The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) (3 page)

“He agreed,” Rosamund said, settling into a chair in the drawing room.

“Mmm . . . hm,” Fiona murmured, not lifting her head from her book,
The Wild and Wondrous Romans.

Truly, her sister and the earl were exceptionally well suited. Even if love never struck them for some unfathomable reason, it wouldn’t matter, for they’d always be working.

Now she just needed to convince Fiona to be the heroine in the play.

“Lord Somerville,” Rosamund said. “Your childhood friend.”

Fiona raised her head. “Marcus? What did he agree to?”

Rosamund inhaled. “How would you like to be in a play?”

“No, thank you.” Fiona laughed and scribbled something with her quill.

Rosamund succeeded in retaining a smile. “I would love to put one on. Other people do it.”

She may never have attended the season, and she may not have traveled farther than Harrogate, but everyone adored the theatre. Though she had never actually been invited to a party at a country home, she did know that putting on plays was a frequent practice. There was no reason in the world why she might not do the same thing.

“I am most in need of a heroine,” Rosamund continued, and Fiona gazed up. “You are very good at memorization, and I—I would find it most enjoyable to design the sets.”

“Right.” Fiona straightened. “I suppose if you truly desire—”

“I think Somerville would make a very suitable emperor. Or Roman god.”

Fiona blinked.

“Those dark features. Quite appropriate for Olympus.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows.

“Rather Mediterranean,” Rosamund stammered.

She didn’t like Somerville in such a manner. She must remember that.

Fiona shrugged. “I haven’t seen him since he was ten.”

No need to explain to Fiona that Somerville would be Fiona’s future husband and that she would see very much of him in the future. News like that had a tendency to make a woman nervous.

“When he learned you would play the heroine, he seemed quite pleased at the opportunity of playing the hero.”

“That can’t be true.” Fiona tilted her head. “Though we were once very good friends.”

“Wonderful,” Rosamund squeaked, recalling the earl’s flush and obvious pleasure earlier today. “Tomorrow we’ll start putting on the theatrical show.”

In the meantime, she had a play to choose, a set to build, and costumes to make. She smiled. She enjoyed being busy, but she’d never been so grateful for an opportunity to occupy herself.

*

The following day, rain pattered against the stained-glass windows and gusts of wind tore leaves down with such force that Rosamund wondered whether Somerville would decide to postpone his visit.

She’d spent the day painting. Her sister had informed her that the only accurate attire for Roman gods would be togas, and in the end they’d chosen a medieval play with which they would have less chance of scandalizing Uncle Seymour and Aunt Lavinia.

A knock sounded on the door, and Evans cleared his throat. “Lord Somerville is here.”

Rosamund set down her sewing and her gaze flickered to her hands. Dabs of paint speckled her fingers, and she’d chosen one of her plainest frocks.

She shook her head. Never mind how she looked. The earl hadn’t come to see her.

The man strode into the room.

Columns of gold buttons glimmered from his woolen jacket, emphasizing the width of his chest. He was all Corinthian, and his cheeks were as pink as if he’d stepped from the racket court. He headed for her, and she just had time to note his height, and the way he managed to loom above her, before he dipped into a bow.

Goodness, her sister was a fortunate woman.

A ridiculous urge to trace the elaborate curves of his snowy-white cravat overcame her, and warmth rushed to her cheeks. Rosamund started her curtsy a second too late, and her heart continued to hammer.

Well, his opinion of her was largely irrelevant. She was the younger sister, the sister-in-law to be, the person whom Fiona and the earl might discuss together for the rest of their lives.

“Hello.” He beamed at her. His eyes were warm, brown mixed with gold flecks, and Rosamund had to fight the urge to smile back into them.

Goodness, she hadn’t imagined the velvety sound of his voice. Not at all. Underestimated it if anything. A shiver coursed through her body, and she darted her hand to her chest as if to check if it was still beating. “I’ll find my sister.”

His eyes flickered with uncertainty, and her cheeks heated. “Forgive me. Do take a seat, my lord. I’ll get Cook to prepare some tea and sweets. Or do you prefer chocolate?”

For whatever reason, she found herself babbling in his presence. She turned abruptly. Cook could prepare everything; this man deserved it all.

