“And does Frank still protect you?” She smiled fondly.
“I am glad to say that I no longer need his help. But he has my eternal affection and loyalty.”
The last statement was for him, not her. To remind him that the lovely woman sitting beside him belonged to his cousin and that to fight for her would be a betrayal. Not that there was any chance of winning, even if he were inclined to try. She was watching the cricketers again, radiant with admiration as Frank ran between the wickets.
“Lord Bruton,” she said after a minute or two. “Thank you for telling me about you and Frank. And since you have his best interests at heart and already know so much of our courtship, I wish to confide in you again. I must confess that I had terrible doubts about him. Did you know that we met in the dark two nights ago?”
“Uh ... he did mention it.”
“After that I was uncertain about our connection.” She pursed her lips, thought a little, then shook her head. “Forgive me for being so bold, but our meeting was not all that I could wish.”
Well that was a surprise! Frank, lucky devil, had been as eloquent as he ever was about the joys of kissing Rosanne Lacy.
“I decided to give him another chance and ask him to meet me in the grotto.”
“How did that go?” His heart beat fast enough to cause a seizure.
“It was wonderful. Miraculous. Splendid beyond all my dreams.”
He was dumbfounded. She was talking about his kiss. Their kiss. The kiss that had seared his soul and destroyed his peace.
“But even more importantly, you have confirmed what a truly noble man he is. I am so happy. He hasn’t spoken to me yet, but he asked my father’s permission.”
His lack of a reply didn’t stem her paean of joy.
“It’s funny how he seems to have no difficulty talking to gentlemen. He talks to you, and I’ve seen him taking to other men. He has plenty to say when he’s talking to them about that phaeton. But I’m not worried. Eventually he’ll feel comfortable enough to speak to me the way he can in his letters. Really, I should be flattered that my presence deprives him of the power of speech. Don’t you think?”
No, he did not. “If you say so. I hope you don’t mind if I continue reading.” Talking was too much of a temptation. He’d be wise to get up and leave, but each time he resolved to do so, his body resisted his will. The delight and agony of her proximity nailed him in place as he stared at meaningless lines of print.
o0o
Keeping half her attention on Frank’s cricket heroics, Rosanne sat in the sun and made a daisy chain. It had been hard for Lord Bruton to tell her about his school days. She had learned from Frank, and in greater detail from another guest, that the subject of his scar was one a man was wise to avoid. How strange that a man of his birth and talents should care so much for an accidental disfigurement. That side of his face was shocking to the eye at first, but she’d become used to it. In fact, she thought it gave character to his countenance. She was sure most people would feel the same if he would let them know him. But he kept others at bay with fierce looks and haughty reserve, ensuring that they didn’t forget the most sinister aspect of an otherwise unexceptional appearance. As she threaded the flower stems together, she stole surreptitious glances at his impassive features, which, she fancied, disguised some inner grief. She had the urge to comfort him, to hold his dark head between her hands, to kiss the cruel red line...
Good Lord! What was she thinking? He’d no doubt be appalled at the very idea, and so should she. She was in love with his cousin and friend and would soon be his cousin too. Doubtless that was why he felt comfortable enough to mention the forbidden topic to her. She stole another glance and met his eyes over the top of his book: a hot, dark look that set her pulses racing.
Confused and blushing, she shifted to face the cricket field and put the perplexing man out of her sight. Frank brandished his bat, looking dashing and splendid. Any day now, possibly any hour, this magnificent man would propose to her, she would accept, and they’d plan their wedding. What better time to become betrothed than at a wedding party when love and matrimony were in the air? Yet she felt less rapturous at the prospect than she expected.
He took a mighty swipe, but instead of driving the ball into the distance as he had a dozen times, he missed and the wicket shattered. He accepted his dismissal with his usual good nature. She watched him congratulate the bowler and accept the commiserations of his team. Then he loped gracefully across the field and flung himself onto the ground next to them.
“Well played, Frank,” she said.
“Were you watching me?” He grinned bashfully. “I certainly botched that last ball. Went right by me.”
“You never could resist a fast one.” Apparently Lord Bruton could read and watch cricket at the same time.
“You know my weaknesses.” He paused. “Uh, Rosanne. Would you like to come for a walk with me or are you busy?”
“Busy making a daisy chain, that’s all.” She guessed what was coming and perhaps she needed to wait. Spend more time with Frank before she accepted him. On the other hand, she wouldn’t object to another kiss. That should settle her doubts. “Let me finish this. I won’t be a minute.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Lord Bruton asked. “Crown Frank with the garland?”
“I’d look very silly, but if Rosanne wants me to wear daisies, I will.”
Bruton sneered, every bit the man who sent soft-hearted ladies scuttling away in terror. He scowled even more ferociously as Kate ran up to join them.
“Rosanne,” she said breathlessly. “Have you seen Papa? I have something particular I want to ask him and I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Does Mama know? Or perhaps he’s at the stables again.”
“I know where Lord Warnford is, Miss Kate,” Frank said. “He told me this morning he had to go to Dorchester on a matter of business.”
