Mad About the Earl (9 page)

CHAPTER SIX

They were kept kicking their heels far longer than Griffin would have stood for if Lydgate hadn’t been with him.

But if he had to wait, he might as well find out more about the family he was marrying into. He glanced about him at their deeply masculine surroundings. “If this is Steyne’s house, why doesn’t he live in it?”

“He does. Usually,” said Lydgate.

“Then why does he stay at Montford House?” said Griffin.

Lydgate eyed him coolly. “Why don’t you ask him?”

The man was right. It was none of his business. Griffin was saved from making a reply by the rustle of silks heralding a female intruder into this male preserve.

Griffin looked up, rising to his feet.

She was dark where her daughter was fair. Yet in the lineaments of her oval face, in the fierce, arresting blue of her eyes, Griffin saw Rosamund. His heart gave a sharp pound of recognition.

The lady’s expressive eyes widened. “Andrew! My dear.” The marchioness spoke in a low, breathy voice.

“Nerissa.” Lydgate bowed.

She put out both her hands to him. “What is the meaning of this? You
never
come to call on me anymore.…” Her fine eyes flickered over Griffin disdainfully. “Ah. But you are not alone, I see.”

Lydgate barely touched Lady Steyne’s hands before releasing them. His charming smile didn’t reach his eyes, Griffin noticed. “As I don’t doubt you have been informed, ma’am, this is Griffin deVere, Lord Tregarth.”

When she tilted her head as if she’d never heard the name before, Lydgate gave an exasperated sigh. “Your daughter’s betrothed, Nerissa.” He indicated the lady with a wave of his hand. “Tregarth, Lady Steyne.”

The lady did not return the courtesy of Griffin’s bow. Her features stilled in an expression of surprise. “This?
This
is the man my daughter must marry? Good God, Andy. What can Montford be thinking of? I thought he was your groom.”

Mildly, Lydgate replied, “No you didn’t.”

Griffin had known the likely reception he’d get. It didn’t bother him one whit. “If you’re quite finished, ma’am, I want to see my future wife.” He grinned. “Why don’t you trot back upstairs and find her for me?”

She gave a hissing inhale through her small white teeth. “You dare to order me about in my own house?”

“Not your house, Nerissa,” said Lydgate, inspecting his fingernails. “As it happens.”

“And also, as it happens,” said Griffin, “your son, the marquis, bade me call.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Her features tightened for the fraction of an instant, then smoothed again.

Her gaze roamed over Griffin, but more slowly this time and with greater attention. A cat-in-the-cream-pot smile spread her lips. “Well, of
course
he did.”

On a low laugh, she added, “You are quite, quite perfect as you are. Yes, I am a dunce not to have seen it at once.”

She switched her focus to Lydgate. “And did darling Xavier send me you, too, Andy?” she breathed. “
What
a considerate boy he is. I must remember to thank him.”

With her gaze fixed on Lydgate like a snake hypnotizing its prey, Lady Steyne flicked a careless hand in Griffin’s general direction. “You may go up. And tell François he is to take himself off. I won’t need him this afternoon.”

“Who the Devil is François?” Griffin muttered.

But the lady had already dismissed both him and the unknown Frenchman from her mind.

She gave another of her slow, satisfied smiles. “Andrew will entertain me. Won’t you, my dear?”

*   *   *

Rosamund wondered why her mother was taking so long. That unnaturally handsome young footman of hers had called her away, muttering to her in hushed tones, which Rosamund couldn’t catch from her frozen position by the window.

Nor had her mama explained; she’d simply left the room. Knowing the marchioness, she could be gone minutes or hours. Rosamund’s arm felt as if it might drop off if she held this urn any longer.

“I must leave now, Monsieur,” she said. She turned her head. “I—”

Griffin deVere stood in the doorway.

The urn dropped to the floor with a crash.

“Oh!” Automatically, Rosamund reached out for the broken pottery, then realized how exposed she must be, the way the sheer swaths of muslin and gauze clung to her breasts and hips.

She snatched up her robe from the chair back next to her and clutched it to her chest.

With an irritated exclamation, Monsieur turned to see who had disrupted his work.

His gaze traveled up and up.
“Zut,”
he said.

“Out.”

That one laconic word from Griffin set Monsieur in motion. In no time, he’d packed up his paints and easel and fled the room.

Coward,
thought Rosamund bitterly
.
It just went to show one should never trust a Frenchman.

Oh, she supposed she ought to be grateful Monsieur’s strong sense of self-preservation prevented him from leaping to her defense. She could imagine how
that
would turn out.

Her heart pounded as she dragged her arms through the sleeves of the robe her mother had provided. The celestial blue garment was sheer, soft as rose petals, flowing down to froth about her ankles in a frivolity of ribbons and lace. Not the most concealing garment, but it would have to do.

She narrowed her eyes at Griffin. Another gentleman—Philip Lauderdale, perhaps—would have offered to turn his back or leave until she’d made herself respectable.

Not her beast of a betrothed. He loomed there, watching her so intently, he might have been trying to memorize the number of stitches on her robe.

Then his gaze homed in on her chest. Rosamund darted a glance downward to see what the point of such concentrated interest could be, then flushed. Two points of interest, in fact; her nipples stood to attention like tiny tent poles propping up the layers of gauze and silk. How utterly mortifying!

She crossed her arms over her bosom. As coldly as she could, she said, “Well?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am well,” said Griffin affably, not at all quelled by her frigid welcome. Of course, one could only be so formidable when dressed in something approximating one’s chemise. “All the better for seeing you, my dear Lady Rosamund.”

