The Spurned Viscountess (10 page)

“What are you doing?”

Rosalind suspected he was asking why she was blocking his way, but she pretended ignorance. Instead, she shot an aggrieved look at the silent footman by her side. “Lady Augusta has summoned me.”

One dark brow rose and his mouth curled upward at the very edges. “Best hurry then, before she takes it out on the footman.”

That was a definite smirk. Bother the man. He’d hit on the one thing that would make her hasten to the appointment. Still, she was reluctant to leave without a few words from her husband. Without thought, she reached out to touch his hand. “Your friend Mansfield is coming for dinner tonight. I’m looking forward to meeting him. I’ve heard so much about him from Charles.”

Hastings didn’t reply. The picture that formed in her mind was not the one she expected. She’d anticipated a vision of Charles and perhaps another man—Mansfield. Instead, the image was dark. Apprehension prickled her skin. Her gaze shot to Hastings. His distant, unfocused expression mirrored her confusion.

A faceless figure prowled Hastings’s mind with a sinister menace. Rosalind exhaled slowly. Was this the same man she read in the villagers’ minds when she treated their ailments? The one they called Hawk?

Hastings shrugged, snapping the fragile contact she held with his mind. “I have things to do.” His gaze narrowed further as he waited for Rosalind to move. Hiding her hurt, she did as he silently bid, her mind too full of unanswered questions to challenge him again.

She stepped inside the Great Hall, trailed by her silent sentry.

“Where is that dratted footman?” Lady Augusta’s screech echoed down the passage, exploding into the Great Hall with the force of a nor’easter.

There was nothing for it. Rosalind had to face Lady Augusta. The footman mustn’t suffer a punishment because of her reluctance. Rosalind sailed into the blue salon to meet with her nemesis.

“There you are! Where have you been, girl? And what are you wearing?” Lady Augusta’s voice rose even higher, if that were possible, her gray eyes snapping with anger while her mouth wrinkled up like an old apple left out in the sun. Before Rosalind answered, Lady Augusta’s gaze cut to the silent footman. “I told you to bring her immediately. Tell Tickell your next half day is cancelled.”

A horrified gasp escaped from Rosalind, and for the first time she saw a flash of irritation on the footman’s face. “It’s not fair to punish him. It’s my fault he took so long. I was way out by the Tower Garden. Then, on the way back, I stopped to talk to Hastings. The butler mustn’t punish him on my account.”

“Go,” Lady Augusta ordered the footman. “And don’t forget to see Tickell.”

Aghast, Rosalind could only stare at the elderly woman in front of her. She decided to countermand the order later. “How can I help you, Lady Augusta?”

“Where is that maid of yours? I told her to go to the village seamstress and come back with two suitable gowns for you. You can’t continue wearing the rags you’ve donned the last few days.” Her mouth pursed in a pained grimace as she flicked a gaze at the offending gown. “Where is she? I expected her back at least an hour ago.”

“Mary and I visited the seamstress at the beginning of the week to order gowns. She’s busy with orders for the Mansfield ball.”

“Which we are attending,” Lady Augusta snapped. “You can’t go in a gown such as the one you wore last night. You’ll make us a laughingstock. Your maid dresses better than you do. It’s no wonder Hastings spends so much time away from Castle St. Clare.”

Grief lanced through Rosalind at the cruel reminder, but Lady Augusta spoke the truth. Hastings refused to spend time with her. So whom did he spend his time with? The lady who inhabited his memories?

“Pour the chocolate, girl.” Lady Augusta’s abrasive tone jerked her from her sorry thoughts. “Where is your maid? You haven’t told me. Speak up.”

The dainty china bowls rattled as Rosalind arranged them on the walnut table next to Lady Augusta. “I haven’t seen her since she helped me dress this morning.”

“Discipline, girl! That’s the only thing they understand. If I find she met with a man instead of hurrying back, there’ll be trouble. Servants need discipline.”

