The Wagered Miss Winslow (20 page)

“Thank you, Niall,” Rosalind answered, taking a step away from her brother and closer to Beau. The air seemed cleaner without the stench of Niall’s lamentably obvious, fawning deceits to clog her nostrils. It was a pity, and she was sorry for it, but she could not like Niall.

As a matter of fact, married woman or nay, she had to forcibly tamp down an alarmingly childish wish to box her brother’s ears. “I had feared that you might cut up stiff that we were wed so quietly,” she told him, all but simpering as she spoke, “but with the nation in mourning for our dear departed monarch, Beau and I thought it best to restrain ourselves to a—”

“No need to explain, my dear,” Niall interrupted, bored with his sister’s inane prattlings. “I am overjoyed that you have found happiness. And to think, it was I who served as Cupid! Why, you and my new brother might never have met except for my famous ineptitude at cards. That knowledge alone delights me so that I can bear the pain of not being present for the nuptials.

“Besides,” he added, unable to put more than three congenial sentences together without inserting at least one verbal jab, “I believe you to be much better suited to motherhood than rummaging around in St. Leonard’s churchyard digging up ancient relics, as you were when last I saw you. Have you unearthed any yet, my dear sister?”

Oh, yes, Rosalind assured herself, boxing Niall’s ears would be a satisfying act. Hitting him square on his nose with her balled fist would be whole worlds better. But, thanks to Beau’s coaching this past hour, she would content herself with adhering strictly to the script her ingenious husband had concocted. “How wonderfully condescending that you should ask, Niall,” she said brightly. “As a matter of fact, I did dis—”

“Darlin’ girl,” Beau drawled, pulling her against him, his smile wide even as his dark eyes held a clear warning that Niall did not miss. “Remember what I said, if you please. You promised not to bore anyone with your silly, rustic nobby. The ladies of the ton would never understand, and I doubt Niall here is at all interested. His question can only be seen as a polite inquiry as to his younger sister’s inconsequential activities. After all, what are a few pieces of broken pottery to a gentleman of the world such as your brother? Isn’t that correct, Niall?”

“Well,” Niall began, confused yet intrigued. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to indulge her.”

“Oh, if that isn’t above everything wonderful, Beau!” Rosalind exclaimed. “And I’m sure you’re wrong. Niall will be very interested in what I have—”

“Enough, Rosalind!” Beau demanded coldly. “We are in London now, and we will not speak of these matters.”

Niall looked from Rosalind to Beau, caught between admiration for his brother-in-law, who seemed to have brought his new wife nicely to heel, and an unlooked-for interest in what his sister had to say.

Rosalind held her breath until she felt a flush of color come into her cheeks. Lowering her head, she mumbled, “Yes, we’re in London now, not Winchelsea. I forgot. Please, Beau, forgive me for being so silly. But truly, Niall is my own
brother
, and—”

“And as such he should not be made to stand here in our woefully empty drawing room, still holding his hat like some supplicant come to beg favor,” Beau concluded, taking Niall’s hat and ushering the man toward the hallway. “We will have to make do in my study, for it is the only furnished room. You will stay for luncheon, won’t you?”

“Thank you, no. I shouldn’t wish to impose when you are so busy preparing your house for the Season.” Niall took back his hat, holding it against him almost as if in self-defense.

He had come here this morning on impulse, still disliking his sister, hating Beaumont Remington for having bested him, and seeking some avenue of revenge. But something havey-cavey was going on here. He didn’t know what it was, yet something was definitely strange. They were both being too nice to him, for one thing, and Niall suspected anyone who acted kindly toward him.

He needed to go back to his own house, go to sleep for a while, and then when he was rested and his mind clear, think about everything he had heard and seen. “Are you by chance invited to Lord Cornwallis’ ball this Thursday? It’s bound to be a crush.”

“Alas, no,” Beau admitted, sliding a protective arm around Rosalind’s shoulders. “We are not so well connected as you. Until we can establish ourselves we shall have to make do with what invitations members of the ton are kind enough to extend to us.”

Rosalind leaned close against her husband, laying a hand on his chest, following his lead. “Beau! I have a splendid idea. We shall have a ball of our own, to introduce ourselves. I have several old friends who should be in London for the Season with their husbands. Oh, yes! What a wonderful idea!”

Niall looked back into the drawing room. “Wonderful, Rosalind?” he questioned, smirking. “Marriage has changed you. I remember being depressed by your unfailing good sense. Where do you propose to entertain visitors, sister mine? In your husband’s study?”

As if conjured up by Niall’s question, there immediately came a small commotion from behind them, and Riggs, his thin face flushed with excitement, entered from the rear of the mansion, Jules Fordham in his wake.

“Mr. Remington!” Jules called out, pointing his finger in Beau’s direction as if Beau needed that little bit of help to know his own identity. “I promised your wife an instant miracle, and I have done so! The drays are out front, sir, piled high with the first of a veritable warehouse full of treasures I have garnered for the decoration of your lovely home. Would you please allow me the use of these wide front doors, to facilitate entry?”

