Mad About the Earl (13 page)

After she was wed—well, that was a different matter. Despite his insistence that theirs would not be a typical marriage of convenience, he knew how it was with Westruther women—and for that matter, how it was with deVere men. In their elevated circle, no one married to please themselves. Naturally, it followed that the participants in such bloodless alliances would look outside marriage for passion.

In the sophisticated set to which Rosamund’s mother, Lady Steyne, belonged, fidelity was considered deeply unfashionable. A lady was expected to bear her husband the obligatory heir; then she might bed whomever she chose. Husbands were not expected to be faithful at all.

The notion of Rosamund following the same path as her mother made his stomach churn, made him want to smash his fist into the wall—or into her unknown lover’s face.

He’d agreed to this marriage under duress while his grandfather lived, before he’d comprehended all the implications. His intended bride had scarcely crossed his mind before he’d met her. Why should she? He’d accepted the old earl’s decree with the vague notion that she must be some kind of antidote for her parents to allow her to throw herself away on someone like him.

He’d never appreciated the true depths of his grandfather’s malice until he set eyes on the exquisite loveliness that was Lady Rosamund Westruther.

Lord, to think he’d hoped for a docile, plain girl who’d be content to live out her days in quiet seclusion at Pendon Place! One who wouldn’t interfere with him or demand his attention. One who wouldn’t drive him nigh crazed with lust or make his gut roil with a mess of longings and fears he’d hoped never to experience again.

How deluded could he have been?

And now she had him dancing like a performing bear to her tune. Well, he’d go through with the business, if only to speed her to the altar. But he would exact every ounce of the payment she’d promised him in return.

*   *   *

“You cannot be serious,” said Griffin.

Lydgate sighed. “Of course I am serious. I never joke about anything pertaining to fashion. Tregarth, meet your new valet.”

Griffin gave the servant a cursory inspection. The man’s height was average, his figure lean. His features were regular, and his manner might best be described as unassuming. He wore a dark coat and a plain waistcoat and blindingly white linen. Altogether, he was as neat as a pin and bland as cream.

“His name is Dearlove,” said Lydgate.

“Dearlove?”
Griffin stared. “As in ‘Dearlove, where did you put my smalls?’ Or ‘Dearlove, I’ll need a bath drawn in an hour.’ Or—”

“Yes, yes, I take the point,” said Lydgate testily. He turned to the valet. “What is your given name, my good man?”

The valet gave a self-deprecating cough. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d prefer you didn’t—”

“Damned if I’ll go around calling him Dearlove,” said Griffin. “Not that I need a valet, mind. But if I did, I’d find something else to call him.”

Lydgate studied the valet with a gleam of curiosity in his blue eyes. “Your name, Dearlove. Out with it.”

It might have been Griffin’s imagination, but he thought the corners of the valet’s dark eyes compressed in an infinitesimal wince. “It’s … Ahem. Sweet William, my lord.”

“
Sweet
—?” Griffin’s mouth dropped open. He glanced at Lydgate, whose shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. “Hmm. Interesting.”

“My mother’s choice, my lord. God rest her soul.” The valet assumed a mournful expression, fixing his gaze upon the ceiling.

After a short struggle, Lydgate mastered himself and clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? You can call him William.”

“No, sir.” Sweet William Dearlove shook his head, quietly adamant. “My mother would never allow it. She named all of her children for her favorite flowers, you see. I was the only son, and she insisted I was not to be left out. It would be disrespectful to her memory to shorten the name. And, er, I’d prefer Dearlove, if it’s all the same to you.”

Lydgate rolled his eyes at Griffin in comical dismay.

“Oh, the Devil!” muttered Griffin, helpless in the face of the servant’s sainted mother. “Dearlove it is.”

“You won’t notice it after a few weeks, my lord,” said Dearlove helpfully.

“Right. Well, then.” Lydgate gave the valet’s shoulder a heartening thump. “Come along, both of you. We have work to do.”

