Rosalind’s jaw dropped open as she watched him finally push back from the desk and resume his seat behind it.
“That’s impossible,” she said, trying not to let the sudden panic seep into her voice. “There was always money, for my wardrobe, for the staff, for the house — why, there was even money for the funeral! Besides that, I am entitled, by law mind you, to one-third of the estate’s profits, and that you cannot—” she stopped as he raised a hand, cutting her off.
“What money remains is tied up with the title,” he said, beginning to organize papers on the desk as if their conversation held little importance. “While you were married to my cousin, the estate made nothing, but in actuality lost money. You could receive profits, it’s true, but there are none. In fact, I will be repaying debts for many a day. There is nothing left for you.”
“But—”
“Fortunately, I have a solution.”
She narrowed her eyes. Whatever he had in mind, she knew, would not be agreeable. He stopped shuffling papers and looked at her.
“You shall marry me, and I will provide you with everything you had with my cousin.”
He sat back in the leather chair and steepled his fingers in front of him, looking particularly pleased by his own words.
She shot up from her chair, not caring that her shock and disgust was likely evident on her face. “I will never,” she ground out. “How could you think that I would even consider such a thing?”
“Now Rosalind,” he said, leaning forward. “I know that you may not particularly care for me, but with time I’m sure we can come to an amiable relationship.”
“Not care for you?” she said, her anger flaring, so unlike her except in moments such as this, when all was at stake. “I abhor you! You seduce young girls, you frequent more brothels than Harold did, and you even propositioned me while I was still married to your cousin! I will never marry you. Never.”
“I know you may be grieving Harold, and I understand that. Luckily for you, I am a kind man,” he chuckled as if he had heard nothing she had said. “I will give you your year of mourning, although primarily to make sure that should you birth any little creatures, we know exactly whose they may be. You will live here with me or in the London house. The choice is yours. But in a year’s time, we shall marry and continue with our lives – together.”
He raised his eyebrows at her, seemingly satisfied she would fall in line with his plan, and she was well aware of what it might be like to be married to such a man. Harold was bad enough. Bart would be even worse. No, she would not allow it to be.
“Thank you for your offer,” she choked the words out. “I am flattered. However, I believe I shall, instead, return to my parents. If you will excuse me.”
She strode to the door angrily as she heard him laugh behind her. “Good luck,” he said. “I believe you will find your father, however, is already in agreement with me. He seemed quite amenable to the idea.”
Rosalind refused to turn and acknowledge his words, though she felt her limbs beginning to shake in fear and uncertainty. His words scared her, for she knew that if Bart had spoken to them, in all likelihood her parents had agreed. They cared for her, true, but they cared more to have seen her married into a good family. Her marriage to Harold was proof enough of that.
She flung open the door, startled to find her parents waiting just down the corridor from the room she had exited. They must have known this conversation was taking place.
“Mother, Father,” she said, rushing up to them in a manner she knew her mother would deem unladylike. “Please tell me what he said is not true. What do you know of this?”
Her mother seemed a bit apologetic, but they both seemed resolute. Her father sighed as he looked at her. “Unfortunately, it has recently come to my attention that your late husband squandered away your dowry and left nothing for you. What Templeton — this Templeton — says is correct. Everything else is tied up with the title. It would be best if you marry him as he wishes.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head in shock. “Have you met the man? He is horrific. I cannot marry him. I will not. Can I not come live with you, at least until I determine my next steps?”
“It took some time to find a suitable match for you to begin with,” her father said, and Rosalind recognized the tight set to his face that told her he did not want to be argued with. “Your brother will be of age soon and will be in search of a wife. It would be easier for him to not have his widowed sister to look after. Therefore, Rosalind, it would be much simpler were you to simply marry Templeton now. In fact, daughter, I will not be questioned on this.”
“Father, you cannot be serious!” she said, backing up a step in disbelief. “Harold was bad enough, but at least, for the most part, he simply left me alone for the few months we were married.”
“Yes,” her mother said, “and that was the problem, Rosalind. You did not keep your husband interested enough, and so he went elsewhere, and he died because of it. Your name will now be something of a laughingstock in society and it will be difficult for you to marry again, which you must in order to survive. This time around, you must do better, Rosalind. I raised you to know how to keep a man interested.”
Rosalind blinked, hardly believing that her parents could be so cruel. They had never been exactly warm, and yet this was unheard of. Her husband was — quite literally — in the ground for not even an hour, and her parents and Bart were already scheming against her.
She couldn’t look at them any longer, and she pushed away from the doorway, hurrying through the corridor to the library, the room that had been her solace these past months. She shut the door behind her and stumbled to the leather chesterfield, which she collapsed down upon.
Unbidden, tears began to form, and she willed them back. She would not cry, she told herself. She had not cried when she heard of her husband’s death. She had not cried when she watched through the window as they had buried him in the ground. But now, all of the anger and frustration began to build and came spilling out of her eyes, and she let her head fall into her hands and wept.