Rosalind disagreed but knew better than to argue. She picked up the pot of chocolate and poured it into two bowls. She placed one within Lady Augusta’s reach.

“Pass the sugar, girl!”

“Yes, Lady Augusta.”

She picked up the sugar bowl and held it toward Lady Augusta.

“Two lumps.”

Rosalind sighed and followed the order. When she was about to place the sugar bowl down, Lady Augusta seized her hand.

“Another lump.”

A haze of red and white swirled through Rosalind’s mind. The red seeped through the white like drops of blood. She shivered involuntarily, feeling as if she was walking through a patch of cold fog. The fog cleared to show children—Hastings, but a younger Hastings who laughed and gamboled over the sand with others chasing him. The fog swirled, rearranged then cleared in a different place, and Rosalind came face to face with herself. A soft gasp escaped. She wrenched her hand away, jolting the sugar bowl and scattering lumps in all directions.

“You stupid girl,” Lady Augusta barked. “Ring for a maid.”

Rosalind backed away, blindly reaching for the hand bell to summon a servant. Lady Augusta worried about the future, about the continuation of the St. Clare line. And she was in pain—severe pain that she hid behind her irascible disposition.

This presented a quandary. Everything inside her wanted to reach out and help, but how could she, and keep her gift secret at the same time?

She returned to where Lady Augusta sat in an upright chair. Cubes of sugar crunched, breaking into crystals beneath each of her steps.

“Stand still, girl. You’re making a mess.”

“Yes, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said, her mind busily thinking of ways to help the elderly woman without attracting attention to herself.

Lady Augusta snapped instructions to the maid. She disappeared and returned a short time later with a broom in hand.

“Out of the way, girl!” Lady Augusta flashed an irritable look in Rosalind’s direction.

Rosalind suppressed a sigh. There was no winning with Lady Augusta. Everything she did was wrong.

“Is that maid back yet?” the elderly woman barked. “You there! I’m talking to you. Has Lady Hastings’s maid returned from the errand I sent her on?”

“No, my lady.”

“Where is the dratted girl?”

“I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation.” Rosalind kept her voice low and soothing.

Lady Augusta let out a snort that sounded like an impatient horse. “I’ll want to hear it.”

Rosalind sank onto a chair, well out of the maid’s way, and sipped her chocolate. She wondered if Lady Augusta had finished with her and when she might escape.

The maid swept up the sugar, bobbed a curtsey and hurried from the room, leaving Rosalind alone with Lady Augusta. Rosalind took another sip of her chocolate, waiting for Lady Augusta to speak. The silence drew out until she felt like screaming. She inched forward on her chair, her left hand clenching and unclenching in the folds of her skirt.

“You’re not going to bring Hastings to heel the way you’re going about things.”

Rosalind started. The bowl almost bounded from her hands, splattering chocolate on her skirts. A dry chuckle burst from the elderly lady. Rosalind righted the bowl, both humiliated and resentful. She didn’t need Lady Augusta to tell her something was wrong. Her mouth tightened as she glowered at the woman.

“Good to see you have some backbone. I was beginning to wonder. I’ve instructed that maid of yours to return with two gowns and ordered the seamstress to hurry the others. You’ll have a decent gown to wear to dinner tonight. Give Lady Sophia some decent competition. That’s if your maid decides to return today. Meantime, I want you to go over the menus with me.” Lady Augusta paused, an expectant look on her lined face. “Well, what do you say?”

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Lady Augusta.”

The elderly woman fixed her with a steely glare. “You must win over Hastings.”

“Yes, Lady Augusta.”

“Time we had St. Clare offspring running about the castle again.”

Rosalind winced. Was she that obvious? How did Lady Augusta know it was her dearest wish to hold a child to her breast, to smooth the soft down of its head and shower enough love to make him or her grow into a healthy adult? Hastings’s child. An excited tingle speared from her breast to her belly at the thought. Yes, she wanted her husband to give her a child.

