“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” Xavier murmured, earning a gurgle of laughter from her.
Montford looked pointedly at Lydgate. “That leaves you.”
“Eh?” Lydgate sat up straighter, alarm written across his classically handsome features. “Now, look here, sir.…”
“Tibby will accompany me,” said Rosamund quietly, touching her napkin to her lips. “You needn’t put yourself into a stew, Andy.”
Tibby was formerly the girls’ governess, now their companion. A quiet yet strong-minded woman who was more than a match for Lady Steyne. Montford nodded. “Very well. That’s settled, then.”
Cecily’s dark eyes challenged Lydgate. “Coward.”
Between his teeth, Lydgate said, “I have another engagement.”
“I know why he won’t escort Rosamund to see her mama,” pursued Cecily, her black ringlets bobbing with certainty. “It’s because Lady Steyne makes love to him with her eyes.”
“Nonsense, Cecily,” snapped Andrew. “I’m practically her nephew.”
“Only through several marriages,” she countered.
Abruptly, Xavier rose, threw down his napkin, and strode to the door.
“Damn it, Cecily!” hissed Andrew as he pushed back his chair, his mouth turned down in disgust. “That’s his mama you’re talking about, and Rosamund’s, too.”
With a stricken glance at Montford, Cecily said, “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
“No, that’s quite all right, dear,” said Rosamund. She gave Cecily’s hand a quick squeeze, but her gaze was fixed on the door through which her brother had left. With a forced smile, she added, “Mama is … incorrigible. I’ve always known it.”
Montford said, “Lydgate’s right. You go beyond the line of what is pleasing, Cecily.”
Cecily bit her lip. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll apologize to Xavier.”
“No,” said Lydgate. “Leave him be.”
Silence reigned, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery on china, while Montford perused the rest of his post and the others pretended to eat their breakfast. Finally, he came to a missive that made his eyebrows climb.
“Ah,” he murmured. His gaze flickered to Rosamund. “It seems you have won the first skirmish, my dear. Your betrothed is on his way to London.”
Rosamund choked on a morsel of toast and hastily grabbed Cecily’s coffee to wash it down. Her hand shook as she replaced the cup on its saucer.
He was coming for her? Apprehension seized her, mushrooming into fully blown panic.
Oh, how foolish! She’d demanded Griffin’s presence in London, hadn’t she? But she hadn’t thought he’d give in so soon—or at all! Despite her ridiculous longing for him, she was totally discomposed by his sudden capitulation.
“He’s coming?” she managed. “Here?”
“Yes.” Montford fixed his penetrating gaze upon her. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“I’ve rather been looking forward to making the earl’s acquaintance myself,” drawled Lydgate. His words were idle, but the steel in his eyes belied the studied nonchalance.
That snapped Rosamund out of her panic. In a warning tone, she said, “Andy.”
Her cousin blinked at her innocently. “What, my dearest?”
She bit her lip against a smile. “I want him alive, do you hear me? Promise me you won’t do anything to him. Unless I give you leave, of course.”
His eyes narrowed. “Define anything.”
“He’s a big man,” put in Cecily. “Quite monstrous, in fact. I doubt even you could beat him if it came to fisticuffs, Andy.”
“That shows how much you know about the noble art of boxing,” said Lydgate, an anticipatory gleam in his eye. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall, eh, Your Grace?”
Montford inclined his head in assent. “Though I wonder a little at your describing your, er, novel mode of pugilism as either noble or an art, Lydgate. Regardless, you will not exercise your talents upon Rosamund’s fiancé.”
“No, indeed,” said Rosamund, adding a hint of steel to her own smile. “You may safely leave him to my tender mercies.”
By the time she was finished with him, Griffin would beg her to marry him on bended knee. And it would all be for the best in the end, for she meant to be the most excellent wife any man could wish for.
But first she would punish him a little. It was no less than he deserved for leaving her on the shelf so long.
Suddenly, exhilaration swept over her, drowning out her nervous panic. A bubble of laughter expanded in her chest.
