Mad About the Earl (24 page)

“I see,” she said slowly. She saw the struggle he went through as he related what had happened that day. Had he told another living soul this tale?

“But that’s not the worst of it,” he said, rising, as if he could no longer keep a leash on his turbulent emotions. He paced to the window and looked out. “There are rumors of fresh evidence. A witness, perhaps. I am still the prime suspect, so of course, if they reopen the investigation it will embroil me.”

“But you are innocent,” she pointed out.

He looked at her strangely. “You believe me, then.” He blew out a breath.

“Well, of course I do! That’s why I don’t understand your concern about a witness. Surely if there is a witness, he or she can clear your name.”

He folded his arms; his expression grew tight. “What if there was no witness and this is a malicious attempt to finger me for the crime? No one has come forward with these accusations. But while the rumors persist, and while any investigation which comes out of that proceeds, Pendon Place will be a mighty unpleasant place to be. As my wife, you would have much to bear.”

A sudden insight struck her. Why hadn’t she seen it as soon as Jacks told her? “That was why you didn’t come for me. Isn’t it? First your grandfather died, and then this cloud of suspicion hung over your head.”

He said nothing, but she knew she’d hit on the truth. Relief and exhilaration filled her—selfish emotions when he’d suffered so cruelly, but she couldn’t help it. He had stayed away to protect her.

*   *   *

“You still want to marry me?” Griffin said hoarsely. For the first time since the business began, he felt hope.

“Of course I still want to marry you!”

She said it as if it
were
a matter of course. He could only stare at her, speechless as she fingered her lip in thought.

He longed to taste those lips, to kiss her senseless for her unquestioning trust, but there wasn’t time for that. And he’d probably take it beyond the line of pleasing just as that infernal companion walked through the door.

“The only point against you is that you threatened him before he was killed,” said Rosamund. “Why did you do that, Griffin?”

He hesitated. It made his blood boil even now to think of it. “Allbright had designs on my sister. He was her music master and a cousin of a family friend.”

He didn’t blame Maddox, of course. Maddox couldn’t have known Allbright’s propensities or he would never have recommended the man as a music master for Jacks.

He drew a tattered breath. “I trusted him. I left them alone together. And then I found him…” Rage at Allbright, at himself, suspended his power of speech. He wanted to put his fist through the wall.

Rosamund paled. “I assume his attentions were not welcome?”

Griffin shook his head. “She was such an innocent, she didn’t even know what he was trying to do to her.” Another area in which he’d failed Jacks. A sensible female companion would have informed her of such dangers. “She certainly didn’t like it. I came in because I heard the struggle.”

“I wonder you didn’t slay him on the spot!” said Rosamund, firing up. “In fact, if you
had
killed him, I would not blame you. In fact,” she added, narrowing her eyes, “I should have killed him myself, if I were you. What a dastardly fellow to take advantage of a young girl.”

That did it. He strode over and plucked her off the couch, hauled her up against him, and kissed her.

Emotions roiled inside him. Fury at Allbright’s lechery and the trouble he continued to make long after his death, gratitude that one person on this earth understood. Jacks might understand, but what right had he to seek comfort from his sister when he’d failed her so miserably?

Relief flooded him so quickly and completely, he felt off balance, dizzy with it.

Rosamund’s response to his kiss was gratifyingly eager. He devoured her and she matched him every step of the way. Thank God she believed in him, because he couldn’t live without her.

When he finally raised his head, they both panted like hounds after a long run. Tenderly, she smoothed her hands through his hair, cradling his head. That gentle gesture nearly undid him. The blessed relief of her understanding and support flooded his body, weakened his knees.

“We must find a way to clear your name once and for all.” Those impossibly blue eyes sparked with determination. “Griffin, we must find the real killer!”

His arms fell from about her waist, and he took a hasty step back. “
What?
Don’t be a damned little fool!”

“It’s not foolish. It’s the only way to settle the matter.”

Before he could reply, the door opened and Tibby walked in.

“Well, my dears?” Tibby said.

Rosamund glowed. “Oh, Tibby, you may be the first for wish us happy. Griffin and I are getting married today!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rosamund hurried into the parlor to check her appearance in the looking glass over the mantel.

Griffin had taken himself off to fetch the vicar and to allow her the chance to dress more appropriately for the occasion. She’d chosen a white muslin gown sprigged all over with forget-me-nots.

“Aren’t you being a trifle hasty, my dear?” Tibby looked up from her tambour frame with her soft gaze that saw far more than most people realized. “Surely you want Cecily with you, at least. And His Grace and Lord Steyne, too. On such a significant occasion—”

“The circumstances are hardly ideal,” admitted Rosamund, fixing a gold earbob into her lobe with fingers that trembled from excitement. “But Tibby, you must understand how—how desperately impatient I am to begin my new life as a married lady. I’ve been on the shelf too long.”

“Two seasons!” Tibby sniffed. “If you knew how many seasons I had, you would call me an ape-leader, my dear.”

Rosamund regarded her with amusement. “I’d wager you didn’t lack for offers, Tib.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment on that,” said Miss Tibbs primly, but with a sparkle in her eye. “But believe me, if I
had
accepted an offer, I would have made sure I was thoroughly acquainted with the man before I granted him ultimate power over me.”

Rosamund widened her eyes. “Why, you speak as if men are monsters, Tibby. I’m persuaded that is not the case.”