“Surprised you, did I?” A dry cackle sounded. “I’m not so old that I don’t remember what it’s like for the blood to run hot with passion. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said hastily, heat flooding her cheeks. When she dared meet Lady Augusta’s gaze again she noticed the imperceptible tightening of lips. The elderly woman required a tonic. She hoped Mary would have some idea of how to get her to drink a potion without raising suspicions. “Shall we start on the menus? Cook will want them as soon as possible.”

By the time they finished going over the menus to Lady Augusta’s satisfaction, a full two hours had passed.

“Ring the bell for Tickell. Tell him to send for Hancock. I am weary and wish to rest.”

Rosalind rose with alacrity and made haste before Lady Augusta gave her another chore.

“See if your maid has returned. She’d better be back if she knows what’s good for her.”

Rosalind reached for the doorknob, half expecting Lady Augusta to call her back. She jerked the door open and almost leaped through in her hurry to leave. Their menu-planning session had left her with a pounding head, and it hadn’t done much for Lady Augusta’s temperament either.

A maid hovered a few feet from the door, making Rosalind suspect her of eavesdropping. The amused glint in the maid’s dark eyes confirmed her suspicions.

“Has Mary returned from her errand yet?” Rosalind’s words wiped the smirk from the maid’s face and raised guilt in her. She sounded like Lady Augusta.

“I haven’t seen her.” The maid tossed her head. “But she may have returned while I was doing the library.”

Rosalind nodded. “Lady Augusta wishes the services of her maid. Please inform Tickell.”

Once the servant left, Rosalind hurried away to check her chamber. As the maid had said, it was possible Mary had returned with the gowns and gone straight to Rosalind’s chamber to hang them so the creases dropped out.

“Mary?” Rosalind pushed the chamber door shut behind her. “Mary, are you here?”

Silence greeted her call. Rosalind stepped into the dressing room to collect the cloak Mary had lent her and came to a stunned halt.

Six gowns hung on hooks where this morning there were none. But they didn’t look like the gowns she and Mary had ordered from the seamstress.

A slow smile curved Rosalind’s lips. They were gorgeous, gowns of the like she’d never seen before, with matching petticoats. And the colors! She picked up the closest gown and couldn’t resist holding it to her body, despite the risk of marking it. Oh, it was glorious, the blue and gold fabric soft and feminine. She buried her nose in the silk, savoring the scent of new cloth.

A delighted giggle bubbled up her throat. There were five more, each so beautiful she’d have trouble choosing which gown to wear tonight. Rosalind whirled about, swinging the gown with her. The fabric rustled as though she were dancing. She couldn’t wait to see Hastings’s face when he saw her in one of her new gowns. And to thank him, for it must have been his doing. For once, she’d show to advantage. She would look beautiful.

The dinner hour approached, and Mary was still missing.

As darkness drew in, Rosalind paced her chamber, clutching her kitten for comfort while worry stung her flesh like hundreds of angry bee stings. Her hand stilled on top of Noir’s head. Despite Lady Augusta’s conviction, Mary wasn’t the type to run off with a lover. Puzzlement gnawed at her, along with anxiety.

Mary’s whereabouts remained a mystery. She’d returned to the castle with the gowns, hung them in the dressing room and disappeared with not a soul seeing her. Repeated questioning of servants had produced no answers. No one had seen Mary since early this morning.

A tap at her chamber door, just as a clock chimed the hour, announced the arrival of a maid. Maybe she would have news of Mary. With optimism surging inside, Rosalind set Noir down and bade her to enter. One glance at the woman and her hopes plummeted. Mary was still absent. Forcing a smile, she submitted to the maid’s attentions and fretted, trying to think what else she could do. Even though she hadn’t seen as much of Mary recently, her friend was the one constant in her topsy-turvy world. Selfish reasons aside, concern for Mary’s safety filled her. No matter what anyone said, this wasn’t characteristic behavior for her friend.

