“That is enough,” said William, pointing a finger in anger at his brother. “I have put up with your barbs long enough this morning. There will be no more of this, Alfred, or I will truly take all away from you — this home and access to any funds or support whatsoever. Do you hear me?”
Alfred glared at him with eyes so similar to his own, but he finally broke the stare, apparently admitting defeat — for the moment.
“Fine, William, if you are going to be that way,” he said. “Though I only speak the truth. Is that not what you have always said you prefer? The truth from one’s lips rather than what one feels you may want to hear? Well, anyway, it was lovely speaking with you, Lady Templeton. I hope you have a wonderful morning. Mother, good day.”
With that, he rose and exited the room, humming a tune as he continued down the corridor.
“I believe I shall excuse myself as well,” said Lady Southam, rising, seeming to have thoroughly enjoyed her breakfast and the conversation, as she left the room with a self-satisfied air.
William took a breath, feeling the tension that remained in the room following their departures. He finally looked at Rosalind, who sat unmoving, her hands clutched tightly in her lap, her gaze looking out over the table to the window at the peaceful lands stretching out below them in sharp contrast to the rockiness that Alfred had left in the room.
“I do apologize, Lady Templeton,” William finally said. “Alfred has always lacked manners, of course, but this was beyond reproach. Forgive me for placing you in such a situation?”
She finally turned to look at him, and he was taken aback for a moment by the storm that was rolling through her sea green eyes. He had never really noticed them, before, he realized, but now the turbulence within them reached out and captured his attention, causing him to feel that strange and unexpected longing to do what he could to ease the pain.
“I believe I am no longer particularly hungry,” she said. “Though I do have an urge to explore your lands. If you will excuse me?”
He could do nothing but nod, and when she left he sighed, his shoulders slumping. He had certainly unwillingly entered into quite a trying situation. The question was, how was he to get himself out of it?
8
The moment Rosalind exited the dining room and was out of William’s sight, she fled down the hallway, practically breaking into a run at her desire to be free from the room, with the echoes of Alfred’s taunts in her ears, and the reminders that she would never be the type of woman a man like William Elliot would want.
In fact, she wasn’t a woman who she felt any man was particularly drawn to. She knew she was pretty enough, but she wasn’t a woman that men were attracted to at first sight. Her face never drew attention, nor hardly ever a second look. How often had she been introduced to the same people over and over again who had completely forgotten ever meeting her, as she had clearly been so unassuming and uninteresting?
William had remembered her well enough as Olivia’s friend, but other than that she knew he had hardly any recollection of her, and instead had extended his invitation to her out of politeness as well as guilt over what his brother had done to her.
She made it to her room, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it for a moment to collect herself. After a time, her breathing slowed and she felt a need for air. She found her journal in her pile of books, and taking it in hand, she meandered through the house until she found the library. She gathered a quill pen and ink pot from a desk in the corner and made her way to the beautiful terrace doors which opened to the grounds beyond.
Just a few steps, and as Rosalind walked into the sunshine, the warmth of it invaded her soul, and she finally, for a moment, felt peace settle over her. She basked in it for just a moment, forgetting all of the worry and all of the pain that had overcome her.
The muslin of her lavender skirts swept through the long grasses of the yard that was not particularly well maintained but held a certain bold wildness that was utterly refreshing.
If only the house was free of Alfred and Lady Southam, how perfectly peaceful it would be. Perhaps in her time here, Rosalind could complete the manuscript she was working on, then find a way to sell it and begin to support herself.
It was ironic, she thought, that despite the fact she could hardly think of what to say to others in the moment, when she wrote, thoughts came tumbling out onto the page, and she was able to give her characters the words that she so longed to be able to use herself. She had been writing for some time now, though primarily for enjoyment. Now, she was determined that she would support herself with her work. It was simply a matter of finding the right connections to help her with it. For that, she would have to make her way to London and find a place to stay. Once Olivia returned, she would ask for her assistance and for use of her London residence. Until then, she would make do with her current situation.
She found a beautiful oak by a small pond and leaned against its trunk, it’s large branches shading her with leaves that rustled in the slight wind. Rosalind took a deep breath, drinking in the peace the outdoors brought her, and opened her notebook. She dipped her pen in the ink and brought it to the page, where the words began to seemingly write themselves as she poured out her heartbreak and pain, allowing her a sense of release.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, thinking and writing, her emotions working their way into a story that flowed without much effort on her part. Sometimes, it seemed, the words wrote themselves, the characters acting upon their own will. She loved those days, though she could never predict when they would come; rather she had to work within them when the opportunity presented itself.
She was so intent on her work that she let out a shriek of surprise when she suddenly felt a warm, hairy body leaning against her, a warm tongue upon her cheek.
“Oh, it’s you!” she said with a bit of a laugh of relief when she turned to find the dog next to her. “I am so sorry, I didn’t notice you.”
