordance with the terms of their father’s will. Rosamund suspected otherwise but had never sought to raise the matter with her guardian.

“I am content, thank you, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll not live with the duke much longer, in any event.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. Well, do send me a card for the wedding, won’t you, my dear?”

Guilt washed over Rosamund, as her mother had no doubt intended. Resolutely, she stemmed the flow. Hadn’t she suffered enough at her mother’s hands that afternoon?

She forced a cheerful smile. “Oh, I daresay we shall see one another before then.”

Lady Steyne did not mention any need for Rosamund to return to have the portrait completed. Rosamund would not raise the matter if Nerissa forgot. With any luck, the painting would simply languish, unfinished, in an attic somewhere. She’d been foolish and weak to let her mother persuade her to pose. Next time she paid a call here, she would bring Tibby.

“
Au revoir,
my love,” said her mother, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

Rosamund knew better than to kiss her. Instead, she merely curtsied and rang the bell for her maid.

*   *   *

“You did not ask him to stay here!” Rosamund gasped, horrified. “Andy, you cannot be serious! For goodness’ sake, why?”

They’d gathered before dinner in a small, cozy parlor that had been their retreat since they were children. This room, adjacent to the nursery, had a comfortable, homey feel to it, and contained only the slightest odor of dog.

The parlor’s sole canine inhabitant at present was an ancient Great Dane with a black and white harlequin coat. Her black spots had faded to gray, and her movements were slow and lumbering. She looked well loved and worn, much like the overstuffed furnishings and outdated draperies in this room.

The Westruther cousins had refused to allow even the most minute change to this parlor since they’d taken possession of it years before. Their static surroundings only served to remind Rosamund of how much she’d changed since the day Montford brought her here. Then, she’d been bewildered, lost, her spirit as thin and hollow as a husk.

Now, she stood decked out in a robe of blue sarcenet over a white satin slip, perfectly matched pearls at her throat and ears and wrists, her hair elaborately arranged. A young woman confident in the love of her family.

Montford had done that for her. Montford and her beloved cousins.

Andrew inspected his fingernails. “I thought having Tregarth to stay might speed things up a little.”

“But you don’t want me to marry him,” objected Rosamund.

Andrew took a seat by the fireplace and stretched his legs before him. “I didn’t say that. I quite like the fellow, in fact.”

“I wish I’d seen you hit him,” said Cecily, plunking down on the rug next to Ophelia. The old dog lifted her head and rested it in Cecily’s lap with a soulful expression, then closed her eyes.

Rosamund frowned. She’d forgotten to reproach him about that. “
Not
the friendliest overture, Andy.”

“My dear girl, I’ve knocked down most of my friends at one time or another.”

Cecily shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes, as if to bring Griffin’s image into perspective. “He’s determined to have you, Rosamund. If you mean to give him the go-by, you ought to do it cleanly and do it now and not string the fellow along, making a fool of him.”

Rosamund lifted her chin. “When I want your advice on my affairs, I’ll ask for it, Andy. Besides, the duke approves my strategy.”

“Don’t look down your nose at me,” he retorted, unimpressed. “Just take care you don’t send him running in the other direction with all these conditions of yours.”

Rosamund’s heart thumped in her chest. Her gaze flew to Andrew’s. “H-he told you of our bargain?”

Intimacies,
Griffin had said. She repressed a reminiscent shiver.

“Ha!” said Andrew. “Call that a bargain? Don’t see what he gets out of it, dragged along to picnics and parties when it’s clear the fellow’s no more up to snuff than old Ophelia here.”

At the mention of her name, the Dane’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry and her eyes opened a fraction. Then she gave a cross between a moan and a sigh and went back to sleep, her looping jowls whiffling with each breath.

Thankful that Griffin had been discreet enough to keep the extremely improper aspect of their agreement to himself, Rosamund said, “I trust I can rely on you, Andy, to see that Lord Tregarth
is
up to snuff.”

“Oh, I can rig him out in style. In fact, I mean to do so. But I can’t change the man, can I? And why the Devil should he take direction from me? Damned impertinent thing to tell a fellow how to behave.”

“And yet, I am positive you will find a way to do so without putting up his back,” said Rosamund. She softened, gazing down at him imploringly. “For me, Andy.”

“Don’t try to gammon me with that look,” said her cousin. “You might have the male half of London at your feet, but you don’t have me.”

She laughed. “As if I’d want you at my feet, Andy. You have a heart of stone, for all your charming ways.”

A frown creased his brows before he smiled. “Oh, not of
stone,
m’dear,” he said softly. “I’m reliably informed that I don’t have a heart at all.”

How comfortable that must be,
she thought.

Rosamund blinked, surprised at herself. “Nonsense! Of course you have a heart, my dear. But sentiment aside, you
will
admit you owe me a favor after what happened last year.”

“That’s quite true,” said Cecily. “Rosamund saved you from accidentally compromising that odious Lady Emma Howling. That puts you greatly in her debt, I should say.”

Andy blanched at the memory. He never could resist damsels in distress. Even shrill, unprepossessing damsels who’d been on the shelf for ten years. If it weren’t for Rosamund’s quick thinking last season, Andrew would be married to the lady now.

“There, you have me,” he said, holding up a hand in defeat. “Very well. I shall do my poor best, dear Rosamund.”

A complicated tattoo sounded on the door. The secret knock, known only to the Westruther cousins and certain other trusted individuals.

Cecily jumped up to unlock the door, and Andrew rose from his chair as Tibby walked in, pulling on her gloves.

“It is time to leave for the rout party, my dears,” said their companion.

Rosamund smiled at her. “Thank you, Tibby.”

She kissed Cecily and bade her farewell, taking Andrew’s arm as they left the room. “I wish I could stay home with Cecily,” she said. “I do not feel like going out tonight.”

He cocked a brow and glanced down at her. “Mooning over your giant?”

She gave a self-conscious laugh. “
Mooning?
Good God, no! What nonsense you talk, Andrew, dear.”

*   *   *

The rout party was a dreadful crush, as they might have expected from a gathering of Lady Bigglesworth’s. The flounce of Tibby’s gown tore as someone trod on it in the press of bodies flowing up the staircase to the drawing room. While Tibby retired to mend it, Rosamund made a beeline for the card room.