Mad About the Earl (12 page)

She found Andy, who had just sat down to whist with another gentleman and two ladies. She stood silently behind him, watching the play and wishing the night would end.

“Ah, you are in fine beauty tonight, my dear. As always.” The murmur filled her ear before she’d fully registered the presence of a man beside her.

“Oh!” She jumped and put a hand to her breast, turning to see who had accosted her. “You startled me, Captain.”

Philip, Captain Lauderdale, appeared so vividly gorgeous in his scarlet regimentals that it hurt the eye to look at him. Indeed, he was the most dazzling creature she’d ever seen, with his golden hair, soulful dark eyes, and a classical profile that would put any Greek statue to shame.

Not for the first time, Rosamund wondered what was wrong with her that she could remain unmoved by all this masculine glory, yet yearn for …

No.
She did not
yearn
for Griffin deVere. She wanted him to marry her; that was all. She was tired of waiting for her life to begin.

Lauderdale drew her apart from the card tables, leading her to sit on a bergère couch against the wall. He was adept at finding appropriate places for an intimate conversation among a crowd of people.

She gave him an impersonal smile. “How do you do, sir?”

He looked beyond her with a faint, mocking smile curving his lips. “Not well, I confess. Not since I heard the most disturbing news this afternoon.”

“News?”

“Your dreaded betrothed has arrived in Town. They tell me he has come for you, Rosamund.” He hit her with a full blast of those melting brown eyes. “My dear, how could you? And not a word to me.”

She glanced away from him, nodding to an acquaintance who had been trying to catch her eye.

“How could I not?” she said quietly, turning back. “I agreed to this betrothal, Captain. Indeed, I have no wish to repudiate it. And please refrain from addressing me so familiarly. I never gave you leave to do so.”

His head tilted in an ironic bow. “Of course,
Lady
Rosamund. I apologize if my … feelings for you led me to be overly familiar.”

He sent her a sidelong glance. She raised her eyebrows in haughty inquiry.

“It is not a surprise to you,” he said. “You knew Tregarth was in Town.”

“I … Yes.”

She wanted to protest at his questioning her thus, but guilt trickled through her. Had she encouraged him to believe she might welcome his suit? She had not meant to do so, but with some men, it did not take much to convince them the object of their attentions reciprocated their regard.

He registered her answer with a tightened jaw. “But Lord Tregarth is not here with you tonight?”

“He is not.”

He laughed softly. “What a trusting fellow he is. If I were the earl, I would not let you out of my sight.”

“His trust is certainly not misplaced,” said Rosamund coolly. To steer the conversation to less personal waters, she added, “Tell me how you go on, sir. How is your wound?”

“Healed very nicely, or that’s what the sawbones says, anyway,” said Lauderdale. “I’m to return to active service immediately.”

Fear for him clutched her. With Napoleon on the loose again and amassing forces at an alarming rate, war was inevitable. Oh, she didn’t care for Lauderdale as a sweetheart might, but as a friend, she couldn’t help a craven regret that his wound wasn’t serious enough to keep him from duty. He, of course, would never see it that way.

“You will leave soon?” she said.

“Next week.” Bitterness laced his voice. “Tregarth
has
come for you, hasn’t he? After all this time. He ought to be horsewhipped for treating you so.” He met her gaze and said softly, “And you, a diamond of the first water.”

Her throat seemed to close over. “Forgive me, but that is not your concern. I do not wish to discuss—”

“But I am glad,” he interrupted. “I’m glad that you’re finally to be wed.”

Glad? She blinked at him in surprise.

He edged closer, close enough that she could smell wine on his breath. “Do you know why, Lady Rosamund Westruther? Can’t you guess?”

Shaking her head, she glanced away from him. “No, I cannot, and I can’t imagine why you would—”

“Rosamund, darling, don’t you see what this means? We can be together at last. In all the ways that truly matter.”

Rosamund choked, her gaze snapping back to him.
“What?”
The word would have been a shriek if she’d had sufficient breath in her lungs. As it was, it came out as a hollow whisper.

“Oh, you must do your duty by him,” said Lauderdale soothingly. “I loathe the very idea of you in the arms of another, but we both know it must be done. With any luck, by the time I return home from battle, you’ll be with child. And then you and I, my very
dear
…”

He trailed off, his heated gaze fixing on her mouth before sliding down to linger at her breasts.

She stared back at him, so appalled she could not think clearly. Surely she’d misheard or misconstrued his words? But no, his meaning was far too plain to be mistaken.

Shock slammed into her like a fist. Nausea curdled her stomach. To her horror and disgust, tears pressed at the backs of her eyes.

On some level, she must have guessed his true intentions, mustn’t she? It was too, too stupid of her to be sitting here getting propositioned and never have had an inkling that his intentions were so base. Her mother had been right.

Lauderdale raised her nerveless hand to his lips. He’d released her before she could rouse herself to react or snatch her hand away.

Conscious that they were in public, she lowered her voice, battling to keep the shock and dismay from showing on her face. “You assume far too much, Captain Lauderdale. I have no intention of entering into any kind of liaison with you.”

He did not appear at all chastened. He merely gave her a smug, knowing smile. “We’ll see about that, shall we? Lord, Rosamund, that oaf wouldn’t know the first thing about pleasing a woman.” Again, his dark gaze flicked over her body. “But I assure you, my dear, I do. By the time you’ve been married a few months, you’ll be begging me to take you.”

He must have seen the stark horror in her eyes because his brows snapped together. After a moment, he said, “Good God, are you asking me to believe you are shocked? A daughter of the great Lady Steyne? No, no, my dear. Doing it rather too brown, I fear.”