Time crept past as the maid styled her hair, applied a patch to the right of her mouth and helped her dress. Finally, she smoothed the lustrous pink silk of Rosalind’s gown, coaxing a tuck into obedience, flicking a piece of lace on her sleeve.

“You look right nice in that dress.” The sturdy girl stood back to survey her handiwork. “The color suits you. Should I come back later to help you get ready for bed?”

“Thank you, Janet, but I’m sure Mary will return soon.”

Janet bowed her head and curtsied, but not before Rosalind witnessed the clear doubt in her round face. Everyone believed the stories of a lover.

Outside, the sun slipped from sight. A stiff breeze blew in from the sea, rattling loose shutters and shooting cool drafts about the castle. Clearly, a storm was on the way. Apprehension eroded all the pleasure she’d felt on donning one of her new gowns. Mary wouldn’t willingly face the biting wind and rain, especially with her grumbles about the dangers of fresh air.

In the distance, a clock chimed the next hour, reminding her of the need to hurry. She scooped Noir off the dresser and placed him on the floor.

“Thank you, Janet. Will you make sure my chamber door is closed when you leave?”

Janet’s gaze speared to Noir. Her mouth compressed, but she nodded. “Aye, my lady.”

Rosalind’s silk skirts rustled as she hurried down the passage. When she entered the Chinese Drawing Room, guests were still arriving. Lady Augusta beckoned her immediately with an imperious gesture of her hand. “What was in that tonic you sent for me?”

“A recipe my grandmother taught me.” Rosalind fought the need to roll her eyes. Good grief. She’d wanted to help. Why was Lady Augusta telling her off?

“Ah, Hastings.” Lady Augusta summoned her nephew from a discussion with Charles.

Rosalind blinked, momentarily speechless. Was that a smile on her face?

Hastings sauntered to a halt beside Rosalind. Dark locks were styled in loose curls on his shoulders, contrasting with the pale blue waistcoat he wore with black breeches and jacket. His inscrutable dark eyes skimmed her face and traveled down her body.

A tremor raced through Rosalind, the air whooshing from her lungs. His gaze caressed her and felt like a handful of soft petals brushing her skin. She imagined his hand trailing down her body instead of his gaze. And in that moment, she wanted to touch him so much, her hand tingled beneath her pink gloves. Every time he looked at her, her heart leaped in response, yet the awareness of his masculinity, his strength, tied her insides in knots of confusion.

“You will escort your wife to dinner,” Lady Augusta commanded, jerking Rosalind from her illicit thoughts. “Introduce her to Mansfield.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

Rosalind glanced in the direction Lady Augusta indicated with a flutter of her fan. A large man, tall and solid, stood on the other side of the parlor near a display of Oriental etchings. Cousin Charles held up his quizzing glass and minced three steps before whirling to speak to the man. The blond man threw back his head and roared with laughter at Charles’s antics.

“Go on,” Lady Augusta snapped, striking out with her fan to emphasize her order. “Before Tickell rings the dinner bell.”

Hastings’s expression never changed. “Shall we?” He offered his escort to Rosalind.

Thoughts of her husband had rattled her so much, the protective gloves she wore were a blessed relief. A chance to block her gift and know her mind would remain free of visions. Forcing her worries for Mary’s safety away, she placed her trembling hand on Hastings’s arm and strolled at her husband’s side, her head held high with pride.

Lucien thought he’d managed to hide his shock at Rosalind’s appearance. Tonight, his wife looked like a graceful bird instead of a small brown mouse. The pink gown lent color to her cheeks and made her blue eyes sparkle. He felt, rather than saw, the admiration from the male guests. He slowed his steps and moved her closer to his side. Immediately, a delicate scent assailed him, bringing to mind the rose garden on a lazy summer afternoon.

“Lady Hastings. You look good enough to eat.”

Lucien couldn’t help but tense at the admiration in his cousin’s voice and, judging by her puzzled glance, his English mouse noticed his reaction.

“Cousin Charles.” Rosalind swept into a low curtsey. “Thank you.”

