Damn the old earl for not making Griffin Jacks’s guardian! DeVere was only a distant cousin, and he didn’t give a fig about the girl. He didn’t care about anyone in this benighted family, did he? All he cared about was increasing the wealth and standing of the deVeres.
It was a profound source of disgruntlement to Oliver, Lord deVere, that his branch of the family hadn’t advanced beyond the title of baron. Like so many of his hot-tempered ancestors, deVere could never stay on the right side of the reigning sovereign long enough to climb any higher in the peerage.
After a prolonged pause, Griffin spoke. “Let me understand you. If I agree to marry Lady Rosamund as soon as may be, you will set my sister free of that nauseating betrothal?”
DeVere grunted. “That’s right.”
“I want Jacks to have a season,” said Griffin. “I want full approval of a list of candidates, and she will have her pick among them. My sister must marry, but she will not be made miserable. Not if I have any say in it.”
DeVere held up a warning finger. “There’ll be no silly romantical notions planted in the chit’s head, d’ye hear me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Griffin grimly.
His chest eased a little at the prospect of seeing Jacks again. “I’ll open the town house. Do the thing properly. I won’t have that Warrington witch playing chaperone, mind. And that chinless whelp of a son of hers will not go near my sister again.”
If he let Lady Warrington chaperone Jacks, the grasping harridan would do her best to scuttle the girl’s prospects with the ton.
Come to think of it, Jacks might not need any help in that direction.…
“From what I’ve seen of her, the chit is likely to be recalcitrant,” said deVere, as if echoing Griffin’s thoughts. “And she’s a graceless wench, besides.” He shook his head. “The season doesn’t start for a couple of months yet. You have a lot of work to do in the meantime.”
DeVere didn’t know the half of it. He could just imagine what his sister would have to say about the prospect of a London debut.
But if he could see her settled and content, he would be well pleased.
Of course, the price he would pay for his sister’s happiness was his own abject humiliation, but she would never know that. No one would ever know how much it cost him to take Lady Rosamund Westruther as wife.
Truly, it amazed him that the Westruthers had let matters get this far. Despite his and Rosamund’s disastrous first meeting three years ago, Lady Rosamund had not fled Pendon Place then and there. The formal betrothal had proceeded, regardless of Griffin’s objections.
His grandfather had been mightily amused at the disparity between Griffin’s brutish form and the poised, delicious confection Griffin’s fiancée presented. The shame of suffering his grandsire’s open ridicule in front of Rosamund herself still burned like acid in Griffin’s gut.
Then the old earl’s health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, postponing the wedding as he lingered for months on the brink of death. His demise had required a suitable mourning period. Besides, Griffin had been far too occupied in bringing the estate into order to trouble himself with a bride.
And now, there was that damnable business with Allbright.
But he had to admit the truth, if only to himself. For almost three years, he had seized every possible excuse to avoid actually tying the knot with Lady Rosamund Westruther.
He’d never forget the way she made him feel that first day they met. Overgrown and hideous, undeserving and
furious
at his own inadequacy. He’d fallen ludicrously short of her expectations, but she’d been so damned plucky, so gladly determined to make the best of it.
It was her cursed cheerful dauntlessness that rankled the most. At least if she’d behaved like a spoiled heiress, he could have some basis on which to despise her.
If only he hadn’t let his animal instincts overcome him and kissed her. He’d passed countless nights since that day consumed with a longing to repeat that incandescent experience. He couldn’t sleep for thinking of her sweet, fragrant softness. If—
when
—they married, he’d have to live and breathe every day beside that delicious temptation, knowing she must hold him in aversion and contempt.
Griffin closed his eyes. His grandfather still had the power to torture him, even from the grave.
But he couldn’t consider his own stupid pride. His sister must come first.
And he needed to get Jacks away from Pendon Place for good. For a lady of Jacqueline’s station, that meant one thing: marriage.
“I’ll trust you to come up with a list of eligibles,” he told deVere. “
Young
men, mind, honorable, pox free, and in possession of all their teeth.”
“She’s a difficult gel,” said deVere. “I can draw up a list of possibilities. I can’t promise they’ll agree.”
Griffin eyed his kinsman shrewdly. “Make it known that I shall settle a generous dowry on her. The Berkshire property, too.”
At this, deVere’s scowl lightened. He rubbed his big hands together. “That’ll set ’em by the ears!”
“No doubt.”
DeVere cocked an eyebrow. “She must have a chaperone who is up to snuff. Not only that, you’ll need someone to school the girl in the ways of society. You’d best wed Lady Rosamund without delay.”
The sudden urgency of it punched the breath from Griffin’s lungs, made his heart pound in his chest.
He hoped to God Lady Rosamund would agree.
And what about this Captain Lauderdale fellow? Her tendre for him complicated matters, didn’t it?
That some other man showed serious interest in Rosamund was no surprise. She’d caused a sensation when she debuted; Griffin knew all about that. How could it be otherwise? But if his sources were correct, she’d never shown a marked preference for any of the gentlemen who courted her.
This Lauderdale fellow was a different kettle of fish. Rosamund did, it seemed, display a decided partiality for him. And who could blame the chit for her infatuation? By all accounts, the man possessed wit, charm, and audacity, not to mention a head like a Greek coin. On the battlefield, it was said his bravery was second to none.
The bastard.