Her sister would be a lucky woman, once she and Somerville realized their supreme suitability.

Fiona entered the room, dropping into an appropriately-timed curtsy. Somerville gave her a deep bow, and something in Rosamund’s heart panged. Her older sister seemed at ease with him, perhaps a fact generated by all the time they’d spent playing together in the mud. Rosamund gripped onto her armrests. She’d never toppled from a chair before, but in the presence of Lord Somerville’s courtship of her sister, the barriers seemed of some use.

“How are you, Miss Amberly?” The earl’s voice continued to be warm and courteous.

Fiona dipped her head, and the two were soon having a passionate discussion of the weather and the possibility of procuring more snow than the year previous. The farmers had noted a profusion of red berries nestled in the hedges, something which tended to be followed by a profusion of snow. Fiona and Somerville determined that it would be best to wait to see what happened and mused about the merits of tracking the link between the red berries and snow, and how they might best accomplish the necessary measurements and calculations.

Rosamund had been wrong.
If the two married, they would never want for conversation.

Fiona’s and Somerville’s banter didn’t manage to fill her with quite as much happiness as she’d anticipated. Rosamund’s chest tightened, and she strove to remind herself that this was exactly what she’d desired.

No matter. This was about Fiona, not herself.

Not that the conversation seemed particularly romantic. Somerville was recounting his skills in catching frogs as a child, and Fiona was remarking on her past habit of stuffing them in her hat, all the better to startle her aunt and uncle.

“Now tell me about this play.” Somerville directed his attention to Rosamund. “Did you write it?”

She smiled. “I’m no writer. Really—Fiona is the gifted one of us.”

And it was true. Fiona had excelled in the lessons their governess had assigned, memorizing details with little effort. Rosamund had preferred running about outside, exploring every valley, striving to copy the curve of every flower with her watercolors.

“We’ve chosen one of Loretta Van Lochen’s plays,” Fiona said.

“Ah,” Somerville said. “I must confess an unfamiliarity with that scribe.”

Rosamund recounted the plot, the oft-tragic tale of a beautiful young Frenchwoman.

“Rather like
The Mysteries of Udolpho.”

“We’ve shortened the cast,” Fiona said.

“In addition,” Rosamund said, “the story is not set in the Apennines and Pyrenees. It is set entirely in the Alps.”

Somerville nodded gravely. “Then it is quite different indeed.”

Rosamund’s lips twitched. “I would not have needed to use as much white paint, were it set elsewhere.”

Somerville’s gaze dropped to her still-stained hands.

Fiona smiled. “My sister is an excellent artist.”

“Your aunt mentioned,” Somerville said.

Rosamund shrugged. “I am grateful to live in Yorkshire. The Dales are beautiful.”

Fiona laughed. “Rosamund finds beauty in everything. Even insects and reptiles.”

“Indeed?”

“The variety of colors and the novel forms are intriguing,” Rosamund said, conscious that her skin likely verged on a pink shade.

Somerville smiled. “I’ve never heard a lady say that before. I agree completely.”

“You’ve rather made a name of yourself for your study of species,” Fiona said.

“Perhaps.” Somerville’s gaze continued to rest on Rosamund. “You are fortunate to live in this area.”

“Oh, I do adore it,” Rosamund replied.

“You are not in a rush to visit London?”

Her smile wobbled. She had dreamed of life in the large city. Perhaps she might visit after her sister married. Fiona had cut her own season short, and she did not speak highly of the city. “I must confess to some curiosity, but I am content with my family.”

Marcus nodded solemnly. “That is admirable. You are fortunate to be so close to them. I have always had a fondness for your sister and grandmother.”

She nodded, and a lump in her throat thickened.

“I must show you some of her work.” Fiona clapped her hands. “My sister is skilled with oils as well as watercolors. I was quite impressed with her portrait of me.”

“I would be delighted to see that.” Somerville brightened as they departed the room.

Rosamund followed them into the corridor, observing as Fiona showed Somerville various paintings.

Fiona gestured to her. “Come, dear.”

Rosamund joined them, though Somerville’s eyes did not turn to her. They remained fixed on her sister’s portrait, and the earl appeared fascinated. His gaze seemed to roam over each curve of Fiona’s face. “How beautiful.”