Griffin was coming for her.
At last!
* * *
Later that day, the Westruther gentlemen were gathered on a matter of business in Montford’s library when the discussion turned once again to Rosamund’s betrothed.
“He had the nerve to ask me to intercede with Rosamund for him,” said Montford pensively. “I’m to command her to the altar, if you please.”
Xavier snorted. “The man doesn’t know whom he’s dealing with.”
Lydgate’s brow furrowed. “Strange that neither of them has pressed the matter until now.” He shrugged. “Oh, I suppose in Rosamund’s case, it’s understandable that she wouldn’t wish to rush into wedded bliss with a fellow like that. But she hasn’t cried off, either.”
“A most dutiful little lamb,” murmured Xavier, setting his sherry glass down with a click.
A lamb to the slaughter was the allusion, of course. No prizes for guessing whom Xavier cast in the role of shepherd. Montford tensed, then cursed himself for reacting to Xavier’s provocation.
“Let her go, Your Grace,” said Xavier, ruthlessly exploiting his advantage. “You know she’d be happier with Lauderdale.”
Montford held on to his temper. “No. I don’t know that.”
Captain Lauderdale was not the man for Rosamund. Even if Montford believed in romantic love—and he didn’t—he would not permit Rosamund to marry her cavalry officer. The very fact she hadn’t so much as mentioned the possibility to him told its own tale.
Surely if Rosamund believed herself deep in love with another man, she would not have waited for Tregarth all these years? Tregarth’s neglect had given her the perfect excuse to break the engagement. And yet, she had not once sought Montford’s permission to do so.
As for Tregarth himself, well, the duke knew something of the difficulties the earl had faced since his grandfather died. Montford was willing to overlook the delay that in other circumstances he would deem insulting. Particularly as this rare alliance between a Westruther and a deVere would consolidate the Westruthers’ influence in the southwest.
“But what has Tregarth been about, to leave her on the shelf for years?” demanded Lydgate.
“You needn’t look so indignant,” commented Xavier. “You’ve not lifted a finger to help her in all that time.”
“I haven’t precisely been at leisure these past few years, have I?” said Lydgate silkily. “Unlike some.”
With a gleam of amusement, Montford scanned Lydgate from the soles of his expensively shod feet to the top of his immaculately styled hair. “Live within your means, and you would have ample leisure to do with as you wish.”
The butler entered then, announcing, “Lord Tregarth, Your Grace.”
It was not often Montford was caught by surprise. “So soon?”
“The man of the hour,” drawled Xavier, rising to his feet.
Tregarth strode into the room, looking large, belligerent, and decidedly unkempt.
“Good God!” said Lydgate in accents of horror, looking him up and down. “Did you come directly from your horse barn or did you take a great roll in a cow byre for good measure?”
Tregarth flicked his glowering gaze Lydgate’s way. “Don’t try my patience, sir.” His attention returned to Montford. “Where’s my bride?”
Lydgate’s expression of disgust turned to astonishment, then outrage. “You cannot mean you intend to call upon my cousin—your
affianced wife—looking like a cursed farm laborer!”
Curling his lip, Tregarth ran a cursory, contemptuous glance over Lydgate’s splendor. “Better that than a damned fop.”
In three strides, Lydgate was across the room. Without warning, his fist connected with Tregarth’s jaw.
Montford watched with interest, lifting a finger to stay Xavier, who had taken one step toward the two men.
Lydgate might look like a fashion plate, but he boxed regularly with the first pugilists of the day. Besides that, he was more acquainted with gutter fighting than any gentleman ought to be. Rather unfairly, he’d caught Tregarth unawares.
The big man reeled back, but somehow he managed to keep his footing. A great red welt bloomed across his jaw.
His brow lowered; his fists clenched.
“Ah. Tregarth,” said Montford, letting his voice slice through the violence-thickened air. He smiled. “Welcome to the family.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Griffin faced the three Westruther men and tightened the stranglehold on his fury. He had not beaten a man in anger for a long time. He would not break that rule now.