Griffin sauntered into the room as if he owned it. His controlled, predatory assurance was a far cry from the wild fury of the young man she’d met at the stables all those years ago.

His glittering gaze made another slow pass over her body and settled at her bare feet. She resisted the urge to tuck them under something.

“What were you doing just now?” he asked, strolling toward her.

“I’d have thought that was obvious.” She tried to sound unflustered and sophisticated and faintly amused, as her mother might in such a situation. She failed dismally.

“Monsieur François is a … protégé of my mother’s. She asked me to model for a … portrait.”

He cocked an eyebrow toward the door, then looked back at her. She thought he might take exception to her behavior—certainly
she
was conscious of the impropriety of it—but he said nothing.

Rosamund stood there, feeling awkward and unsure. She longed to escape his gaze and cover herself, but she was loath to admit she’d done anything wrong by posing thus. Everyone knew artists were like doctors; they didn’t count as
men
.

She regarded him uncertainly. Perhaps Griffin was not so enlightened as to subscribe to such a view.

The plinth raised her many inches from the ground. Yet she had to look up into Griffin’s storm-cloud eyes.

What she saw there made her hot and a little giddy. She was conscious of a strong pull of attraction, as if his sheer size created a gravitational force all its own. She stopped herself swaying into it and stepped down from the plinth.

And found herself quite overwhelmed by the man before her. She’d forgotten how very large he was.

As calmly as she could, she said, “Excuse me. I must dress.”

He reached out to put his hand on her arm. He wore no gloves, and her arm was bare. Warmth tingled beneath his palm and flowed through her body. The memory of him picking her up and kissing her invaded her senses.

“Stay as you are,” he said. “My business with you won’t take long.”

She stepped back, breaking the contact that raced up her arm like a flash of fire. “Very well. Pray, say your piece, my lord, and go.”

It was only then that she noticed the way he was dressed, all thrown together anyhow. His hair was wild; in place of a cravat, he wore some approximation of a belcher handkerchief. He probably still had the dirt of Pendon beneath his fingernails, its mud on his boots. And he sported a great red welt covering his left jaw.

She winced in sympathy. In spite of all that lay between them, tenderness welled in her chest. Her hands itched to soothe that livid flesh.

With an inward struggle, Rosamund fought off the moment of weakness.

She’d be fooling herself to think he’d come by that bruise in some noble manner. He’d probably stopped for a taproom brawl along the way.

“My God, sir, who hit you?” she demanded.

“Your cousin Lydgate,” he replied.

“Good!” The response broke from her without warning. Then a fear clutched her. Andy had probably come off the worse in that encounter. “What did
you
do to
him
?”

“Nothing at all. He’s downstairs with your mama.”

Oh, no!
Poor Andy. That was worse punishment than anything Griffin could dish out with his fists.

Bewildered, she said, “But why—?”

He interrupted her. “My lady, I don’t have time for explanations. You must prepare yourself at once for our marriage and a journey back to Cornwall.”

She looked up at him in sudden consternation. “Why the rush? Has there been an accident?”

She could not imagine what—unless … “Your brother?” She knew his brother Timothy was fighting in the Americas. If Timothy had been killed, that might explain Griffin’s sudden wish to marry and gain an heir.

His heavy brows contracted, stretching the scar that slashed so close to one eye. “What? No, no, nothing like that. I’m here to marry you, that’s all.”

“I see.” Relief swelled to anger. “And after my stipulation that you must court me in form, you come to me in
this
guise?”

His gaze meandered down her form and back to her face, with a blatant linger at her breasts. “If we are to talk of
guises…”

Heat flared in her cheeks. Of course, he would refer to her embarrassing costume, even play upon it to set her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t count on him to act the gentleman.

Her face must be as red as a poppy, but she refused to show any other sign of discomfiture. Instead, she lifted her chin and stared blandly back at him.

Griffin gave a curt shake of his head, as if to dislodge something inside it. After a pause, he said, “You will return to Pendon with me, where we’ll get married. That’s the end of it. Pack your bags, bring some female or other with you if you prefer, but we’ll be on the road in two days, ma’am.”

She gave an incredulous laugh at his audacity. “And that’s the full sum of your eloquence on the subject? I’ve never even had a decent proposal from you, you know.”

He ground his teeth in impatience, making the color in his jaw shift and deepen. The scar beside his eye stood out, stark white against his tanned skin. “If you recall, my lady, we were betrothed years ago. Will you break your oath?”

“Of course not. A Westruther always keeps her word. But, my dear Lord Tregarth, you have kept me dangling these three years, not knowing whether I’d be a maid for the rest of my days. I think some measure of openly expressed contrition—or at least,
enthusiasm
—is called for. If you want me to marry you, you must submit to my conditions.”

He let out a frustrated growl. Despite his assurance that there was no dire emergency, his manner was urgent. She eyed him with suspicion. “Just why are you in such a hurry to marry me now?”

There were many correct answers to this question:

Oh, dearest Rosamund, I struggled in vain. I couldn’t go on any longer without you.

Or:

My darling, I contracted a wasting disease, which laid me low these past years. I could not ask you to share in my misery. But now that I have recovered, we can be together at last.

“My sister,” he said bluntly. “She’s to make her come-out this spring. She needs a chaperone. You’re it.”

Rosamund’s heart plummeted, even as her ire rose. She might have counted on the reason being a prosaic one, grossly unflattering to her vanity. How could she be so stupid as to keep hoping for more?