“It is strange to me that you are so very angry at a man who means nothing to you, that is all.”
Bruton had not been nothing to her. He had been her friend and she trusted him.
“I don’t know who either man is now.”
Her mother stood up and looked through Rosanne’s wardrobe, selecting her favorite blue silk evening gown. “Here,” she said. “Let me help you dress. You are not going to find out by staying in your room. If you want my advice, you’ll come down to dinner and give each of them a chance to explain himself. And if neither can satisfy you, why, there are other young men.”
So there were. Perhaps she would further her acquaintance with Lord Willoughby, owner of the famous phaeton. That would show Bruton. And Frank.
o0o
Arriving downstairs for dinner, Rosanne went straight to her father and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He seemed surprised, and very pleased. She’d treated him coldly for weeks.
“Tell me about this miraculous carriage you’ve spent so much time admiring in the stables.”
She listened fondly as he described, in exhaustive detail, the shining paintwork, sumptuous upholstery, and superior springs of what must surely be the greatest phaeton ever built. “I’d be happy if either you or Kate caught Lord Willoughby’s fancy, puss,” he concluded. “It would be a fine thing to have Hippolyta in the family.”
“Papa!”
“It’ll have to be Kate, eh? You have your heart set on Newnham, and he’s an excellent fellow. Good eye for a horse or a set of wheels.”
“We’ll see, Papa. Things can change.” She decided to leave it to her mother to break the news that Frank, whom she had no intention of forgiving, was out of the running. “Lord Willoughby has much to appeal to a lady apart from his equipage.” Not quite as handsome as Frank—no one was—but with a charming smile. He also had a reputation as an incorrigible flirt. Just what she needed tonight.
By luck the gentleman in question passed by at that moment. Rosanne managed to beat several enterprising young ladies to his side and there was nothing he could do but offer to take her in to dinner. As she set her hand on his arm, she felt a kind of itch at the back of her neck, a shiver down her spine. Glancing back, she met Bruton’s intense gaze. He stood quite alone in his black evening clothes, the scar livid in contrast to the snowy muslin of his elaborate cravat. Unlike the other guests, milling around and finding partners, he was quite alone.
It served him right. Why then, did she have the absurd urge to relinquish the flirtatious Lord Willoughby, who would scarcely miss her with all his admirers, and go over to him. The only reason could be the urge to berate him for his unspeakable conduct.
In the few seconds it took for these thoughts to pass through her mind, a young woman in white, the duke’s eldest sister, approached him. A very suitable match for the heir to a marquess. She dared say Lady Serena wouldn’t mind a deceiving weasel for a husband as long as he was possessed of rank and fortune. She hoped she could see beyond the scar to the intelligent and thoughtful and ... dastardly man.
She turned back to her companion. “Tell me all about your phaeton, Lord Willoughby.”
Willoughby turned out to be quite a disappointment. He had something on his mind, and Rosanne didn’t flatter herself that his compliments and badinage were anything but mechanical. He demanded little of her brain, leaving her too much time to dwell on her resentment toward a pair of cousins. Both seated on the same side of the table as she, there was no way of knowing how they enjoyed the long, lavish meal. She imagined Bruton entertaining Lady Serena with amusing, slightly sarcastic insights into life, literature, and poetry and Frank talking to an unknown partner about ... she had no idea. She knew nothing of his thoughts, his interests, or his opinions. He was a beautiful blank sheet of paper.
By the time dinner was over and the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, her rage had cooled to curiosity about the excuses either man would attempt. Frank was the one who found her. She allowed him to lead her to a settee in a quiet corner, protected by another of the duchess’s enormous flower arrangements.
“Rosanne,” he said. Then, not to her surprise, he stopped. The lack of his usual easy good humor and an unwonted pallor spoke of unusual agitation. “Rosanne,” he repeated, in an agonized plea.
“Yes, Mr. Newnham?” Determined not to help him find his words, she felt as though she were kicking a puppy.
“I am sorry, very sorry. I wanted to please you so much. I never met a girl like you, never fell in love before. I’m a simple man, so I asked Chris to help me. When I said how wonderful you were, I meant it. Only the words were Chris’s, not the sentiments. You are much too fine, too clever, and too beautiful for me, but won’t you give me a chance?”
Frank had finally found his tongue and she gave him credit for the rough eloquence of his speech, if not for elegance or finesse.
“That’s all very well, Frank. I am honored to have inspired such feelings. But I don’t know you. I thought I was learning your character and your tastes from your letters, but I am no better acquainted with you than I was when we met at Melton.”
He snatched her hand for a fervent kiss. “Give me a chance. There are still three more days until the wedding. Let me spend all the time with you. I’ll do anything to change your mind.”
His blue eyes glowed with sincerity, and he was still the handsomest man she’d ever met. But he no longer sent her heart tumbling. She regarded his perfect features and felt ... nothing. She found it hard to believe she’d kissed him. Twice. Closing her eyes, she recalled the embrace in the grotto and, for a moment, her body buzzed with the sensations of that momentous embrace. Then she opened them and met his anxious, hangdog gaze. Nothing.
She was over Frank Newnham.