“You’ve done her hair remarkably well.” Finally, Somerville turned to her, and even though his cheeks were flushed from seeing Fiona in all her finery, Rosamund still shivered.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered.

“The detail on these curls. It must have been quite difficult.” Somerville returned his glance to the painting. “And the dress. It appears almost satin-like. Her skin is luminous. You’ve captured her freckles too. So very marvelous.”

Rosamund reminded herself that this was just what she’d longed for. “My sister is most beautiful.”

Somerville’s eyes roamed the crisscrossings of oil paint. “Yes, indeed.”

Rosamund swallowed hard.

Fiona had laughed and jested with Somerville today, even if Rosamund hadn’t convinced her sister she should abandon her half-mourning clothes. That would happen later. The main thing was that her sister was happy.

“Shall we begin practicing?” Fiona asked.

“Certainly.” Somerville smiled.

This was everything Rosamund had hoped for, but somehow the happiness she should have felt, the happiness she knew she must be experiencing, was not as pleasant as she’d envisioned.

Marcus prided himself on knowing his mind. It was what had sustained him while studying science, even when his peers threw themselves into frequenting gaming halls and indulging in all manner of vices.

He knew two things, each fact as clear as the rules of mathematics:

1.)  He abhorred acting and dreaded the eventual performance before the sisters’ relatives.

2.)  He was determined to marry Miss Rosamund Amberly.

They’d spent every day together, laughing and chatting. Rosamund would paint, and Marcus and Fiona would rehearse their lines. Sometimes the sisters would ply him with questions about his scientific research. Both seemed genuinely interested in his studies of animals, and he’d convinced Rosamund to show him her sketchbook, which was every bit as wondrous as he’d imagined.

Rosamund was perfect, completely and utterly. In his dreams they would wander the Dales together. Perhaps sometimes they would venture to the Moors. And since the war had finally ended, they might even travel to the continent. He would work on categorizing the various species, and she would draw.

Unfortunately, recently it was becoming dashed difficult to find the chit. Most days the women’s grandmother chaperoned when he rehearsed his lines with the elder Miss Amberly. The only thing that made Rosamund’s absence bearable was that she did not then need to witness him transforming into a stammering mess in her presence as his affection had grown.

Certainly when she’d last attended, Rosamund had seemed to find his acting most unpleasant. Even the scene in which he’d rescued Fiona, delivering a lengthy soliloquy on her character’s beauty and charm, had seemed only to cause Rosamund’s face to pale and spur her to abandon the make-shift stage.

Marcus sighed.

And yet, despite the woman’s obvious dislike of his acting abilities and likely regret of asking him to perform the lead, every moment they’d spent together only confirmed the extent of his emotions toward her.

She’d produced the most marvelous paintings: craggy, snow-covered peaks sparkling beneath a macabre sky; rolling meadows abounding with pastel-colored flowers and beams of golden light; rainy forests comprised of a reduced palette of gray shades, nonetheless beautiful; intricate paintings of the dark castle interior from which he would rescue Angélique, the heroine.

He’d devoted rather less time to researching species than he’d planned on, he’d humiliated himself more than he ever had, and yet, despite it all, he’d never felt more alive. Stepping into Cloudbridge Castle filled him with delight, and when he recited the poetic lines lauding the play’s heroine, it was Rosamund whom he imagined saying them to.

He’d resolved to make his intentions clear today. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, not when he might be experiencing a joyful betrothal and an even more joyful marriage.

Marcus found Rosamund on the balcony. She’d placed an easel before her, and her brow was furrowed as she gazed before her, paintbrush in hand.

The sky had erupted into a sea of colors. The long clouds were as blue as waves, but the rosy color that surrounded them, highlighting each ruffle, was bright pink, a shade more pretty and perfect than anything Marcus had ever seen.

“Rosamund.”

She swung her head toward him, shock showing in her eyes.

He sighed. “Miss Amberly.”

He’d long called her Rosamund in his mind, had called her that as a child, but she was accustomed to more formality with him now.

He despised that. He couldn’t wait until they were betrothed.

She had to say yes. Had to.