His temper, far from complacent at the best of times, was threadbare from the long journey to Town. The roads had been bad, rutted by recent rains. While he’d usually ride, the expectation that he’d bring Rosamund back with him had made him take the carriage instead.
What with the tedium of the journey and the discomfort of the badly sprung chaise, his temper was in shreds by the time he’d arrived at the town house. Only to find, of course, that the house was draped in Holland covers. The retainers he paid to look after the place had no notion of his coming. The letter he’d sent heralding his arrival had failed to reach them in time.
He loathed hotels, but there didn’t seem much point in setting the London household on its ears when he’d stay two nights at the most. How long could it take for Rosamund to pack her bags, after all?
He’d secured a room at Limmer’s and come directly to Montford House with the special license Lord deVere had procured for him burning a hole inside his waistcoat.
He’d put an end to Rosamund’s shilly-shallying, once and for all.
But he ought to have known it wouldn’t be that easy. He’d have to charge through this formidable phalanx of Westruther men first.
Of course, Griffin remembered the duke from Montford’s visit to Pendon Place three years ago. The other two were clearly related, with that Westruther arrogance that seemed bred into their very bone structure. All three were different in coloring, build, and stature, but they shared the same high, sharp cheekbones and straight, patrician noses, with that telltale suspicion of a hawkish curve at the end.
“Where is she?” he repeated, refusing to be cowed by Montford’s aristocratic hauteur.
“Not here,” answered the golden young man who’d hit him, nursing his bruised knuckles. Griffin hoped that hand hurt as much as his jaw did. He doubted it.
“Won’t you sit down?” Montford indicated a chair by the fire.
Griffin shook his head. “I’ve no time for your flummery, Your Grace. Tell me where she is, so we can get married once and for all.”
“Rather a sudden interest you’re taking in my sister, isn’t it?” the sardonic-looking gentleman said. That must be Xavier, Lord Steyne. Rosamund’s brother.
Yes, the difference in coloring might have fooled him, but now he saw the likeness. They had the same deep blue eyes, but the brother’s hair was raven-wing black, whereas Rosamund’s shone gold as newly minted guineas. And Rosamund’s eyes were clear and true, unshadowed by the world-weary cynicism that hardened her sibling’s gaze.
“You’re her brother, are you?” Griffin nodded to Steyne. “Then perhaps you can make her see sense.”
“Believe me, you wouldn’t want that.” Steyne looked contemptuous. “I doubt your idea of sense and mine coincide.”
“Do sit down,” Montford repeated. He waved a languid hand toward an array of decanters close by. “Let me pour you a drink. There is much to discuss.”
“I don’t want to sit. I don’t want a drink,” said Griffin in a soft, dangerous tone. “I want my betrothed.”
Hell, but his jaw ached. That pretty-boy cousin of Rosamund’s packed a powerful right hook. Nothing Griffin hadn’t taken in the ring many times, but still.
Montford took his own chair and spread his hands. “Regrettably, Lady Rosamund is not here—,” Montford began.
“She’s at my house in Berkeley Square,” interrupted Steyne with a quick, sidelong glance at the duke. “Calling on our mother.”
The gesture was ostensibly helpful, but the malice in Steyne’s mocking gaze did not escape Griffin. From years of living with his grandsire, he’d learned to judge when someone laid a trap for him.
But whatever deep game her brother played, Griffin needed to see Rosamund. Steyne had just handed him the means to do so.
Favoring Steyne with a curt nod, Griffin said, “Thank you. I’ll see myself out.”
Horror made Lydgate’s jaw drop. “You can’t call on the marchioness looking like that! My dear fellow, it simply isn’t done!”
“I’m not paying a social call,” snapped Griffin. “I’m going to claim my bride.”
With a nod in farewell, he swung around on his heel and left the room.
On the way to the marbled entrance hall, he heard a penetrating whisper. “Lord Tregarth! Over here!”