“Again?” Kate asked. “He’s always going to Dorchester. You’d think he could manage without while we are here.”
Rosanne didn’t want to ask what her father was doing. She was terribly afraid she knew the answer.
o0o
Christian watched as the Lacy sisters exchanged small talk with Frank, whose talk was predictably much smaller than the ladies’. Thank God, Miss Kate was set on some mission of her own that precluded any attentions to him. He had to suffer no more than a winsome twinkle or two in his direction, a pale facsimile of her sister’s heart-stopping smile.
Rosanne was not smiling now. As Kate wandered off, she ignored Frank’s hand, offered to pull her up from the ground. “Are you coming, Rosanne?” he asked. She blinked back at him as though far away. “Is something the matter?”
She shook her head, still distracted. Christian guessed the cause and sympathized.
“Well that’s all right, then,” Frank said. “Let’s go. Would you like to see the grotto?”
Damn, blast, and ruination. In three seconds Frank would reveal that he had not yet, in fact, seen the grotto in Rosanne’s company. “I think I know what is troubling you,” Christian said. “I assure you that Lord Warnford has spent most of this house party in the stables. Whatever he has done in the past, he doesn’t strike me now as a man who abandons his family for a mistress. And I am in a position to know.”
Rosanne jerked her head around and stared at Christian, then she scrambled to her feet and turned on Frank. “How could you, Frank?”
“What?” Frank hadn’t yet caught on.
“I wrote to you about my father in the strictest confidence and you betrayed me.”
“I would never betray a confidence,” Frank said indignantly. An accusation of ungentlemanly conduct was one of the few things likely to upset him. Then he blushed scarlet because he had, of course, done exactly that.
“Did you read my letter, Lord Bruton?” she asked with a glare.
“I would never read another man’s letters without being asked,” Christian said.
Their case was hopeless and there wasn’t a damn thing Christian could do. He couldn’t even take the lion’s share of the blame for the disaster he’d wrought while trying to avert another. Goddesslike in her anger, Rosanne faced them with hands on hips and sparks erupting from stormy gray eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Newnham?”
Frank, predictably, had nothing to say. His mouth emitted desperate gibberish as he threw Christian a pleading look.
“Nothing? Nothing?” Rosanne’s low, musical tones took off into the heavens in an almighty, unladylike screech. “If and when you find your voice, you may tell me the truth.”
Christian and Frank watched her stride off, the sun outlining her figure through a cloud of blue muslin.
“That’s torn it, old boy,” Christian said. “I’m sorry. I truly blundered there.” He couldn’t tell Frank that he’d been trying to steer the conversation away from the grotto.
“What shall I do?”
“You must offer a groveling apology. Tell her you are accustomed to telling me things, that you know I will never mention the matter to another soul, and swear you’ll never do it again. As long as she doesn’t find out the words were mine, she’ll forgive you.”
Frank’s expression was a comical mix of misery and panic. “I’ll never be able to say all that.”
“I certainly can’t say it for you. You’re on your own this time. Go after her now.”
“I’ll do it by letter. You tell me what to say and I’ll write it.”
“Are you serious? That’s what got us into this mess in the first place. For God’s sake, Frank! At a certain point you have to learn to speak for yourself and it may as well be now.”
“Please, Chris. Just this last time.”
Christian wavered. Every instinct told him to refuse, not to exacerbate their fault by repetition. Yet was he not more to blame than Frank? They both could have said no to the initial deception. But now he was by far the greater sinner. He’d impersonated Frank to win a kiss and then triggered the present contretemps when he tried to cover it up. He wasn’t sure that on some level he hadn’t done it on purpose because he wanted Rosanne to know the truth. The greatest betrayal was to his cousin when he’d let himself fall in love with Frank’s woman.
He might as well admit it to himself. He loved Rosanne. He was desperately in love with her and without the slightest hope of success. Even if he could steal her from Frank—and that was out of the question—she would never return the love of a monster like him. He had now proven that his character was as ugly as his face.
“She’s coming back. Help me, Chris. What shall I do? What shall I say?”
Through his despair, his heart soared at the sight of her, then plummeted. “Just say you are sorry. I know she loves you, so she’ll forgive you.”
Rosanne’s fists clenched at her sides, but she spoke calmly. Too calmly. “What do you think of Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” she asked Frank in a conversational tone laced with frost.
“Do I know her? Is she the red-headed girl who played the harp last night?”
Her answering smile was quite nasty. They were getting a taste of that temper she’d mentioned. “Lord Bruton knows, don’t you?”
Christian nodded helplessly. God, she was wonderful.
Frank looked baffled.
“She is a character in a novel called Pride and Prejudice. That you gave me.”
Frank still looked baffled, and Rosanne looked scornful.
Once it became clear he had nothing to say, she continued. “At first I wondered if you had told your cousin about my father’s other daughter to ask his advice. While displeased that you would do so when I explicitly asked you to keep the information to yourself, it was at least reasonable. I tried to understand because I wanted to forgive you.” A tapping foot belied her rational tone.
