The Dark One (4 page)

Rosalind suspected a man could hardly be more dangerous than Franklin Chapman. Her childhood recollections of Franklin were vague, but even then, he'd been a bully. She'd thought he had changed when he visited her in the country three months prior, but he had fooled her.

He'd told her that his mother was on her deathbed and wanted to see Rosalind one last time. In the short period that the Duchess of Montrose had lived beneath the same roof with Rosalind's father, the lady had been kind to her, almost like a mother, in truth. Rosalind had left the country estate and traveled to London with Franklin. His mother, true to his word, was in a room upstairs, dying a slow death, too weak to even converse with Rosalind. But what Franklin had lied about was his reason for wanting Rosalind beneath his roof.

“Your foolish actions tonight have caused gossip. You leave me little choice but to end your season early and accept an offer for you that I've received from the Viscount Penmore. You recall him? We met him in town last week when we visited the milliner's.”

Recalling the viscount wasn't difficult. Franklin had allowed Rosalind to socialize little until he'd presented her at court; then tonight, the Greenleys' ball had launched the season. Lord Penmore was a short, fat, balding man who drooled all over her hand and eyed her in a way that made her skin crawl.

“He's old enough to be my father,” she pointed out. “If you force me to marry, I had hoped I at least might be allowed to choose my husband.”

Franklin reached out and pinched her chin between his cold fingers. “And what would a country mouse like you know about choosing a husband? Big brother knows what's best for you. I'll handle your life until I see fit to turn it over to another man for his handling.” His fingers pinched harder. “Unless you've spoiled even your chances with Penmore by your bold behavior this evening.”

“I told you, it was innocent,” she lied. “I became ill on the dance floor and Lord Wulf merely escorted me to the carriage before I embarrassed myself.”

What had she been thinking? She knew that Franklin was capable of violence against her. He had slapped her when she'd at first refused to wear the indecently low-cut gown he'd had made for her this evening. She hadn't seen him this enraged, however, and if she had in fact let Armond Wulf ruin her, she wasn't positive that Franklin wouldn't have killed her.

Franklin released her chin, but his eyes remained cold, dead, like the eyes of a snake. “You'd better not be lying to me. Your virginity is an important asset in securing yourself a suitable husband. Stay away from Armond Wulf. If you escaped ravishment by him tonight, count yourself one of the fortunate few women who go off with him in the night and return with their virtue . . . or return even at all.”

She couldn't help her curiosity, even though she'd as soon put an end to the conversation and flee to the safety of her room. “What are you saying?”

Her stepbrother smiled his snake smile. “I should have told you more than I did about Lord Wulf. He murdered a woman a few months ago in his very stable. Murdered her and was never called to account for the crime.”

A chill raced up Rosalind's back. “Murder,” she whispered. “But he and I—that is, he seemed like a perfect gentleman when he escorted me to the carriage.” The “perfect gentleman” claim was a lie to be sure, but she'd been alone with Armond Wulf and had never felt as if her life was in danger . . . her virtue yes, but not her life. A flash of memory came to her. The feel of Armond's teeth against the pulse at the base of her neck. She'd felt a moment of alarm, as if he meant to bite her.

“Everyone saw you leave together,” Franklin reminded her. “He wouldn't be so brave as to think he could possibly get away with the crime a second time, not when he was seen escorting you from the ball. Which brings me back to Penmore. He will be at Lady Pratt's tea day after tomorrow. Be nice to him.”

Still thinking about Lord Wulf, she replied, “I will be civil. Provided that he has better manners than he did when last we met.”

Franklin reached out and dug his fingers into the soft skin of her shoulders, recapturing Rosalind's complete attention. “You will be charming regardless of how he treats you. Penmore and I have a business arrangement of sorts. I owe him a considerable amount in gambling debts. Among other things . . .” he added, as if to himself. “I had no idea that he would be so taken with you. He likes pretty things.”