Rosalind clasped her hands together, immediately dropping her role of conspirator for that of anxious young matron, worried that her new furniture might be chipped in transit or otherwise come to harm as it was carried into the room. “Of course, Mr. Fordham!” she exclaimed, indicating with a small nod for Riggs to throw open the double doors. “Beau, Niall, stand back, do, and allow the workmen space to maneuver.”

Beau moved to one side of the foyer, motioning for Niall to follow him. “That’s my Rosie,” he said, beaming, momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be the domineering man of the household. “Gives orders as natural as grass grows, don’t you know. Stand back, man, or else risk getting yourself trampled in her rush to fuss over her new belongings.”

Niall frowned, instantly picking up on Beau’s lapse. “I can’t believe you let her order you around.”

Beau immediately recognized his mistake and saw a way to turn it to his favor. He winked at Winslow, giving him a playful jab in the ribs with his elbow. “A smart man indulges his woman in the small things, you understand. They’re no more than children really, women are. Tease ‘em, I say, and give the fillies their pretty little heads in the small things, but tug on the reins on the important things whenever they show signs of taking the bit between their teeth. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, brother, for you are a man of the world.”

“Of course, of course,” Niall answered absently, stepping back yet another pace as four strong workmen carried an enormous rolled-up Oriental carpet past him and into the drawing room.

And then Niall Winslow stood quietly for some minutes, watching the parade of carpets and settees and side tables and ornate mirrors as he tried to understand how the veritable fortune that must have been spent to acquire such furnishings was a ‘small thing’ and why Rosalind’s talk of her amateurish digging at St. Leonard’s could be considered an out-of-bounds topic.

And then, he thought, after bidding a garbled good-day to his brother-in-law and escaping to the flagway before the workmen could enter with an Adam pier table, there was still that business about “Merlin”—Woodrow Fitzclare.

He would have to make sure his sister and her new husband received many invitations, for he did not want to appear too eager to be in their company. He would be content, for now, to stand by and watch—watch carefully—as they entered Society. Then, soon, he would have his answers.

And then he would have his revenge on them for daring to have attempted to make a happy ending out of his deliberate mischief in putting them together in the first place!

R
osalind delighted in the next three weeks in a way she had enjoyed no other time in her life. Her days were filled with drives and visits with old friends and shopping for the most lovely clothing in the world and drifting from room to room in the Portman Square mansion to sit and admire Jules Fordham’s brilliance.

Her evenings were a delicious whirl of parties and balls and trips to the opera and dancing round and round highly polished parquet floors in the arms of her attentive partners and accepting compliments from her friends on her handsome husband and biting back a triumphant smile at the sidelong looks of veiled jealousy she received from other women whenever she entered a room on Beau’s arm.

And her nights? Ah, then there were her nights, those unbelievable hours spent locked in the arms of that same handsome, desirable,
wonderful
husband.

What a change Beaumont Remington had wrought in her life! Looking back over her first twenty-five years, she knew that she had only been half alive until the day Beau had come crashing into her orbit.

And he loved her. Above and beyond all the excitement and change and adventure he had brought to her existence, Beaumont Remington had given her the gift of his love. He took Niall s treatment of his wife as a personal affront and Rosalind, who wasn’t used to having a hero to protect her, had decided that being independent and being alone were two very different things.

She was still independent, for Beau never questioned any of her decisions, but she was no longer alone. There was finally someone else who cared what happened to her. As she cared passionately for the well-being of her husband. She had once eschewed marriage? What a silly child she had been. But now she was a woman, and Rosalind believed herself to be the luckiest, the happiest, the most blessed woman in all of England. In all of the world!

As for Beau, he too was well satisfied with this unexpected change in his life. He had asked Bridget to add an extra decade to her nightly rosary and increased his own prayers that had been learned at the Irishwoman’s knee, just so that there would be even more chance that the happiness, the contentment, the love he had found would be secure.

Not that the good Lord would do anything to ruin what Beau and Rosalind had found in each other. Beau’s instructions in religion may have ended at the tender age of twelve, but he knew well enough to feel confident that God was kind. The prayers were mostly in the way of thanks.

Beau was aware that his new contentment came not from his comfortable financial situation or his regaining of his family’s estate, but from that small scrap of a woman he had taken to wife—the woman he knew he loved almost past all bearing.

A man used to action, he had little patience for the strictures of London Society and still yearned at times to be on the move again, for he had never stayed long in one place. In truth, if he had his druthers, he would like to spend several months a year at Remington Manor, take in the Season each spring, and then travel throughout the Continent the rest of the year. Perhaps, someday, even to America.

But his lovely wife was cutting quite a dash through London Society and he was proud enough of her popularity to be willing to sit tight and wait for her to tire of the late nights and constant to and fro that went hand in glove with that success. Besides, it was rather a lot of fun to watch her in her moment of triumph.