“You do?” Frank blurted out. “I’m sorry, Rosanne. I should never have mentioned the matter to Chris.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wanted, Frank. Wanted to forgive you. Past tense. Not want. I changed my mind. You see, I started thinking about all the letters we had exchanged, wondering if your cousin had been privy to more than one. It seemed to me that in my conversations with Lord Bruton we had covered many of the same topics. Very well, I thought. They are cousins and friends. They have the same tastes. Except that not once have you and I exchanged words in person on any of these matters. I know you are not a great talker, but even your few words have been on very different subjects. I wish to know, and please don’t lie to me again, did Lord Bruton write your letters?”
“Uh. They came from my pen.”
“I wouldn’t be too proud of that,” she said with utter disdain. “Your handwriting is execrable.”
Christian’s lips twitched.
“As for you, my lord, laugh if you like, but this is not funny. Did you dictate the letters to Mr. Newnham? Don’t bother to deny it, for I won’t believe you.”
“In that case, I won’t try. Frank needed my help constructing his ideas.”
“You mean Frank needed your help having ideas. I believed I knew him through those letters. I thought I loved him. But now I know that I fell in love with a man who doesn’t even exist. Good Lord, I kissed a man who doesn’t exist. You have made a game of me, the pair of you.”
“Never that. I never intended that.” Not after the first letter, he added silently. True, it had started as a joke for him, but now the joke was on him. He could tell her that every word had come from his heart and, in speaking for Frank, he’d revealed more of himself than he ever had before. But what was the use?
She glared at each of them in turn, infinitely desirable and quite beyond his reach. “I will never speak to either of you again.” She swiped her glistening eyes with the back of her hand then turned and walked away, fury evident in her stiff back and every deliberate step.
Chapter Six
“Did you get too much sun?” Lady Warnford placed her hand on Rosanne’s forehead. “Quite cool.”
“I just don’t feel like going to dinner. I’m not hungry.”
“That’s no excuse for bad manners. Really, Rosanne. At your age, I would hope you had grown out of these selfish tantrums. Get dressed immediately and remember that you are a guest in this house.”
She was tired of being ordered about by Mama, and now there was no prospect of ever escaping. She felt doomed to eternal childhood.
“No one will care if I’m not there,” she said sulkily.
“I can think of someone who will.” Her mother gave her an arch look that turned shrewd. “Have you quarreled with Mr. Newnham?”
“I will never speak to him again as long as I live.”
Lady Warnford sat down on the bed and took her hand. “Don’t look so sad, my love. I’m sure you will make it up.”
“You are so desperate for me to marry that you don’t care what he has done.”
“Desperate? You are wrong about that. It is true that I wish you to find a husband. I want you to have a family of your own as happy as ours. But you know that neither your father nor I would ever encourage you to wed someone who doesn’t suit you. We love having you at home with us.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Mr. Newnham is such a nice young man,” her mother continued, “that I find it hard to believe he has done anything you cannot forgive.”
Rosanne had been biting her lip to hold back her angry retort but this was too much. “You would say that since you forgave Papa. I would not have done so and I will not forgive Frank.”
“Whatever do you mean? Your father has his annoying traits—what man does not?—but he has never done anything so very dreadful.”
“You don’t call keeping a mistress and siring a daughter out of wedlock dreadful?”
“Papa? A mistress? Never! Where did you get such a notion?”
“Mary Birch. I heard you tell the vicar’s wife that
she is really a Lacy. And you’ve always been a little, I don’t know, disapproving of her visits. I always suspected that was something amiss.”
Lady Warnford smiled grimly. “Let this be a lesson against eavesdropping. Mary is not your father’s daughter, but your Uncle George’s. Papa promised to keep an eye on her, and her mother, while George is in India. I have nothing against the little girl, but I cannot condone the actions of her parents.”
“Why does Uncle George not wed Mrs. Birch?”
“Because she is already married, though living apart from her husband.”
“I wish you had told me,” Rosanne said, feeling the ground lurch beneath her. “I am a grown woman and no longer need to be protected from uncomfortable truths.”
Her mother nodded. “You are right. It’s hard for me to stop thinking of you as a child, but if you are old enough for marriage, you are old enough to learn that life is not always tidy. I shall do better in future.”
“I have made a fool of myself.”
“We all do that sometimes, my love. Since we are setting forth on a new road to openness, will you tell me what’s wrong between you and your young man? Who knows? I may be able to help.”
Rosanne threw her arms around her mother’s neck and inhaled the comforting scent of her childhood. The distance that had grown between them, caused by her own discontent at home and her belief that her parent was pressing her to find a husband, melted away. She recounted the whole story, or most of it, omitting the kissing. There was a limit to mother-daughter confidence and she wanted advice, not a lecture.
“So you see, Mama, even though it turns out the thing was over nothing, I am glad it happened because otherwise I might never have found out that Lord Bruton was the author of the letters. How can I forgive him?”
Lady Warnford had listened quietly to the recital. Now she subjected her daughter’s face to a shrewd examination. “Forgive Frank or Bruton?”
“Either.”
“You seem much angrier with Bruton.”
“He is more at fault. Frank would never have done this without him.”
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 14