She reached out, rubbing the dog’s head, her fingers scratching him where he seemed to enjoy it between his ears. “You are a lovely one, aren’t you?” she said. “I suppose you are likely misunderstood. I know what that feels like, though in a slightly different way, you could say. I wish you could tell me your story — or your name, at the very least.”
She smiled as the dog lay down, his huge dark head in her lap. His fur was nearly all black, with a white patch on his chest and brindle sprinkling his legs. Her writing complete for the moment, she set her notebook aside and leaned back against the tree, closing her eyes at the contentment of the dog and the sun, and she wished she could stay out here forever.
William hiked over his field. He’d needed to feel the freedom of the outdoors after his morning. His headache had threatened to return, and he often found a brisk walk outdoors could keep it at bay. He’d left the house with his dog, but Friday had bounded off the moment they stepped outside. He whistled for him now, but the dog didn’t come, which was unlike him. Usually Friday wanted nothing more than to follow his master. Ah well, he thought, he must have found something much more interesting to sniff or chase. William crested a hill, meandering his way toward the great oak. As a boy, he had climbed the tree so many times that his mother had stopped nagging at him to be careful and finally accepted that he would do as he pleased.
Now, in his adult years, he still found it a place of solace of some sort.
He stopped short when he looked down at the picture in front of him. His tree — and his dog — had been overtaken by a young woman. Rosalind leaned against the oak, her skirts fanned out around her and his dog draped over her lap. She looked the picture of contentment, in such contrast to the tense woman he knew.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to speak to her again, to break the peace she had seemingly found, but all the same he was drawn toward her.
“Rosalind?” he said softly, not wanting to scare her, but he seemed to do so just the same as she jumped. “My apologies, I did not mean to star
tle you.”
“It’s fine,” she said with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “I seem to have become engrossed in my surroundings. I should be more attentive.”
He waved his hand in the air. “No matter. It looks as if you have stolen the heart of my dog.”
She smiled then, a real, beautiful smile he didn’t think he had ever seen on her face before. It caused a dimple to form in her cheek, and she looked lovely, he thought, then shook his head. Where had these thoughts come from?
“He’s wonderful,” she said, and it was his turn to laugh. “I’ve never heard anyone but me say Friday is wonderful before.” Apparently the dog had worked a spell over her.
“His name is Friday?” she asked, her eyes wide as she looked up at him.
“It is,” he said, preparing for the usual question of how a dog had received so unusual of a name.
“Friday … from Robinson Crusoe?” she asked, her nose wrinkled as though concerned she was going to be terribly wrong.
“Yes, exactly,” he said, somewhat stunned. It was the first time someone had known the origin of the name. “You have read it recently, then?”
“Mmm, no, some time ago,” she said, shaking her head. “I do love tales of adventure far beyond what I shall ever see in my life. I suppose that is what I love the most about a book — that it takes you places you never thought you could go to live out stories that would never be possible within one’s own life.”
He found himself captivated by her in that instant, by the way her face transformed as she looked out whimsically over the wild grasses of his lands. Somehow, despite her small frame and her plain though pretty face, she seemed like a different person here than the young girl he had known but had never really seen. He had always overlooked her, as she seemed to blend into the background. But that was not it, here, he realized. It was simply that she … fit here.
“Have you read Waverly?” He asked. “It is a new tale, by Sir Walter Scott. You may enjoy it — I certainly did. I am sure it is somewhere in my library.”
“I shall look for it,” she said softly, and Friday’s bulky body shoved up even closer to her, if that were possible. Rosalind smiled, reaching down a hand to absentmindedly scratch him between the ears, and the dog threw his head back in contentment.
“I believe I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out what Alfred had told him was her ring and necklace.
“Oh,” she said, and he wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, or if he saw a sheen of tears cover her eyes.
“I imagine you have been missing this,” he said, holding out the wedding ring to her.
She took it from him, but instead of putting it on, she simply slipped it into her pocket and looked at the necklace instead.
“This was my grandmother’s,” she said, taking it from him and running her fingers over it lovingly. “But I thought it was broken?”
She looked up at him and William smiled. “I had it fixed.”
Her words seemed to catch in her throat, and instead of speaking she reached behind her to return it round her neck. William watched her slim fingers work, until he noted she had attempted to do up the clasp a few times with no success.
“Allow me,” he said, stepping behind her and taking the edges of the necklace in his fingers. He brushed the soft skin on the back of her neck and inhaled a fresh, sweet rosy scent from her hair as he did up the clasp. He had to snap himself out of his reverie to focus as he stepped back from her.
“Would you like to take a walk? See more of the land?” he asked, to which a smile of delight spread across her face. He reached down a hand to help her up, and when she took it, a strange jolt of heat spread through him from where her fingers touched his, something of a tremor to which he couldn’t put a name or a cause.
“William, are you all right?” Her voice broke through his consciousness, and he realized he had been standing motionless for a moment, still holding onto her hand after she had used it to stand.