He turned to see Lady Cecily Westruther beckon from a room to his right. Tempted though he was to ignore her and keep going, he recalled the fondness his prospective bride had for her incorrigible young cousin. Perhaps Cecily could give him information that would help his cause.
As he hesitated, her expressive face went through a series of contortions. She gestured again, more emphatically. “Come on!”
With a quick glance around the empty hall, he complied.
She caught his hand and drew him inside. The casual contact disconcerted him, but he followed her into the small cloakroom and waited as she shut the door behind her.
“You took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Lady Cecily’s hands were planted on her hips, her gamine features arranged into a scowl.
He scowled back at her, with interest. “That’s no business of yours.”
“Anything that affects Rosamund’s happiness is my business,” said the girl. “You have a lot of work to do.”
“Work? What work?”
“To atone for your past boorishness, of course!” She threw up her hands. “Rosamund is the greatest catch on the Marriage Mart. She is exquisitely beautiful, for one thing. But far better than that—not that any of you idiotic men would notice—you would not find a more good-hearted, gentle girl in all of England.”
She poked him in the chest. “And yet you have treated her abominably. Demanding she trot down to Cornwall to wed you! Why, would you respect her at all if she fell into your arms after you’ve left her on the shelf for three years?”
Griffin blinked, a trifle stunned at this tirade. All along, he’d assumed Rosamund would have been thanking Heaven for the reprieve. He’d certainly dismissed her recent correspondence as stalling tactics. Obviously, she wished to retain her freedom for as long as possible.
But this begged the question: Why hadn’t Rosamund thrown him over by now?
Cecily shook her head, her dark, brilliant eyes fixed on him. “You must prove to her that you’re worthy. You must court Rosamund in form and show the world you don’t scorn her.”
“Scorn her?” The girl had rocks in her head.
“It’s what all of London thinks!” said Cecily. “Everyone has badgered her to cry off from your engagement. Rosamund refused because she is too good, too honorable to serve you a trick like that. She would never go back on her word. But if you are wise, you’ll play your cards carefully now. Try her any further, Lord Tregarth, and you will push her into the arms of another.”
The last word was uttered in a thrilling w
hisper and with the dart of a glance around them. So, the girl thought that was a secret, did she? More fool her. Griffin had no doubt exactly to whose arms Cecily referred.
Lauderdale. Something twisted in his gut whenever he thought of that damned paragon dancing attendance on Rosamund.
He burned to ask Lady Cecily for more information, but pride stopped him from doing so.
Instead, he fixed the saucy chit with a hard stare. “Let me get this straight: Even though we are already betrothed, even though I’m—” He gestured down at himself, powerless to put into words what he was. “—she wants me to court her?” He nearly choked on the last words.
“Yes,” said Cecily. “And she won’t marry you until you do. Oh, Rosamund might look like an angel, but she can be excessively stubborn. Besides, she has her pride, just as you do.”
For the first time, Cecily looked him over, with a horror that almost matched her sartorially magnificent cousin’s. “What in Heaven’s name are you wearing?”
Not that again. “Look here, Lady Cecily, I don’t have time to waste on fripperies, so if you’re quite finished…”
But she wasn’t listening to him. Cecily tapped a fingertip to her pointed chin. “We must do something about your wardrobe.”
We? “No!” said Griffin. “I don’t need to do anything with my wardrobe. I am here to take Lady Rosamund to wife, and that’s an end to it.”
She frowned. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
It occurred to him that this little thing was the second lady, besides his sister, who had ever faced him down, unafraid. An interesting breed, these Westruther women.
Then he collected himself. “There is no way I am going to court Lady Rosamund. Not a chance in Hell.”
He stomped past the girl and made for the door.
She called after him, “Then you might as well go back to your pigs and your cows, Lord Tregarth, for you will not win her consent to the marriage otherwise.”
He swung back to face her, his teeth bared in a snarl, and finally, finally, she looked scared. With a gasp, Lady Cecily shrank back from him, her dark eyes wide, hands reflexively raised to protect herself.
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