She wasn’t sure how long she let the tears fall, allowing herself this moment of self-pity, but once her tears began to dry she sniffed loudly, searching for a handkerchief as silence filled the room.
She would not go back out there, she told herself. No. For once in her life, she was going to do what she wanted to do, and that was return to her chamber and speak to no one else for the remainder of this day.
She stood and was wiping at her face with her sleeve when she heard a creak. Her head snapped up, and she looked around the room. “Hello?” She called, feeling a tingle down her back. Suddenly she was aware of a presence in the room and took tentative steps toward the rows of bookshelves. “Is someone there?”
Footsteps finally came hesitantly around the corner, and stepping out from behind one of the shelves was William Elliot, who was now, she had been told, the Viscount of Southam.
She swallowed. Why, out of everyone present at this blasted reception, was it him, standing now in front of her? As children, she had always had a bit of a penchant for him, and she gathered he knew it as well. He had grown into a man who was fine and worthy indeed. He was what she would have wanted in a husband. He was good-looking, yes, but he was also kind, generous, and had a lovely sense of humor. He knew how to make people feel at ease, and gentlemen welcomed him to social outings while women loved to flirt with him. She had always known, however, that he had eyes for no one but Olivia.
Even so, anytime she was in his presence she seemed to stumble over her words, her attraction to him like a fence, obstructing any words that wanted to come out of her mouth. And now here he was, witnessing her blubbering like an idiot.
She simply stood and stared at him for a moment. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could think of was the fact she must look like a fish, as all words escaped her.
William felt like such a lout. He had come to the library in search o
f a good brandy, for what Templeton was serving was not worth giving to swine. He had been searching the sideboard when he heard Lady Templeton arrive. He was going to announce himself when he had heard her tears begin, and he had slunk back into the shadows. He had hoped to wait until she left so that she would never know he had been there.
Clearly she had been searching for a moment alone to grieve, and he had unintentionally completely intruded. His legs had become cramped, however, and as he tried to find a new position, he had made enough noise to alert her to his presence. He now stood in front of her like a child caught sticking his fingers in the pudding.
“Lord Southam,” she finally said, twining her fingers together in embarrassment as she realized he had witnessed her entire episode on the chesterfield. Her cheeks turned a bright pink, matching her red-rimmed eyes and nose. He winced as he could tell she was clearly not pleased to see him. “What are you—”
“I must apologize,” he said hastily. “I came in here in search of good brandy. When you entered, I was going to say something, but then, well…” he didn’t know what to say to improve the situation.
“You will certainly not find any good brandy remaining in this house,” she said with a sad smile which quickly faded. “I am sorry you had to see that,” she added quietly, looking down. The black she wore seemed to dwarf her small frame, and he knew that a woman with her coloring — her dark hair and pale skin — would look much better in pastels or vibrant colors. He hoped, for her sake, it wouldn’t be long until she returned to them. A strange sensation had come over him, making him long to take her in his arms and comfort her, to tell her all would be all right. He suppressed the feeling as quickly as it had arisen. She was just made a widow, for goodness sake.
“Not at all,” he said softly. “I can understand how you must miss your husband. I am sorry that you had such a short time together.”
“Oh,” she said with a bit of a start. “No, it is not that at all. Rather—”
She was interrupted when there came a soft knock at the door.
“Ros, are you in there?”
Olivia must have come looking for her friend, William realized. With a nod from Rosalind — having known her as a girl, he really couldn’t think of her as Lady Templeton, he realized — he strode over and opened the door, Olivia spilling in.
“Rosalind, what — oh Billy, what are you doing here?” She looked at him quizzically.
“I am just taking my leave,” he said, relieved that Olivia was now here to comfort Rosalind. He certainly wasn’t any help and had actually made the entire situation worse. “I must leave at first light, and so should be soon to bed. Goodnight, Olivia, Lady Templeton.”
“Rosalind,” came the reply, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.
“Pardon me?”
“Do not call me Lady Templeton, please,” she said, and he didn’t know what to make of the bite he heard in her tone. “Call me Rosalind instead.”
“All right then, Lady Rosalind,” he said, confused, but then who was he to argue with a grieving woman? “Again, my condolences. Farewell.”
And with that, he stepped out of the library, away from the distressed lady and the woman he loved, doing his best to remove both of them from his thoughts.
3
One year later
“I’m in trouble, Billy.”
William Elliot, Viscount of Southam, sighed as his brother walked into the room and sat down in the straight back chair in front of his desk. This wasn’t exactly a revelation. His brother Alfred was always in trouble.
“What did you do now, Alf?” he asked as he reached down to scratch his mongrel canine, Friday, between the ears.
“I didn’t do anything,” his brother said, resting his chin on his fist as he leaned on William’s desk. Of course he didn’t do anything, thought William. Alfred was always quick to find someone else to blame. “You see, I met this man at a club, and he was telling me all about his business. It was fascinating. All about… Anyway, he said he knew this investment could make quite a lot of money, and he only needed a bit of support, if you will, to get it running.”