“Lady Hastings, may I present Viscount Mansfield? You’ve heard me speak of our childhood friend, Mansfield.”

The man, supposedly his friend, bowed over his wife’s hand. Try as he might, he had no recollection of Mansfield. The childhood memories Charles described were like mist, opaque yet insubstantial.

Mansfield straightened, lust flashing beneath the polished veneer. It was gone so quickly Lucien wondered if he’d imagined the reaction. He scowled, his frame tightening with inner tension. If Mansfield thought to flirt with his wife, he could think again.

“Steady, cuz.” Charles wore an amused smile. “Friend.”

Lucien blanked his face, but too late. Drat the woman. He didn’t want to think about her, and yet he couldn’t rid himself of the possessive urges that had surfaced without warning.

“I’m pleased to meet you at last, Lady Hastings. If I’d known how beautiful and charming you were I wouldn’t have dallied in London for so long.”

Lucien curled his arm around Rosalind’s slender waist in a proprietary statement. “Mansfield.”

“Hastings.” Humor lurked in his eyes. “Are you keeping your wife prisoner in the castle? The local rumor mill—”

“You shouldn’t rely on gossip,” Lucien cut in without a trace of nuance.

Mansfield gave an arrogant nod and eyed Rosalind with a speculative lift of brow. “So I see.”

What the hell did that mean? Lucien might not remember his childhood friend, but he recognized a wolf when he saw one. A wolf who was ogling his wife’s attributes. Lucien winged a dark glare at the man, one that promised retribution should he continue.

“Good evening, Hastings,” a soft feminine voice cooed.

Rosalind stiffened at his side, the obvious distaste in her expression so in tune with his own thoughts Lucien almost laughed. Lady Sophia might flirt with him, but she didn’t truly like him and never met his gaze. It was obvious his scarred visage offended her sensibilities. Still, Lady Sophia’s artless chatter provided insightful clues in his search for Hawk. He’d learned which of the local aristocracy purchased goods from the smugglers, who ordered tea, tobacco, brandy or French silk. After receiving the information from Lady Sophia, he’d questioned several of the landowners, but none of them knew Hawk’s true identity. In truth, Lucien didn’t think any of them cared so long as they continued to receive the luxuries they desired with minimum fuss. He’d discovered that the landowners deposited money at a specified place on a certain night, and the next morning they’d find goods on their doorsteps—every step of the transaction took place at a distance. So he didn’t want to alienate Lady Sophia too much. After his previous setdown when she’d tried to trap him into kissing her, he was lucky she still spoke to him. “Lady Sophia.”

“Hastings, I wanted to discuss my purchase of a new mount. I’m sure Lady Hastings can spare you for a few minutes.”

“Perhaps after dinner, Lady Sophia,” Rosalind said. “Tickell will ring the dinner bell soon.”

She was trembling, although none of the others noticed. He wondered at her possessive manner, especially since his previous behavior had been little short of rude. His gaze drifted over her pert nose and onward to soft pink lips. The drift of color to her cheeks made him smile. Rosalind hid quiet dignity and a caring nature beneath her reserve, and he couldn’t help but admire her for it.

***

Thunder crashed, reverberating throughout Rosalind’s chamber. A fork of lightning lit the night sky before Janet, who was still substituting for Mary, slammed the shutters across the windows to close the storm out. “Will you need anything else tonight, Lady Hastings?”

Rosalind noted the tinge of color on the maid’s cheeks, the way she picked up her hairbrush and put it down only to fondle a blue-and-silver hair ribbon. She was like a bird craving freedom from a cage, restless and eager to fly.

“Are you meeting Tom tonight?” Before dinner, the maid had told her about the man who was courting her.

“Yes, my lady.” She hugged herself, the sparkle in her eyes making Rosalind even more miserable. Why couldn’t Hastings court her?