Rosamund’s lips parted and her white teeth pressed against her bottom lip. Marcus was struck by the succulence of that crimson lip, just as he was struck by the faint color on her high cheekbones and the amusing manner in which her nose arched up. Her full chest moved in a pleasing manner, and Marcus darted his gaze away.

The sudden warmth on the back of his neck and face indicated his own skin might be every bit as rosy as the clouds.

And he didn’t have the excuse of blaming a glowing sun.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, the words too weak for all the emotion he now felt.

She smiled. “Yes.”

He beamed. Of course she would understand. Fiona was right: Rosamund saw beauty in everything. Her life seemed dedicated to making all around her happy. She was patient with everyone, even Sir Seymour and his wife.

“My sister is inside,” Rosamund said.

“I know.” He strode nearer her, noticing the manner in which the sunlight flickered over the nape of her neck.

The rosy pink on the clouds turned to a more sophisticated lavender as the sun darted farther toward the horizon.

“Oh.” Her voice wobbled.

“I was enjoying the view,” Marcus said.

Rosamund nodded. “How do you like Yorkshire?”

“It’s wonderful,” his voice rumbled. “And that sky is prettier than any ocean.”

“Oh?”

“I traveled to America once with my half-brother, but this is prettier than the Atlantic.” He turned to her. “I’ve grown to admire you very much. You see the beauty in things. You show it to others.”

“How did you find the ocean?” Her voice sounded an octave higher than normal, and her cheeks pinkened.

He smiled. “There is some pleasure in not being at sea, and in enjoying a world that doesn’t tip and dip without a moment’s notice.”

He swallowed hard. The answer was one he was practiced in giving to the oft-simpering ladies who gathered the courage to speak with him after sufficient encouraging looks from their marriage-minded mamas. When he spoke with Rosamund, he was conscious of a strange swelling of his tongue and heat in his collar that could not be attributed to the late summer air, and he realized that this world too was dipping and swirling with a greater force than any he had experienced on any boat, in any storm.

He gripped the stone railing of the balcony. His eyes focused on the dark green Dales, but it was not the curve of their jagged peaks he was thinking of.

“I would like to marry,” he said, surprised how quickly the words fell from his mouth.

He tilted his head toward her, worried at her response.

Instead her lips turned upward into a smile, and warmth spread through him, unfurling through every vein and nerve.

“Have a family,” he continued.

“I would like that as well,” she said finally.

Lord, she was so calm. So magnificent.

“My darling.” His voice roughened. He didn’t have a ring yet. That could wait. He would give her one. The best. She deserved it all. Soon she would be his future countess.

He grasped her hands and pulled her from her seat. Her eyes widened, and he only had a moment to see how the warm brown color deepened before he leaned his face toward hers. His lips sought hers, tasting sweetness and softness and all things sublime.

Finally, Rosamund broke their kiss, and his heart pounded, waiting for her sweet soprano voice to speak.

Instead pain seared his cheek as if someone had slapped him. Confusion filled him, and he swung his eyes open.

It had to be her. The slap had to have come from her. Even though the thought was ridiculous. Because—they had just become engaged. He loved her. Adored her.

But there was no French soldier staring at him, ranting about roast beef, which for some reason was one of the insults they seemed proudest of issuing.

Only Rosamund.

Her eyes were wide and her breaths rapid, but it wasn’t desire that flickered over her face.

Ice traveled through his spine and each muscle stiffened. He moved backward, and his feet felt large and stiff, as if he were trying to maneuver blocks of lead.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He peered at her again, but there was no sign of affection from his intended future wife.

“You kissed me,” she said.

“Yes.”

They had been, after all, engaged.

Hadn’t they been?

“But what of my sister?” Rosamund’s voice shook.

“Fiona?” He blinked.

“You can’t just go around kissing women. You can’t speak of families and futures and then kiss women.”

“But—”

“Poor Fiona.” A deep flush darkened Rosamund’s cheeks.

“I thought—”

“What could you possibly think? What excuse could you possibly have?”

Marcus drew in a painful breath. The world lacked the wonder he’d ascribed to it.

*

The kiss had burned her lips, seared her soul, swept her to heavenly heights—and then she’d remembered.

