Read Upon a Midnight Dream Online
Authors: Rachel Van Dyken
Upon a Midnight Dream (2 page)
He laughed. “So you say, Rose, so you say.”
Snapping her attention in his direction, she controlled the urge to comment on his use of her nickname, one that only family used. The nerve.
The heaviness in her limbs began to lessen as he led her out the servants’ entrance into the cool night air. Never had a spell come upon her so suddenly, and in the middle of a ball nonetheless!
At least she could be thankful that people were focused on Lord and Lady Rawlings as much as they were her—well, that and the sudden resurrection of the true Marquess of Whitmore. Curse him! Did that mean she had to call him that loathsome name? It left a terrible taste in her mouth, the thought of calling him Whitmore, as if he was even close to being as slimy as his younger brother.
Her fingers and toes tingled, the sensation gradually spreading to her arms and legs. Good. This was good. She could walk and wouldn’t have to continue to be carried by the Nordic god who found nothing wrong with carrying her and touching her in the manner he was.
Goodness. She could feel…him.
They stopped. And how she hated to admit that the thought of getting into her carriage without the warmth of his body next to her made her a trifle sad and irritated that within their short knowledge of one another, he could make her feel such ridiculous emotions.
Well, he had released her from the contract, and now she was free to go to her estate in Sussex to suffer the fall and winter months without the city air threatening to burn her lungs.
“Rose?” He put her gently onto her feet, and only then did she notice that her skirts were billowed and wrinkled, giving him quite a scandalous view of her ankles.
Curse her body for experiencing a small thrill when his eyes lingered longer than was appropriate.
Take your fill—for this is the last you will see.
“And here, I bid you goodnight.” He steadied her on her feet, then bowed gallantly in front of her before turning on his heel and leaving.
“Good night,” Rosalind clenched her teeth as her eyes followed his disappearing form. The man was going back to the ball? Surely, he wanted to see to her safety? And make sure she made it home?
Was he whistling?
The shrill melody pierced the night sky. Apparently, he had much to be thrilled about. His betrothed hadn’t held him to his contract, and he was back from the dead, ready to claim his throne and every other swooning woman in the London vicinity.
Gathering up her skirts, she launched herself into the carriage. Really, he was doing her a favor. Now she was free to seek out a man of her own choosing. A man who was tall, muscular, with beautiful eyes and—
“Drat!” Just because she had successfully described his every characteristic did not mean she wanted him. He was simply fresh in her memory. That was all! It had nothing to do with her desire, or anything else for that matter. What she needed, she thought as the carriage jolted, starting its short journey towards Mayfair, was to get away from London. Her best friend’s marriage had done something to her; surely that was it. And the shock of not having to marry. And, well, her disease didn’t help matters.
She had forgotten about that. How was she to explain that away to anyone who asked? For she was hardly the type of woman to swoon into a man’s arms. Quite the opposite, in fact. Part of her brain, the sane and logical part, told her she should call on the doctor to see if it was worsening. The girlish fantastical side of her brain said everything was fine, and it was just a one time incident.
As the carriage pulled up to her parents’ home, she let out a sigh. Now that sleep was impossible for the next few hours, she might as well notify her father of the broken contract.
Rosalind steadied herself on the edge of the carriage and slowly put weight on one foot, and then the other. Careful not to take a misstep, she made her way to the front door and opened it, utterly exhausted by such effort for something so simple.
It seemed after every episode she was sluggish, her limbs unable to work properly.
With a sigh she looked up at the large mansion. Correction, the second largest mansion on Mayfair, for the first had always belonged to the Whitmore dynasty.
Taking a much needed calming breath, she opened the door and walked in. Her father, recluse that he was, was most likely in his study drinking tea—he had long since sworn off brandy—watching the flames dance in the fireplace for no other reason than he was slowly going mad with age. Or so he claimed whenever he was nagged by his wife, the current countess.
“Father?” She pushed the large oak door open. As expected he was sitting in his favorite chair facing the fireplace, but it was brandy swirling in his glass, not tea. Odd, she hadn’t seen him drink in ages. He simply found it unnecessary in favor of a warm cup of tea.
“Ah, Rose,” he said without turning around. “What brings you in to my study this time of night?”
“Boredom?” she offered, taking her favorite spot on the sofa across from him.
Her father, the Earl of Hariss, laughed. “You think me old enough not to notice the tone of your voice when you’re jesting my girl? Now, tell me what has you returning so early from the Season’s final ball?”
Truly, she didn’t want to worry him, so she lied. “I swooned. It was quite hot after all.”
“Swooned, you say? Rose, let us speak plainly, for I know better than anyone that you do not swoon, heat or no heat. That is rubbish, and you know it. I’m more likely to swoon than you!”
He had a point. Fumbling with her gloves she sighed. “I had an episode.”
Her father darted up from his chair, brandy sloshing out of his glass onto the Persian rug. “An episode? At the ball? But I thought you were finally getting well—it’s been weeks since the last one! The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said.” Rosalind tensed. She hated doctors, for they could never figure out what was wrong with her. Instead they looked at her as some test subject to be pricked and prodded until she bled to death. “But it appears that the disease has not yet left my body.”
“He assured me you were healed,” her father stated. As if the mere pronouncement by the doctor that she was healed made it truth. In her opinion the doctor was a lunatic. For goodness sake, he used an incantation over her! Not that she would ever reveal that particular piece of information to her father. But the doctor, although he graduated at the top of his class and was known as the best in London, was quite odd. And at times he would stare at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.