“You gave him money, didn’t you Alf.” William stated, not questioned, knowing the truth. He rubbed at his forehead, feeling a bit of a headache beginning to form. They came on often and suddenly, particularly when his brother came to see him.
“How did you know?” his brother looked shocked. Alfred was many things, thought William, but he wasn’t very swift.
“Because you always throw your money away on one scheme or another,” said William. “When are you ever going to learn?”
“Well, we cannot all become titled viscounts,” said Alfred with some contempt, raking his hand through his tawny brown hair, so like William’s own. In fact, they looked almost like twins, and yet they were as different as two brothers could be who had been raised in the same household. Alfred was much like their mother, while William took after their late father, a man he had idolized and still greatly missed.
“You are telling me you would want my responsibility?” William asked slightly incredulously. “I should hardly think this would be the life you would choose, Alf.”
Alfred sat back mulishly. “Perhaps not. However, I am going to need an increase in my yearly allowance.”
“How much?”
“You’ll need to double it,” he said with a shrug, as if it was a casual sum.
“Double it?” William was aghast. His brother had never been too proud to ask for more than was due to him, but this was more than a bit much. “Alfred, you act as if Father left a fortune behind, which you know is far from the case. You are the second son of a viscount, and as unfair as you feel that may be, at some point you are going to have to make money for yourself through a respectable profession, not through these schemes where you are simply throwing away money.”
“Just this one time, Billy,” Alfred said, trying to placate him with an affable grin.
William stared at his brother. He wasn’t sure what to do with him anymore. His father had always been too lenient, allowing him to do whatever he pleased, and while William would be fine with Alfred going about and doing as he wished, what he had issue with was Alfred continuing to come back to him for help. He was done with it.
“No,” he said resolutely, coming to his feet to signal the conversation was at an end. “You will have to find your own way out of this one, Alf. I can no longer bail you out. Time and time again you come to me to solve your problems, and it’s at an end.”
“But Bill—”
“You can live here or at our London home if you wish,” said William, sweeping his hands out to signify their modest country estate. “The doors will always be open to you, and your basic needs will be met. However, I will no longer fund your escapades or your disastrous ideas. You shall have to determine how to fund your lifestyle yourself, or you may simply have to stay away from your vices and be responsible. And do not go asking Mother for help.”
Alfred’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, as if he could hardly believe someone was saying no to him. But William was resolute. It was the right thing to do, or else he would spend the rest of his life funding Alfred’s next scheme.
“Fine then,” Alfred said, a look of anger now distorting his features as he stood. “If that is what you wish, then so be it.”
As he stormed out of the room, William sat back down at his desk, massaging his temples as the headache hit him with full force.
Her one year was up.
Rosalind had thought a year would be long enough to determine what next to do. She had considered her options. She had originally thought she would become a governess. She was intelligent enough, and she loved to read and write. However, the issue was that she wasn’t particularly good at sharing that intelligence with others. She had actually found herself a two-week stint with one family. She had loved the children, but they weren’t particularly well behaved and refused to listen to anything she had to say. She had le
ft in frustration, thinking that perhaps she would be better working as an upper servant.
She had tried to find work, but when they found out she was the widow of an earl, they had laughed in her face. Why would they hire a noblewoman, who would clearly lack the skills they sought? No, they felt she would think herself, be much too highbred, unable to follow orders, and assumed she would likely leave within a fortnight.
What Rosalind had done well was avoid Bart. He was primarily in London, so she spent much of her time at the country estate. The servants were sympathetic toward her, and when they heard any rumor that he was coming to visit, they would warn her and she would leave before he arrived, likely unknowingly crossing paths with him on the road as she made her way to London, or traveled to stay with friends.
The year of mourning was ridiculous, she thought, given that she had only been married to Harold but three months. Nevertheless, she was grateful as it was a year of reprieve from Bart and her parents.
Now, she looked down at the piece of paper held in her hands, the words scratched in Bart’s scribbled, terrible penmanship.
Rosalind, my dear. The time has come for us to be married. I look forward to seeing you within a sennight and will bid your parents to join us to celebrate.
That would never happen, she vowed. She had done what was asked of her throughout her entire life, and look where that had gotten her — marriage to Harold Branson.
Only one person could allow her to be happy — herself. And happiness certainly wouldn’t be found in a life with Bart Branson. No, she had learned from her experiences and she knew now what she needed to do. She had to forge a new identity for herself, and then find work. It would be a different life than she had always known, but she was determined to see it through. In the meantime, however, she needed somewhere to stay, and she decided she would make her way to the country estate Olivia shared with her husband, the Duke of Breckenridge, and create her new life for herself.
The servants here at the Templeton estate were all tied to the home, and she could not even bring her lady’s maid with her, as she would have no means of paying the girl. She could have a loyal groom accompany her to Olivia’s home, but from there, she was on her own.
Loved by the Viscount_A Historical Regency Romance Page 2