Rain lashed against the shutters. The wind roared its fury. Rosalind glanced down at her hands. She didn’t want to be alone. She could order the maid to stay. After all, what fool would venture outside in weather like this? She sucked in a deep breath and turned to Janet, about to tell her she required her services tonight. Another glimpse of her sparkling eyes, the softly flushed face and clear impatience to leave made Rosalind’s shoulders slump.
A fool in love—that’s who would brave the elements.

She couldn’t do it. It wasn’t the maid’s job to quell the monsters that haunted both Rosalind’s chamber and her mind.

“No, Janet, I won’t need you again this evening.”

The maid nodded and skipped to the door. “Good evening. Sleep well.”

Rosalind fixed a smile to her lips and concentrated on ignoring the apprehension spreading through her body. She still couldn’t believe Mary would willingly face this storm, even if Janet intended to go out in the icy elements. “Have a lovely time.”

“Thank you, Lady Hastings.” A quick grin stretched across Janet’s face before she disappeared from sight, the heavy wooden door closing with a soft thud, leaving Rosalind alone.

Again.

Rosalind rose from the stool in front of her looking glass. Where was Mary? No matter what Lady Augusta and the others said, Mary wouldn’t run off without a word. Tomorrow she’d ask questions in the village and perhaps organize a search.

A loud crash, almost overhead, made her wince. The promised storm had arrived with vengeance. She hoped Mary was somewhere dry and warm.

Rosalind padded to her bed and climbed in. Sleep, she thought. Sleep and forget about Hastings, although tonight he’d been very attentive to her. Was she wrong to wish for more? The yearning for a loving partnership and children was like a fist squeezing her heart. Rosalind ached for Hastings’s love, his friendship.

The candle flickered out and the room settled into darkness. Rosalind punched her pillow, lay back and pulled the covers over her shivering body. Her pulse raced unaccountably, as it often did when she was alone in her chamber. A shiver swept her body. Malignant eyes watched again. For several days now, watchful eyes followed her every action. It didn’t seem to matter what time of the day or night. Then there was the mystery of her disappearing gowns…

Rosalind frowned into the darkness. The appearance of the new gowns was a mystery too. She’d meant to ask Hastings but hadn’t managed to find the right time during dinner, not when Lady Sophia was monopolizing his attention.

The sensation of someone watching her heightened. Rosalind sat up abruptly. Licking her lips, she stared into the darkness, searching for the unknown entity that stalked her, that watched and waited until she questioned her sanity. Rosalind strained to hear the slightest noise to prove she wasn’t going mad, but she could hear nothing above the groaning wind and rain.

Ignoring the pounding heart and the smothering unease, she lay back and resolutely closed her eyes.

A mistake.

Imagination took flight, growing with each rattle of thunder. Rosalind gasped, bounding upright in the bed. The back of her neck prickled. The small hairs on her arms and legs stood to attention.

A sound that could have been a footstep hiked her heartbeat to a gallop.

“Who’s there?” Her voice sounded tiny and scared. Rosalind swallowed, the noise loud to her ears. She fumbled for the bell-pull and tugged frantically. She wanted a candle. Not knowing what loomed in the inky black darkness was worse than being able to see the threat face to face. “Noir? Here, kitty.”

An eternity later, a brisk tap sounded on her door.

“Come in,” Rosalind called.

The door opened and a light flickered, illuminating a maid’s face. “Can I get you something, my lady?”

“There seems to be a draft. My candle blew out.”

The maid surged forward. “I’ll light it for you.”

“Thank you.” With the maid’s reassuring presence, Rosalind’s terror eased. The flickering light of the candle was infinitely welcome. Where was Noir? She couldn’t see her kitten anywhere and desperately needed his comforting presence. He’d developed a habit of hiding and pouncing at her ankles when she least expected it.

“Will that be all, my lady?”

Rosalind resisted the cowardly urge to order the maid to stay, at least until she’d found her kitten. After a pause, she acknowledged the truth. The fewer people who knew about Noir’s extra toes the better. “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”