Somehow, Griffin allowed himself to be carried along in Lydgate’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t until they were well on their way that he regrouped sufficiently to mount another protest.

“What the Hell am I supposed to do with him?” he muttered to Lydgate as they turned into New Bond Street.

He cut a glance over his shoulder at the soberly garbed individual following dutifully behind them. The fellow was so unobtrusive as to be almost invisible. Griffin found it highly unsettling.

Lydgate’s lips twitched. “You look as if the bogeyman is at your heels. Dearlove is some sort of cousin to my own valet. He’s a wizard by all accounts, and you’re dashed lucky to get him. On short notice, too.”

“Most honored, I’m sure,” grunted Griffin. “But I repeat: I do not need a valet!”

With a put-upon sigh, Lydgate said, “Frankly, I never saw a fellow who stood
more
in need of one. If you are to dress as befits Lady Rosamund Westruther’s betrothed, you will require assistance. A valet keeps your linen clean and starched, your coats pressed, and your boots shined to perfection. He helps you on with your coat, helps you off with your footwear. He’ll even tie your cravat if you want.”

Lydgate glanced at the knotted belcher handkerchief at Griffin’s throat and briefly closed his eyes, as if pained by the sight. “I’d avail myself of his services in that direction if I were you.”

Griffin snorted. “If you’re ashamed to be seen with me in public—”

“Don’t be absurd,” snapped Lydgate. “If that were the case, I’d have sent you off alone with Dearlove. You’re family now. Don’t be more of a clodpole than you can help.”

Perversely, his companion’s insult made Griffin feel better. Grinning, he followed Lydgate into the first shop.

His good humor was short-lived. To his frustration and disgust, he discovered that one could not simply order several suits of clothes in one place and be done with it. According to Lydgate and the estimable Dearlove, the best breeches were made by Meyer, the most splendid waistcoats could be had at Weston’s. It was Lock for hats, Hoby for boots.

The only cause of discord between these two princes of fashion was over coats.

Dearlove spoke without heat or inflection, but he was adamant. “My lord, I believe it must be Schweitzer and Davidson.”

“No, no,” said Lydgate. “Stultz is the man we want.” He gestured at Griffin. “Lord Tregarth’s sheer size ought to tell you that. Stultz makes coats for the military men. He’s our best bet.”

“If you will permit me to disagree, my lord,” murmured Dearlove. “A military cut is designed to make a figure even more … imposing. What we require is
elegance,
which, as Your Lordship knows, is all about proportion. And Mr. Schweitzer, you must agree, is a master of proportion when it comes to designing coats.”

Dearlove went on to explain to Griffin the neoclassical principles of tailoring, which this excellent proponent of the art employed to such great effect.

Finally noticing that Griffin watched him openmouthed with horror, Dearlove spread his hands with a self-deprecating smile. “It is not necessary for you to comprehend the intricacies of a perfectly fitting coat, my lord. But you may rest assured that Mr. Schweitzer
does
.”

To Griffin’s amazement, Lydgate considered this. “Do you know, Dearlove, I believe you’re right.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Schweitzer it is, then,” said the viscount, redirecting his lazy saunter toward Cork Street.

Griffin raised his gaze to the heavens, shrugged, and followed.

Purchasing sufficient clothing, undergarments, and accoutrements to stock a gentleman’s wardrobe to Lydgate’s satisfaction took the better part of a week. Griffin suffered through measurings and fittings, traipsing hither and yon with Lydgate and Dearlove all over Town in search of the most superior example of every item any fashionable gentleman could possibly want or dream of.

His betrothed’s cousin even insisted on helping him choose various decorative items such as fobs and seals and stickpins for his cravats. In a dazed kind of stupor, Griffin allowed it all. Besides, he’d need a well-stocked clothespress when he brought Jacks to London for the season, so he might as well get it all over and done with in one fell swoop.

He did, however, reserve the right to grumble.