“Some of them
are
monsters, Rosamund. You have led a very sheltered existence in many ways, so you might not be aware of the way a husband can—can quite simply
crush
a wife. Then, too, no one speaks of it, so it is not likely you would hear of such things unless they happened to one of your nearest and dearest. But I have known more than one young lady who entered marriage starry-eyed and came out of it
black
-eyed.” Tibby shuddered. “And worse.”

“Griffin would never hurt me,” said Rosamund, shocked at the mere suggestion. She sensed the innate gentleness in him that so few others perceived when confronted with that massive exterior.

“Physical harm is only one of the terrors that may be inflicted on ladies by their husbands,” said Tibby, snipping a vermilion thread with her scissors. “I won’t say more on that head, but before you proceed with this wedding, ask yourself if you are prepared to put yourself entirely at this man’s mercy. Do you trust him that far, my dear?”

“Why, of course.” Rosamund picked up the other earbob and fiddled with the hook, frowning. “I can manage him, Tibby. I won’t let him tyrannize over me. And I
know
I can make him comfortable.”

“I am sure you can,” said Tibby. “But what about you? Is he truly the man you want, above all others,
forsaking
all others?”

By
others
, she presumed Tibby meant Philip Lauderdale. “Yes. Quite sure.”

The small noise Tibby made in response was a cross between a choke and a snort. “You might well change your mind about that one day.”

Rosamund looked sharply at her. “Do you speak of
love,
Tibby? Do you really? For I thought you would have learned by now that we Westruthers do not ever marry for love. I accepted my duty at the age of seventeen, and I will fulfill my duty now. I will be content with Lord Tregarth. I will make a happy home with him and if God blesses us with children, I shall love
them
and—and care for them with all of my heart and soul.”

Even as she said these things, a large sob seemed to stick in the region of her throat. She battled to force it down. She’d rather die than weep and show Tibby that her concerns might be justified.

Confound Tibby for ruining it! She’d been waiting for this day all her life.

“I see,” said the companion at length. “And what of Lord Tregarth? Doesn’t he deserve love?”

Pain stabbed Rosamund’s chest. What could she say to that?

“How will you feel if he finds love with someone else?” pursued Tibby. “Such things happen, you know. More often than not in these arranged marriages, or so I’m told.”

The thought of Griffin being unfaithful had simply never entered into Rosamund’s visions of wedded bliss.
Why
hadn’t it? As Tibby said, infidelity was more common than not among their set. Her own parents …

She shivered as a cold, cruel hand closed around her heart. The sob in her throat built and built.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I shall see to it that he doesn’t stray.”

She didn’t need to see Tibby’s skeptical look to know it was there.

Rosamund swallowed hard past the sob that threatened to burst from her at any moment. “Now,” she said in a strained, brittle voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall go to my bedchamber and finish getting ready.”

Rosamund barely closed the door on the hired parlor before she burst into tears.

*   *   *

All that morning, Rosamund tried to resist, but it was like digging in her heels in the middle of a landslide. No use at all.

She couldn’t deny the truth any longer. She was hopelessly in love with Griffin deVere.

She was in love with her husband.

Rosamund moved through the short marriage ceremony shrouded in a mist of shock. Jacqueline was there, in high spirits and seeming well pleased with the event. She was accompanied by a handsome, dark gentleman she introduced as Mr. Maddox. Peggy and Joshua and their silent daughter were there also. And of course Tibby, who seemed to have abandoned her former objections and now beamed on the proceedings with a lace-edged handkerchief in hand and sentimental tears in her eyes.

The vicar seemed like a friendly, amusing fellow, and she was pleased to see clear evidence of his regard for Griffin. But she couldn’t find anything to say to Mr. Oliphant that wasn’t vague or embarrassingly banal. Her new discovery possessed her thoughts.

Griffin appeared striking in his elegant, well-fitting clothes, but that was not the reason she couldn’t stop looking at him. In fact, a small part of her resented that his new dress and careful grooming made him seem less fearsome, yet infinitely more unapproachable. The same part of her wanted him back the way he used to be, with that wild, unkempt veneer only she could penetrate.

But that was a selfish, unworthy impulse, one she quickly quashed.

If people saw Griffin as she always had, they might be better disposed to treat him with courtesy. Even in the short time she’d been in Cornwall, she’d been shocked at how the locals viewed him. That poor maid in the inn had nearly dropped the tea tray, she was shaking so hard.

When the vicar grinned broadly and urged him to kiss his bride, Griffin didn’t hesitate. But it was a swift, chaste kiss, cognizant of their situation. His lips rested on hers, warmed them for a fleeting instant, and were gone. In that moment when their lips pressed together, Rosamund felt as if her love rushed upward to greet him. How foolishly sentimental!

She gazed up into his face. For the first time since she’d known him, Griffin seemed happy.

The smile she offered him in return was a forced one. She wished she could recapture her own joy in wedding him. That had been overtaken by a sense of utter despair.

What was the point of that? she chastised herself. Why realize
now
how greatly she endangered her own peace with this union? All she’d wanted was to create a stable, contented family to make up for the one she’d never had.

Yet how could she bear to live with him in a cold marriage of convenience? How could she have been so stupid not to realize before?

Of course, he’d shown her quite unequivocally that it would not be a cold marriage. But wouldn’t such hot passion make it worse when she knew that despite it, he didn’t love her? She’d seen too many men leave her mother without a backward glance to believe that passion was the same as love. Her mind knew that, even if her heart had a difficult time acknowledging it.

She raised her hand to finger her locket. In the past, the gesture had been a comfort, the locket a kind of talisman. Now it was a grim reminder of the enduring hopelessness of her love.