His last visit consisted of him speaking a spellbinding phrase over her body while she lay still on her bed. He then proceeded to scatter different herbs about her person and without warning announced she was healed.
“Just like that?” she had asked, skeptical.
“Of course! Am I not your doctor? Do you not trust me to see to your needs?”
Arrogant man that he was, she had merely nodded her head and mumbled under her breath the word “mad” while he went and announced the good news to her father.
The odd thing was she hadn’t experienced an episode until tonight, when she saw…
him
.
“There is something else.” She cleared her throat, waiting for her father to stop his fretting long enough to look her in the eyes.
“What is it, m’dear?”
Rosalind bit her lip in thought. Just how was she to announce the breach of contract? “It seems the Marquess of Whitmore is not dead.”
The earl said nothing. Instead he stared for quite a long time into the fire before answering, “Are you certain?”
“Quite. Why he even spoke to me, and I can assure you he was no ghost.” No, he was more firm and masculine than a mere ghost, with large muscles and a huge form, large enough to scare a man or woman.
Perplexed, her father stuck his tongue out in thought before sitting with a brooding expression. “And what did he say to you? I imagine he made quite a ruckus at the ball?”
Understatement of the Season. “You could say that, yes. However, I do have some good news. He has released me of the betrothal contract. However, I am not—”
Her speech stopped the minute her dad’s face went pale with worry. His eyes closed, and he muttered a curse. “Tell me he did not break the contract. Tell me you are lying or jesting as you were with the swooning. Please tell me that, m’dear, tell me!” He launched himself from the chair and grabbed her shoulders, sweat poured from his brow. “Tell me, tell me!”
Frightened, Rosalind’s voice shook. “Father, I thought you would be relieved, happy even! You owe that family nothing. Why, it’s utter nonsense that we should hold true to that stupid rule about our families. There is no curse!”
Her father’s head hung in defeat; his hands relaxed their hold on her shoulders. “What have you done?”
Those were the last words her father uttered before he died.
Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.
—Lord Byron
Six cursed months later
“I refuse to believe it,” Stefan muttered, keeping the tears from his eyes, though it was difficult considering the circumstances. But he needed to be strong for his family. At least what was left of it.
“It matters not what you choose to believe, it is a simple fact. Family members will continue to die unless you do something!” his mother yelled.
Frantically, he looked to his two brothers. The second oldest, James, utterly ruined for his stupidity, and the youngest Fitz, looking like he already had a foot in the grave. And all because of him.
His mother, the Dowager Duchess of Montmouth had tear-stained cheeks. “Stefan, you are watching your entire family burn to the ground. Everything generations have built! Are you such a selfish ill-bred boy that you enjoy seeing the pain, my dear? For it will get worse. First your father, now Fitz. It is the curse, I tell you! And we wont be rid of it until you fix this!”
His mother spoke of the curse as if it was real. Which it wasn’t. They didn’t live in some fairy tale book where broken betrothal contracts made it so that people started dropping dead within the family until the contract was mended. His ancestors had been positively unhinged when they set about telling the family that they must always marry into the Hartwell line. Truthfully, he blamed his father’s side of the family. Somewhere along the way, one of his ancestors had slept with a gypsy and then abandoned her, alone and pregnant, she did what any desperate woman would do.
She cursed his great, great grandfather as well as the woman he married, saying if he was so happy with another woman, his family would never break ties with hers. And so it was believed that if it happened, if either sides deterred from the chosen path, a curse so painful, so awful, would befall the family and take out all family lines and heirs.
It was ridiculous. But that didn’t mean his father hadn’t believed every word, nor his father before him. His family had promised he would look into the so called curse before Stefan left for India. Obviously he had come to the conclusion that things should stay as they were, for when he returned, it was to see himself betrothed. And the second he broke the betrothal, well, things had gone to Hades. His frustration mounting, all he could really do was explode with anger at his mother’s refusal to listen.
“I do not believe in curses!” he yelled right back. If circumstances hadn’t recently lent themselves in support of the family curse in the days since his broken betrothal, he wouldn’t be having this conversation. But the evidence was undeniable.
First, Rosalind’s father had dropped dead for no reason other than his heart stopped, yet he had been perfectly healthy until then. His own father, the late Duke of Montmouth, died two months later of pneumonia. And now Fitz, his brother, had contracted a disease that would not allow him to eat lest he throw up his countenance every time.
His mother said it was a curse.
He wanted to explain it away. For there had to be a more plausible reason why his once solid family was now crumbling around him, but it seemed too connected. Why hadn’t he listened when his father spoke of such things? Instead he had thought them the ramblings of an old man, and even worse, he had laughed in his father’s face when he warned Stefan to hold true to his promise to wed the girl, saying it was a life or death choice.
Apparently, he was spot on; Stefan just wasn’t aware it was his own father’s death that was held in the balance.
“What will you have me do?” He looked into his mother’s tear stained eyes. Willing her to stop crying—to stop yelling—he needed a stiff drink and some blasted answers, but knew he would only hear the mad ramblings of a crazy woman.
“Marry her.”
A cynical laugh escaped before he could stop it. Taking a seat across from Fitz, he let slip an oath. “Just like that? You expect me to jump on my horse, tear after the girl in Sussex and convince her to marry me, all because of a run of bad luck which may or may not be the result of a curse?”
Straightening her back, his mother turned cold eyes on him. “How easily you forget. For wasn’t she part of this whole debacle in the first place? Although, the rumor mill has been rampant that it isn’t necessarily another family member who’s struggling with life or death, but the girl herself.”