After a stultifying interval spent poring over materials for waistcoats one afternoon, Lydgate finally agreed to call a halt. Their Lordships sent Dearlove home in the carriage with their parcels and elected to walk. Lydgate had a commission to perform, so they took a detour to Berkeley Square.

“Why don’t you stop over at Gunter’s?” suggested Lydgate. “They serve an excellent punch-water ice there. I won’t be long.”

Assuming from his failure to give an explanation of his mission that Lydgate’s purpose was amorous, Griffin didn’t inquire further. He ambled toward the confectioner’s shop, which displayed the sign of a pineapple as advertisement of its trade.

The afternoon had grown uncomfortably warm, and he’d had a trying time of it that day. They’d poked and prodded and measured him until his hand itched to hit the next fool who attempted to fondle any part of his person. They’d discussed his physique and conformation with embarrassing depth and candor, as if he were a prize bull, not a man.

The tailor, Mr. Schweitzer, had been all admiration. He’d gone so far as to liken the proportions of Griffin’s body to those of Gentleman Jackson, the famous boxer whose impressive form had been used as a model for a surprising number of aristocratic portraits.

Well, of course the tailors all spouted that rubbish, didn’t they? It went with the territory, flattering vain aristocrats in the hope of extracting more business from them.

Yes, it had been a trying day. The idea of iced punch seemed very enticing.

The street outside Gunter’s bustled with activity, for most of the shop’s noble patrons did not take their refreshment within the establishment, but rather remained in their own vehicles. A gaggle of carriages collected under the shade of the ancient plane trees near the railed garden in the center of the square, while scurrying waiters wove in and out of passing traffic to ferry orders back and forth.

It was in one of these fashionable equipages that Griffin spied Rosamund.

Immediately, his pulse picked up pace. He’d scarcely seen her since that afternoon in her mother’s parlor. He was out all day—shopping, for God’s sake!—and she absent every evening, enjoying the social round.

She sat with her back to him in an open barouche, displaying her profile now and again as she turned to speak to one of her companions. The other occupants of the carriage were Lady Cecily and Miss Tibbs, their companion.

And beside the barouche stood a man in scarlet regimentals.

Lady Cecily ended some jest or other with an expressive roll of her dark eyes. The soldier laughed, his broad shoulders shaking with it.

That officer could have been anyone, but Griffin didn’t think so. There was something overly familiar in the fellow’s demeanor, in the way he leaned down to Rosamund to murmur something in her ear. The way he—oh so accidentally—let his hand brush hers where it rested on the doorsill of the open carriage.

Lauderdale.

Anger and betrayal snaked through Griffin, writhing in his guts, constricting his chest. While he’d suffered through hours of sartorial torture solely to please Rosamund, she’d been making eyes at her precious officer.

Resentment burned inside him, hot and dark. To Hell with her conditions, her parties, and her drives in the park! Why should he have to prove anything to her, anyway?

A waiter approached, distributing conical glasses filled with pastel-colored ices among the ladies. While Cecily and the older lady were occupied with accepting their treats, Lauderdale surreptitiously laid his hand over Rosamund’s and kept it there.

A blast of fury shot clean through Griffin’s head. He started toward them, his brain seething with suspicion.

Then Rosamund withdrew her hand from beneath the captain’s with some remark or other and pointedly turned her head away. Lauderdale let his hand drop to his side with the angry, baffled look of a man who had been unexpectedly rebuffed.

The tension drained from Griffin’s body. He stood there in the middle of the crowded street for a full minute before he recovered equilibrium. Then he shook his head, astonished at the violence of his reactions.

He was a fool, all right, an idiot to jump to conclusions like some asinine schoolboy. Of course he didn’t care where Rosamund bestowed her affections. He hadn’t been
jealous
—he’d never give a woman that kind of power over him. But he did have strenuous objections to sharing what was his, and the sooner her tin soldier understood that, the better.