“Well,” he said. “May I try to regain your forgiveness and affection?”
“You have my forgiveness. I consider Lord Bruton far more to blame than you. As for the other, I doubt it is possible.”
“I will never give up, never.”
o0o
Frank meant it. No more slipping off to the stables for manly company and carriage worship. He dogged her footsteps all morning and he had plenty to say, none of it remarkable. She discovered that he was a very ordinary, even dull, man blessed with extraordinary beauty. His constant presence got on her nerves.
As for Lord Bruton, he appeared to be avoiding her, a fact she found extremely annoying. The man owed her an apology. Finally, frustrated by the earl’s failure to grant her a much-deserved grovel, she sought him out and discovered him in the library, reading on a bench behind a pair of giant globes.
He leapt to his feet at her approach and stood before her in stiff military stance, not a muscle of his face or body moving. There was no way of telling if he was too ashamed to speak or simply wished she’d leave him alone. Both, maybe. Clearly he wasn’t going to break the awkward silence.
Perching on the bench, she arranged her skirts and indicated that he should sit beside her, an invitation he ignored. “Do you have anything to say to me, my lord?”
“What can I say?”
“How about I am sorry?”
“An apology is an indulgence I do not deserve.”
“I believe that is for me to decide.”
“In that case, I am sorry.” Every syllable seemed to pain him.
“You don’t sound it,” she said. “Frank’s apology was more eloquent.”
“Good.” He walked a few feet to look out of the window, giving her a chance to admire his well-tailored back and note that his hands were clenched into fists. Whatever his thinking, he was not at ease. “Have you forgiven him?” he said.
“I have.”
His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly and he turned to face her. “That’s that, then. There is nothing left for me to do but wish you happy.”
She gave him a sickly smile, as insincere as his congratulatory grimace. “I didn’t say I would marry him.”
&n
bsp; “Why not? You will never find a better man.”
“Still speaking for your cousin, I see. I thought you had learned that lesson.”
“I speak for myself too.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, speak. Why did you do it?”
Her urgency got through to him, and finally he spoke without sounding as though he had a mouth full of rocks. “I began with no motive but to assist Frank, with some reluctance I may add. I suppose I may as well admit that it was a bit of a joke. Then I found I could not resist the pleasure of our correspondence.”
“I enjoyed it too,” she said softly, not daring to ask about one particular letter, whether he had written the words she’d read so often they were burned into her brain.
Rosanne of my heart. You consume my every thought, haunt my waking hours, and disturb my dreams. No, she knew he’d written the words, but had they come from his heart and not Frank’s? The desire to know obsessed her, but his face reflected only stoic constraint.
“When you confided your private family business, we both knew we were wrong,” he said in a disappointingly reasonable voice. He might as well be giving her directions to the dining room. “The last few letters you received were Frank’s alone.”
“I see that now. That explains why they were different, and much less enjoyable.” An indecipherable flicker of emotion crossed his features. “I prefer your epistolary style, and your conversation.”
“Frank is shy with women, doubtless a result of growing up with four brothers and spending far too much time in the officers’ mess. It sounds as though he has found his voice with you. You will discover he lacks neither intelligence nor ideas.”
Rosanne doubted it, or doubted that Frank possessed the depth of character to appeal to her. She wanted more. Clearly Bruton needed a bit of encouragement.
“Lord Willoughby is a delightful man,” she said.
He paced around their corner of the library in some agitation. “That lightweight! He named his carriage.”
“A most amusing conceit.”
“But of course, he has a pretty face and a charming smile. What else do women want?” Looming over her, he fingered the length of his scar, and her heart ached for him. At the same time she felt a great deal better. She was also filled with a burning curiosity about how far down the blemish reached.
“For God’s sake, Rosanne!” He crouched in front of her chair. “If you must care only for a man’s appearance, at least let it be Frank, who loves you.”
“Do you think we are all so shallow that we care only for the outer man? At first, perhaps. When I first saw Frank, he attracted me, like a peacock who displays his tail to impress the hens. But I fell in love with him because of his letters: his words and the thoughts they expressed. Now I know the words weren’t his, and I doubt the thoughts were either.”
His eyes bored into hers, making her dizzy.
“I wondered,” she said carefully, “if perhaps some of those letters came from your heart.” It was as close as she dared come to the question she wanted to ask. She could hardly throw herself at the man.
“My feelings are irrelevant.”
“So you wish me to make up my differences with Frank.”
“For his sake, I must,” he said hoarsely, averting his eyes and not sounding at all like a man heartily endorsing the pretensions of his friend. “To do otherwise would be the height of dishonor.”
How could she break through his rigid sense of honor? Convincing him that his looks did not repel her would be easier. Her fingers itched to touch the ruined cheek, to assure him that he was beautiful. With his face only a couple of feet away, she could do it. Before she could talk herself out of it, she raised the hands that had rested in her lap throughout the conversation and extended her arms, only to have him snatch her wrists and wrest them to her side.
“Don’t,” he said.
And then she knew. In the grotto, a man had seized her wrists rather than let her touch his face. It hadn’t been Frank. Joy surged through her. The kiss in the grotto that marked the moment when she had truly fallen in love had come from this man.