Hysteria bubbled up inside her. She could laugh at how she’d fretted and fussed, terrified of hurting the captain’s precious feelings. He had no feelings at all for her beyond physical desire. He was in love with her face and figure, just as the rest of them were.

She shot to her feet, betrayal and anger tumbling inside her.

Lauderdale rose, too, and was about to say more when Andrew materialized beside Rosamund and handed her a glass of champagne.

She could have thrown herself upon her cousin’s chest and sobbed her thanks down his pristine waistcoat.
Thank God!
Thank God for Andy.

Rosamund took the champagne with a trembling hand and sipped, welcoming the cool tingle of bubbles on her tongue.

Andrew addressed Lauderdale. “I believe you have another appointment somewhere else, my friend.” His manner was affable, but there was steel in that lazy, cultured drawl.

“Quite right, Lydgate.” Easily, Lauderdale bowed to both of them, while contriving to send her a covert glance that was hot with desire. “I’ll see you both at Lady Buckham’s soiree.”

I hope not,
thought Rosamund.

She watched him stride away, so godlike in his regimentals, so invincible and perfect. A vain, self-centered coxcomb of a man. Inwardly, she shuddered at what a fool she’d been to believe he had any finer feelings toward her than mere lust.

“You are overset. What was that about?” Frowning, Andrew cocked his head in Lauderdale’s direction.

“Nothing, nothing.” Seeing another group of acquaintances, Rosamund plastered her society smile on her face.

But Andy persisted. “Did he press his attentions on you? Shall I call him out and kill him for you, m’dearest?” His words were flippant but the expression in his eyes was dangerous.

She shook her head. “Oh—but, Andy, I…” Her smile was so rigid, it cracked at the edges. She couldn’t hold up her chin for the rest of the evening and pretend all was well. “Andy, will you please take me home?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lydgate had been right about the noise at Limmer’s. Even the effects of his libations in the taproom had not allowed Griffin to sleep through the din. Tired and out of sorts, he paid his shot and left the hotel.

Lydgate had sent around a note saying he’d made all right with the duke and reiterated his invitation to stay at Montford House. Griffin could only trust that was truly the case as he followed the ancient butler up to his allotted chamber. He’d inquired after Montford, but the duke was not expected back until evening. Lydgate was still abed. No doubt he never rose from it before noon.

When he’d visited Montford House the previous day, Griffin had been too caught up in his quest to pay much attention to his surroundings. Now, as he followed the butler up the staircase, he had more leisure to observe.

Grandeur
was the word that leaped to mind. This was no ordinary town house like the one he owned in Mayfair, but a free-standing mansion surrounded by its own park.

The entrance hall had the cold, lofty feel of a cathedral—airy and spacious and filled with echoes. Blind-eyed statues from the Greek pantheon stood spaced between columns surmounted by intricately carved capitals.

At the turn of the stair, Griffin glanced over the balustrade. Early spring sunshine shafted through a glass dome above to pool like melted butter on the black and white chessboard floor below. The marble tiles gleamed as clean and polished as a dinner plate. Indeed, one probably
could
eat one’s dinner from it if one chose.

He grimaced. Only the rodent population would ever contemplate dining off the floors at Pendon Place.

In dire contrast to his ramshackle abode,
this
house exuded luxury like an expensive perfume. It was likely to choke him before the week was out.

When the butler showed him to his chamber, Griffin hesitated on the threshold. He couldn’t remember ever having seen anything so fine. Except … A sudden rush of memory nearly unbalanced him. His mother. Silks, satins, velvets. The cool caress of her lovely hand, flashing with diamonds.

No. Not diamonds. Emeralds, to match her eyes. How could he have forgotten that?

Griffin swallowed hard, then became aware that the impassive butler still hovered, waiting for his approval.

He ought not to gape in front of a servant, even such a well-trained servant as this. A wealthy earl should be accustomed to such finery, not marveling at it.

He nodded. “This will do.”

The butler bowed. “I trust you will be comfortable, my lord.” He oversaw the footmen, who delivered Griffin’s modest baggage. “Does your valet follow you, sir?”

“No,” said Griffin baldly. Couldn’t the man tell he didn’t have a valet?

“Very good, my lord,” said the butler. “I shall ask Lord Lydgate’s man to assist you.”

“No need.” He would not dine here tonight or go anywhere that merited a valet’s attentions to his dress. “Hot water in the morning is all I need.” He glanced down at his mud-splashed footwear. “And someone to shine my boots.”

The butler inclined his head. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

With gruff thanks and a generous tip, Griffin dismissed him.

Griffin stared out the window at the pleasant vista of a garden studded with fountains and flower beds and surrounded by a high stone wall. At the foot of the garden stood a charming summer house, overgrown with purple wisteria. Griffin pictured Rosamund and her friends taking tea there, fluttering around inside it like a flock of butterflies.

The rarefied tranquility of that scene seemed to heighten his impatience. How long would it take to meet Rosamund’s conditions and get her to the altar? He’d forgotten the exact extent of the frivolity she had in store for him. He frowned. Maybe he should have made her put it in writing so she wouldn’t sneak in any extras.

He’d been an idiot to agree, of course, but how could he help it? The memory of her lush breasts and slender waist beneath that filmy material tantalized him.

All that could be mine.

Yesterday, the image of a vividly pretty girl in a blue riding habit that matched her eyes had been superseded by a stunning siren of a woman, confident in her manner and definite in her opinions. And far more dangerous to his peace—not to mention his sanity—than she’d ever been.

Instinctively, he knew Rosamund was still an innocent. She might dress in that scandalous costume for a painting, but Rosamund would not have granted any other gentleman her favors, certainly not before she married.