To Franklin, Rosalind was only a “thing.” Not a person with dreams or hopes or feelings. He'd always been a bully. And even as a child she had felt frightened around him. She suspected Franklin was the reason her father and her stepmother had not lived beneath the same roof for long. But as wonderful as the duchess had been to Rosalind, the woman had doted upon her mean-spirited son.

“Perhaps I should look in on your mother,” Rosalind
said, moving toward the stairs. “I'm sure Mary could use a rest from her vigil over the poor woman.”

“My mother doesn't even know who you are,” Franklin snorted. “Instead, I shall come to your room and help you choose what you will wear to Lady Pratt's tea. You must look your best, Rosalind. Appearances are everything.”

She could very well understand why Franklin would hold a person's outer appearance more important than what rested on the inside. Her stepbrother could be quite charming in the presence of others. Only she knew what sort of man he really was. Rosalind and, she supposed, her father, since he'd sent Franklin and his mother away. Rosalind didn't want Franklin in her room. It was the only place in the house where she felt safe from his abuse.

“I can certainly choose my own clothing,” Rosalind said. “No need to bother yourself with such trifling matters.”

“No bother,” Franklin countered smoothly. “The creditors will come circling soon enough to collect the considerable sum I've paid to have your wardrobe updated. Your modest taste was a bit juvenile. You must put your assets on display, Rosalind. Who better to tell you which gowns suit you for that purpose than a man?”

When Franklin moved ahead of her, as if he expected she'd follow like a docile pet, Rosalind put her foot down. “I will not have you in my room, Franklin. My father paid for this house, even if it by right belongs to your mother. He would have never left my future in her hands had he known she would become so ill shortly after his death.”

Her stepbrother stood poised in front of the stairway, his back to her. “Yes, a pity about the duchess. But her lawyers quite agreed that she is in no condition to handle your future, or your inheritance. They were all too happy to pass that responsibility on to me.”

When he turned to face her, his face was red and the
vein still throbbed in his forehead. “I have control of you, Rosalind. Your doting papa is no longer alive to order me out of his house. You will do exactly what I tell you to do, or you will suffer the consequences. Consequences I don't think you will enjoy . . . but maybe you will; care to find out?”

As brave as Rosalind wanted to be, she backed down, and lowered her gaze. What he said was true. Her guardianship had been given to Franklin. He had control of her money, which was how it had come to be recklessly lost to her. Franklin had a gambling addiction. It was the reason she was able to slip away with Armond Wulf at the Greenleys' ball. Franklin had been in the back rooms playing cards instead of chaperoning her as he should have been doing. Not a mistake she imagined he'd make again.

Her stepbrother turned back and started up the stairs. “Are you coming, little sister?”

Rosalind's gaze drifted toward the foyer, and for a moment, she was tempted to run. But she had no money of her own, nowhere to go except back to the country, and no way to pay her passage there. For the time being, she was at Franklin's mercy. But she hadn't given up on her idea to foil his plans for her. How she would do so without making him angry enough to beat her she hadn't figured out as of yet. But she would.

“Rosalind,” he called, his tone more demanding. “Come along as I've told you to do.”

Shoulders slumped, she followed, very much dreading her destined meeting with Lord Penmore in two days' time and still feeling the sting of Franklin's slap upon her cheek.

“He's all that you said he is; I'll grant you that. Not an unsound bone in his body. The animal is magnificent,” Lord Pratt said.

Armond brushed imaginary lint from his dark riding coat. He wondered why, with his reputation for breeding horses, people still seemed surprised by his integrity. If he didn't deal fairly with the silly people, he wouldn't have gained the reputation he had as a breeder.

He'd recently returned from his country estate, Wulfglen, where he'd taken special care to choose the horses he brought back to London with him to sell. The Wulfs might be rumored to be murderers or worse, but they were unrivaled as horse breeders.

“Let's go inside,” the earl said. “We'll have a brandy in the study and I'll pay you for the animal.”

“It's barely teatime,” Armond reminded the man. “I care little for spirits. Just payment and then I'll be on my way.”

The earl nodded, probably happy to be granted a civil reprieve from his duties as a proper host. Armond followed his client down a brick path to the house. The moment they stepped inside, the murmur of voices could be heard coming from the front parlor.