“Ah, yes, my apologies,” he said, shaking his head and releasing her, smiling what he hoped looked to be a natural grin.
Their gazes locked, and his smile faded as he drank in her stare for a moment, her eyes reminding him of the shallow ocean, where the water turned green as it met the shore. As he thought it, he realized how silly he was being. He had only seen the ocean a few times as it were, and yet, she brought him back to those rare moments.
He held his arm out to her, and she took it with a smile, cocking her head toward him. He led her at a leisurely pace through the grasses, Friday following along at their heels, barking excitedly.
“Your property is beautiful,” she said, her face turned out to the fields beyond them, leading to his woodland.
“Do you think so?” he asked, surprised. He had thought she would prefer the manicured gardens much more commonly found throughout the countryside. “My mother always felt they should be much more … groomed, I suppose, however, I haven’t the heart to be rid of the gardener who refuses to tend to anything much beyond the courtyard.”
“Most would likely feel that way,” she said. “And yes, I do enjoy them as they are. Purposefully or not, you allow them to be free to be what they are meant to be, and not forced into what is expected of them, if that makes sense.”
It didn’t take much intelligence to realize that her views on the garden extended past that to her own life.
“Will you continue to wear the colors of half-morning through the party?” he asked her. “Not that you do not look lovely in them, but I can hardly imagine what it must be like to wear only black for an entire year, followed by the sombreness to which you now must wear.”
He saw her eyes widen and, realizing how inappropriate his comment was, quickly tried to soften his words.
“Of course, though, you must miss your husband, and so it only makes sense to maintain an outward appearance. My apologies, Rosalind, I was being inconsiderate.”
“Not at all,” she said, shaking her head. “You are right. Black is awfully dreary, and so are the grays. I don’t mind lavender; however, I suppose I will have to come out of my half-mourning for the party as I only brought one or two dresses in these colors. It will give your guests something to speak of, I suppose.”
“Do you really care so much?” he asked, studying her. “Why does it matter what they think?”
She stopped suddenly, and he had to step back to stay even with her. “I suppose … I was raised to believe it always mattered. I hate the whispered gossip and veiled barbs that always seem to be on the lips of the ton, though what you say is absolutely right. It should not matter. It is my way of thinking that needs to change more than anything. It is difficult, however, to do so overnight.”
“That is more than understandable,” he said, smiling at her and the contemplation on her face.
“Oh, William, this is breathtaking!” she said, her eyes widening as she dropped her hand from his arm.
They had reached the small brook that ran through his property, just at the edge of the woodland. It was shallow, meandering, just enough of a water source to quench the thirst of the animals that lived in the woods beyond. He watched Rosalind gaze in rapt attention at the rabbits that hopped away from Friday, and the birds that soared overhead.
He hadn’t seen his woods through another’s eyes in some time, he realized, and suddenly felt fortunate at all that he was provided in this life. He realized that it was time he found someone to share it all with, and begin to grow a family who could enjoy it as much as he did.
“Rosalind,” he asked, and she turned to face him, the smile lighting her face. “What are you running from?
9
Rosalind’s breath caught. She wanted to enjoy this moment for what it was — a beautiful interlude in time within a setting that was as lovely as the man in front of her. She knew at some point he would ask her for more details of her situation, and she had been dreading the moment of explaining all to him, of bringing
the ugliness of her life into his.
And yet, she found she couldn’t keep from him the truth of all that happened. She looked down at her hands, then back at him, as he looked expectantly at her from eyes that showed true concern.
“The day of my husband’s funeral, when you found me in the library…” she began, hesitating, not sure how much to tell him. She decided not to go into the details of her marriage. He didn’t need to know how weak-willed she was that she had not escaped her marriage to Harold.
“Yes?” he said gently, encouraging her.
“I was upset for far more than my husband’s death,” she explained, her gaze on the ground. “You see, the new earl, Bart, had just informed me of the lack of stipend available to me. My husband spent my dowry, and there are no available revenues for me.”
“What?” he said incredulously, and she felt grateful for the anger bursting forth from him on her behalf. “That cannot be. ’Tis against the law!”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, smiling ruefully. “Not if there truly isn’t any revenue. It seems the estate was — and likely still is — in deep debt. Which is why it is rather ironic that your brother chose me to try to ransom.” She gave a soft laugh. “No one cared or had the money for me.”
“What of your parents?” he asked. “Surely they can provide for you.”
“They could if they chose to,” she said. “However, I am now four-and-twenty, and they had thought themselves rid of me. They feel I would be a burden upon my brother as he is now of age to marry. They preferred that I do what Bart wanted — marry him.”
She saw his nose wrinkle in disgust.
“You know him, then?” she asked with a bitter laugh.
“I do,” he responded. “And you have made the right choice to distance yourself from him. I am sorry, Rosalind.”
Loved by the Viscount_A Historical Regency Romance Page 6