Still, Lady Rosamund had not openly repudiated her engagement to Griffin. That must mean one of two things: She was biding her time, waiting to secure the duke’s approval to switch grooms; or she intended to take Lauderdale as her lover after she was wed. That’s what ladies in their circle did, wasn’t it?
A growl formed in his chest.
Over his dead body.
If he was going to subject himself to the torture of marriage to Lady Rosamund Westruther, he was damned if he’d be cuckolded, too.
He looked up at deVere. “I’ll send for her today.”
DeVere scoffed. “You’re a fool not to have snapped her up when you had the chance. Who knows whether she’ll have you now?” He shook his head. “I might not know much about women, but if you take my advice,
you’ll
go to
her
. She’s in London, you know.”
Griffin would rather be boiled in oil than grovel to Lady Rosamund Westruther, particularly if that meant dancing attendance on her in fashionable London. He ground his teeth at the mere notion.
Besides, it was as well that Lady Rosamund knew from the start who would be master in their household.
He tapped a broad fingertip on the special license. “No. I’ll send for her. We might as well get married here. Pendon Place will be her home, after all. I’ll send for Jacks, too. We ought to begin preparing her for the season as soon as we can.”
A creeping feeling of unease stole over him. How could he bring Rosamund here? The house was a shambles. Those servants he hadn’t dismissed after his grandfather died had deserted him upon the music master’s untimely demise, leaving one family to do the necessary labor in the house. The gloomy old pile was airless, dank, and full of dust. As unappealing as its master, in fact.
“That’s settled, then,” said deVere. “You’ll marry Lady Rosamund. She’ll give Jacks a season, and we’ll get the chit riveted all right and tight.”
“Send me that list of eligibles, will you?” said Griffin. “I want to know all about them in advance.”
“Odd filly, your sister,” remarked deVere. “Think she’s up to the task?”
“Of course she is.”
DeVere grunted. “You’d best win Lady Rosamund to your side as soon as may be.” He regarded Griffin with a sapient eye. “You’ve got your work cut out for you there.”
As his relative took his leave, Griffin wondered whether he referred to Jacqueline or to Griffin’s beautiful betrothed.
Either way, deVere would be right.
* * *
Madam,
It is high time we were wed. I shall expect you at Pendon Place next week.
Yours, etc.,
Tregarth
P.S. Bring your riding habit. The blue one.
Sir,
I confess I find myself Bewildered at this Summons, arriving as it does Out of the Blue. You must forgive me if I say that at first I was at a Loss to recall who you were.
I have obligations in Town which I cannot break. Even were that not so, I should never answer such a Peremptory Command, and certainly not from You.
You may, if you choose, call on me at Montford House.
Yours, etc.,
Lady Rosamund Westruther
P.S. I do not know to which riding habit you refer.
“Another year, another collection of broken hearts.”
Lady Cecily Westruther inspected the bower of floral arrangements that typically arrived for her cousin each day she spent in London. Though the season had not yet begun, enough of the ton had returned to the metropolis to fill Rosamund’s calendar with social engagements. “Rosamund, I vow you single-handedly keep London florists in business.”
“Mmm?” Rosamund had been listening with half an ear while perusing an elegantly worded card attached to a posy of violets.
“How very kind,” she murmured.
She handed the posy to a maid and took up the next offering. She must endeavor to keep who gave her what straight in her head so that she could thank them properly when next she met them.
Men, she’d discovered, were surprisingly sensitive souls underneath all that muscle and swagger. She took great care not to wound them, and a tricky time she had of it, too. Sometimes she longed to tuck herself away in the country during the season, but that would be poor-spirited. She’d rather die than wear the willow for Griffin deVere.
The Earl of Tregarth, he was now. But she was not his countess.
Yet.
Rosamund buried her face in a creamy, ruffled bouquet, breathing in the musk-sweet scent of roses. She repressed a sigh. How ungrateful of her to feel a thorny stab of pain in her heart each time a gentleman sent her a tribute such as this. The gesture only reinforced the fact that Griffin had never given her so much as a dandelion to mark his regard.
Not that she cared about flowers so much; the occasional letter would have sufficed. At least by such communications, her betrothed might acknowledge she existed.
But in almost three years, he hadn’t made a single attempt to further his acquaintance with her.
And now, all of a sudden, Griffin ordered her to marry him, posthaste! Even more galling, he sent her a rude, peremptory summons, as if she were a servant, not his future countess.
Well, she’d learned something since the age of eighteen. Men never valued what they won too easily. If Griffin wanted her, he’d have to work much harder than this.
“Another letter arrived yesterday,” she murmured, handing on the rose bouquet.
Cecily looked up from a bunch of lilies she was arranging in a vase. “What did it say?”
Rosamund made a face. “More bluster, I’m afraid.”
“The man is an oaf!” Cecily’s strongly marked brows drew together. “You will not give in to him.”
“Of course not,” said Rosamund.
Yet, how she wished he’d hand her the smallest excuse to do so. One tiny sop to her pride, one small compliment, the slightest glimmer of affection, and she’d race down to Cornwall like a shot.
She lifted her chin. “I’ve told him if he wishes our wedding to go forward, he’ll come here and court me properly.”
But Griffin deVere was as stubborn as a rock.
“Let him but show his face,” grumbled Cecily. “I’d have some words to say to him.”
“No doubt.” Rosamund smiled at Cecily’s vehemence. “You are the most fearsome creature. Even I quake in my shoes when you frown like that.”