“My wife is hosting a tea,” the earl said. “She's introducing the late Duke of Montrose's daughter to proper society. Oh, but I've forgotten: you met the young woman at the Greenleys' ball.”

Judging by the sly gleam that entered the earl's eyes, the man more than knew Armond and Rosalind had already met. He was spoiling for gossip.

“Yes, a lovely young woman,” Armond found himself replying. “A pity the roast duck served at supper that evening did not agree with her. I was forced to help Lady Rosalind to her coach in all haste lest she embarrass herself on the dance floor.”

“Oh.” The earl sighed. “Well, so I've heard. She was a bit brazen, though,” he added. “Dancing with a man she hadn't been properly introduced to.”

“Dancing with me, you mean,” Armond drawled. “The lady is my neighbor. She's been kept to the country and didn't realize I was an unsuitable dance partner. I should have spared her the embarrassment she has no doubt suffered since regarding the matter, but then, no one expected better of me.”

“Of course not,” the earl agreed, then realized what he'd said and flushed. “This way to the study, then.”

The fine carpets in the hallway muffled their footsteps. They had to pass the parlor, and, doors thrown wide in welcome, Armond fought himself not to glance inside the room.

“William!”

The earl skidded to a halt, forcing Armond to pause in their progress, as well.

“You promised me that you'd attend my tea and said the matter of the horse wouldn't make you late.”

Lady Pratt, the earl's aging wife, drew up short at the sight of Armond darkening her hallway. She placed a hand against her heart. “Oh, I didn't realize that you were still conducting business with Lord Wulf. Please pardon my interruption.”

Armond smiled at the flustered woman. He knew it would unnerve her even more. “And I beg your pardon for keeping your husband from his obligations.”

She nodded acceptance of the apology, but her hand still rested against her heart, as if she'd received a fright and hadn't yet recovered.

“I offered Lord Wulf a brandy and he wisely pointed out that it is too early for spirits. It would only be proper, my dear, to offer the man tea while I tend to the bill of purchase for the horse.”

The earl obviously sought to punish his wife over some earlier transgression. Armond cared little to be the tool of her chastisement.

“Certainly Lord Wulf is welcome to take tea with us,” Lady Pratt croaked. Her frightened gaze landed upon Armond. “I would be honored if you would join my party.”

She would be beside herself, and Armond knew it. He also suspected that the lady knew he never attended anything as boring as a social tea. “I would be honored to join you.”

Armond couldn't believe he'd said those words. The way the lady's eyes rounded, she couldn't believe he'd said them, either. Armond wanted to snatch back his acceptance, but his cursed pride would not allow him. The truth of the matter was that he wanted to see Lady Rosalind Rutherford again and, by God, he would.

Armond followed the lady into the parlor. Conversation went from a roar to a whisper in a heartbeat. He wasn't dressed for a social visit, but even had he been, he doubted those in attendance would be any less shocked to see him.

“Lord Wulf,” the lady announced. “The gentleman will join us for tea while my husband concludes business over a horse.”

Lady Pratt had to spell out the reason Armond was there or find herself the object of gossip for having poor taste in tea guests. For years the title attached to the family estate, Wulfglen, had been shortened to Wulf, the family surname. Thus the reason society referred to Armond as Lord Wulf rather than Lord Wulfglen. He seated himself apart from the other guests, accepting a dainty teacup that looked odd in his large hands.

Once the whispers about him quieted, he searched the room over the rim of his cup. He recognized Lady Rosalind immediately, although her back was turned toward him. She held herself well, her spine straight. A cascade of glossy curls hung down her back, set off nicely by a small blue hat with a short veil attached. A pity, he thought, to hide that face.

Her skin looked paler due to the dark veil, her high
cheekbones and large expressive eyes blurred behind the thin obstruction, but her mouth—God, hiding away half of her face made his gaze automatically focus upon her full red lips. He remembered the taste of them. They were sweet, like sun-ripened berries.