To the Devil with honor, guilt, and any of the dozen other masculine reasons he had come up with to prevent his wooing her, as she was now confident he wished to. She loved Lord Bruton—Christian—and she was going to have him.
Chapter Seven
As if life wasn’t hellish enough, the duchess had organized a ball to entertain the wedding guests and made it clear that the occasion merited everyone’s best clothes. The only thing Christian wanted to do was change into his oldest riding gear and gallop off into the hills until he and his horse were exhausted and he was too tired to think. Instead, while they got into their dress uniforms in their shared room, he had to listen to Frank bumble on about his plans for winning back Rosanne.
“You’ll help me, won’t you, Chris?”
“I don’t see what I can do. You’ll have to rely on the magic of your beaux yeux and skill on the dance floor.”
“You could put in a good word for me. I know Rosanne likes you.”
“I already did what I could when I apologized for our ruse. She says she’s forgiven you, and now it’s up to you to woo her. I’m staying out of it.”
He meant it, too. The most he would do was leave the field open for Frank to try to win back Rosanne’s affections. Given how splendid his cousin always looked in regimentals, he might very well succeed. And if he did not? Christian wasn’t ready to face where that left him. He dared not indulge the mad hopes aroused that afternoon. It had taken every bit of strength he possessed not to sweep her into his arms. He’d been saved from foolishness by fear of her disgust. She hadn’t seemed horrified when he crouched in front of her, close enough to drown in her gaze, but he was too accustomed to suppressed revulsion in the eyes of women. If a miracle occurred and he was ever again in the position to make love to Rosanne, he’d make sure he did it in the dark.
“You are right, Chris,” Frank said. “I must win her myself. And I believe I can. This morning I found I could talk to her quite easily. It proves that she is the right woman for me.”
If he were a better man, he would be glad his cousin had overcome his diffidence. Instead, he stood at the edge of the ballroom in despair as Frank and Rosanne, the picture of youthful beauty, moved in harmony though the steps of a quadrille. Frank was talking and she was laughing.
He could have danced with her. Both she and her sister had made it clear that they would welcome an invitation from him. Sticking to his resolve to give Frank every chance, he’d come up with a story about turning his ankle on the cobblestones of the stable yard. Since he didn’t, thank God, have to dance with anyone else either, and unable to bear watching Frank’s hopes come to fruition and his own float off into the night, he slipped away. No one would miss him.
o0o
Rosanne knew the minute Christian left the ballroom. She’d kept an eye on him brooding against the wall, exuding a dark cloud that repelled anyone foolish enough to approach him. She also knew he’d been watching her. At the end of the quadrille, she excused herself and questioned a footman in the hall. Hoping that Christian had stepped outside—another encounter in the grotto would suit her very well—she found the news that he’d asked for his valet to be sent to his room rather daunting.
She quickly formed a different and riskier plan. An hour later, having retired to her room with the excuse of a headache, she dismissed her maid, wrapped her largest shawl around her nightgown, and set out for a spot of passage creeping. The gentlemen were housed in a different part of the house, well away from the single ladies. Her maid had told her the servants were holding their own celebration of the duke’s forthcoming nuptials in the staff quarters, so she was able to traverse the dimly lit corridors and reach the bachelors’ floor without encountering so much as a stray valet. All was quiet as she crept up to what she hoped was the right door. Peering through the keyhole revealed only that the room was lit. An ear to the aperture yi
elded a more promising sound: that of a page turning. Trusting that no other gentleman had decided to forego the joys of the ballroom for a book, she ignored the hammering of her heart and turned the handle, cracked open the door, and peered around it.
He looked up as she stepped all the way in. “Good God! Rosanne. What are you doing here?”
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, clutching her shawl to her bosom. “I wanted to see how far down the scar goes,” she said, more airily than she felt.
And now she knew. He sat up in bed bare-chested, revealing that the blemish extended to just below the collarbone. Even more remarkable were the contours of his shoulders and chest, the latter sprinkled with black hair. Really, it was a pity gentlemen always went out covered up to the neck. She felt a bloom of heat in her belly that she recognized as desire.
“Now that your curiosity has been satisfied,” he said, the words emerging from deep in his throat, “you must leave. At once. “
“No.” The single syllable was all she could manage. She had become as inarticulate as Frank.
He started to rise, then stopped. “Damn. I can’t even get out of bed while you are here. Turn your back.”
How interesting. Now she had him where she wanted him. “No,” she said again, with a provocative smile.
“Think of your reputation!”
“No one saw me,” she said with a bravado she almost felt. “They are all dancing. Why did you leave the ball?”
“I preferred to read.”
She sauntered over to the bed, removed the volume from his nerveless hands, and scanned the page of poetry. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more,” she read. “What nonsense.”
His throat rippled. “Not to me. It is the tenet by which I try to live.”
To break down his barriers, she had to dare. Having come this far, there was nothing to do but demand the truth—and hope for the best. “Do you love me?”
The words fell into an unnerving silence. She was about to conclude she’d made an utter fool of herself when he replied in a low rasp. “God help me, I do. I have betrayed my best friend.”
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 15