A breeze ruffled Marcus’s hair and fluttered her gown, but the gust may as well have been a tornado. Her heart struggled in her chest, knowing only that it needed to beat forcefully, but unsure of the rhythm.

She fought the urge to slide her hand over Marcus’s woolen coat and pull him back toward her.

She’d been swept up into a moment of unfathomable bliss. Her body had rejoiced at the closeness with Marcus, memorized the strokes of his tongue and the firm fingers that had clutched her toward him.

Those hands were nowhere near her now. They were clasped at Marcus’s side, and his eyes—Lord, the eyes that had only just been sparkling at her—were cold.

“My sister’s inside. My grandmother, and—” She stumbled on her words. Her tongue was thick, and her heart hadn’t halted its furious hammering.

“Oh.” The stony expression on his face shifted. “You’re worried about being improper.”

“I—”

“Because everything is different now.” He inhaled, and added, “My darling.”

She blinked. The words were ones she’d been afraid to dream of, and part of her wanted to succumb to the urge to return Marcus’s smile.

But this wasn’t the plan. She’d had a plan. A good one. One that would make her sister happy. “You’re not—”

He tilted his head. “Not?”

She slumped her shoulders. “You’re supposed to be intelligent.”

“And I’m not?”

“You kissed me!” Rosamund stammered. “Of course not.”

“And kissing you excludes all intelligence?” Somerville’s voice softened.

She pulled away. “My sister.”

“She does not need to be present at this moment.”

“But she should know!”

“That you make me burn?” His breath was hot against her ear, and her neck warmed. Energy spread through her, and she had a crazy desire to loop her arms around his neck and never open the door to the rest of the world again.

Rosamund swallowed hard. “You are to marry my sister.”

“Nonsense, my darling.”

The tender word sliced through her. “I’m not—that.”

His eyes widened.

“I’m nothing to you,” Rosamund continued. “Nothing at all.”

“I just proposed. You accepted—didn’t you?” His voice wobbled, and his face, the one that radiated calm and strength flickered uncertainty.

She swooped her eyelashes down, and her heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t—she couldn’t look at the man when he told her that. Had he been proposing when he’d spoken of building a future family? Perhaps. “I—I didn’t know that.”

His lips twitched, and Lord, even though she abhorred him right now for breaking her sister’s heart, as he inevitably would, warmth still managed to trickle through her.

Marriage.

“What do you say, Rosamund?” He grasped her hands in his. Though he fixed a smile on her, his hands trembled, the slight wobble managing to lurch her heart. “Make me the happiest man in the world.”

The temptation to accept, to fling herself into his arms, ratcheted through her body.

This man was everything.

“I love you, Rosamund,” Marcus continued.

Her chest constricted.
He loved her?
She’d idealized him when she was a child, and she adored his company. She respected him. Admired him. But love—that was something that would be reserved for her future husband. That was something he should be reserving for Fiona.

Her tongue arched as if to say the words. His eyes beseeched her, and the urge to reassure him strengthened.

And yet—she thought of Fiona, memorizing lines and rehearsing. Her sister had always been there for her, strong and caring even after their parents had died in a carriage accident. Perhaps Fiona didn’t seem smitten, perhaps she didn’t seem to mind whether she married or not, but someday Grandmother would die, someday Fiona would have no options, and even if Fiona didn’t seem to care about her future happiness, Rosamund did.

She could never take the man reserved for Fiona. “I can never marry you.”

“But—”

“You were meant for my sister.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice was hoarse.

“That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ve been rehearsing.”

“I’m here because you invited me.”

“Of course. You’re perfect!”

His cheeks pinkened, and she hastened to add, “For my sister!”

“I see.” Marcus’s face shifted from confusion to stoniness. The man who stood before her was a stranger. “Then everything was a farce. I misunderstood. Forgive me.”

Her chest tightened. “But you were best friends. She’ll make you happy, and—”

The plan had been good.
Perfect.

“I will return to London immediately.” His features stiffened and his voice was again formal, more suited for relaying facts on distinctions between species than to speaking to a silly girl like herself.

He departed the balcony, and Rosamund’s heart lurched. She picked up her paintbrush, but the rose and lavender stripes that had billowed over the sky had disappeared. The gray sky darkened, and an icy wind swept against her.