He looked up at her in surprise. “She gave you this?”
“She was in a rush,” the woman said simply, then turned with one last look over her shoulder.
He ignored her, and instead found his opener, broke the seal, and took out the folded paper.
Dearest William, it read.
I must apologize for telling you this through a note, but I could not bear to say this to your face. I appreciated our time together, and you know how I have come to care for you. My feelings for you, however, are those of a friend. I realize now that we do not belong together, and I am sorry if I made you believe otherwise.
Please, do not protest or come after me. I have chosen a life with Bartholomew. It will be not so different from my life with Harold. We may not be in love, but can live together peacefully.
I hope you find happiness with a woman such as Lady Diana.
Until we meet again,
Rosalind
William sat back heavily in his chair, stunned as the letter fell from his fingertips to the desktop. He had thought what was between them was so much more than what she had written. Perhaps, however, he was being a fool. They had known each other since they were children, but they had only truly come to be aware of one another over these past couple of weeks. Was that enough time for any sort of true feeling to develop? And yet … when he thought of her, the emotion that coursed through him was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He had imagined himself in love with Olivia for so many years, but when he thought of her now, he knew it had been nothing but a young man’s infatuation with a striking woman. Rosalind might not be as forward, as confident, nor as vivacious as someone like Olivia, or even Diana, but she had a joy of life that she shared with those that were closest to her, with those she felt mattered enough to draw in.
She may not enjoy a crowd, but the conversations she had were of a genuine nature so rarely found. Her heart was true, and she put so much ahead of herself. She would lose a night of sleep to care for new pups, she would treat any and all as her equal, and she would stop at nothing when her values were questioned or when she had to fight for those she loved.
Rosalind was so much more than what others saw when they looked at her, and he — he loved her. He fell back in his chair as the revelation hit him like a punch in the gut. He really, truly loved her. He was astonished. He had never thought it was possible to have this depth of feeling for someone. And yet apparently she wanted nothing to do with him. She would prefer the life she had known, with a man so similar to the one she had left.
William stepped into the hall. He had to know that she had left of her own accord, had to be sure it was true that she didn’t want him. “Patty!” he called, seeing the maid scuttling around the corner. “Were you with Lady Templeton today?”
“I was, my lord,” she said with a dip of her head.
“Is it true she chose to leave?”
“Y-yes my lord,” she said, clearly seeing the ferociousness of his glare. “We packed her bags this morning, the two of us together.”
It was sure then. Like Olivia before her, he was nothing more than a friend.
He dismissed her, returning to his office, walking over the sideboard and pouring himself a large snifter of brandy. He drank the whole thing down before pouring himself a second, despite the fact it was only halfway through the day. He knew he had a house of guests, but currently, he didn’t really care, as he thought only of his pounding head and broken heart.
She didn’t like him drunk, he thought, taking another sip. Well, I am sorry Rosalind, he thought. But you lost any right to an opinion when you left me. And now, he would do whatever he damn well pleased.
When Rosalind had woken that morning, she knew it would not be a particularly pleasant day. However, she could never have realized just how terrible it would be.
She fought Alfred all the way back to the wretched cottage in the woods. Despite being unable to see his face, she had soon realized it was he who held her. Who else would conspire with Lady Southam? Of course he would bring her back here. The man didn’t seem to have any creativity within his soul.
When she had been here before, she had been distraught, panicked, for she had no idea where she was or who held her. Now, it was different. She knew who he was, what he was doing, why he was doing it, and all she felt was an anger that simmered from deep within her soul.
As he led her through the woods, she stepped on his toes, elbowed him in the stomach, tried to knee him in the groin, but he managed to evade her, being far larger and stronger. It was times like these she wished she had more strength and resilience.
By the time they reached the cabin, she had exhausted herself, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet as he pushed her through the door.
“You will not have to stay for long this time,” he said in a nonchalant tone. “Just until your betrothed comes to collect you.”
Bart, she thought, realizing she would far prefer Alfred as a captor than Bart, she thought as Alfred closed the door behind him, and she heard the scrape of wood as he locked it. Alfred was greedy and foolish, but she had come to realize he would not actually hurt her — for if he had wanted to, he could have killed her the first time he had abducted her once he realized she was worthless. He had not, however. Instead, he had asked his brother for help.
Now she thought of William, wondering what he would do at her disappearance. Would he search for her? Or had her rejection of him been so severe that he would be happy to be rid of her?
She kicked at the rotting floorboards, making her way gingerly over to the rough-hewn table and stools in the middle of the small room. There was what passed for a cot in the corner, but she had inspected it last time and realized there was no way she could even sit upon it. Rosalind knew that there was no alternate exit besides the door, and nothing within that would allow her to fashion an escape for herself.
Although … Alfred had spent some time here when William had banished him from the house. Was there any chance he had left something behind? She began her search, determined to find a way to escape. This time, she refused to be the victim.
22
William likely would have drunk himself into a stupor had Merryweather not come to find him.
“Southam!” the man said from the door. “We were wondering what had kept you. Some of the men are eager to get to the hunt if it is still planned for today?”
“Ah yes,” he said, rising a bit unsteadily to his feet. “The hunt. Apologies, Merryweather. Yes, I will have the staff ready everything for our departure and will be but a moment myself.”
William sighed as Merryweather nodded and left. He brought his fingers to his temples, closing his eyes. He had entirely forgotten about the hunt, but of course that was what many of the men had come for and he couldn’t very well suggest another lead it.
He forced his legs to stand and dragged himself into the hallway. As he turned to ascend the stairs to his chamber, he was surprised when the Duchess of Barre and Lady Anne stopped him in the corridor.
“Lord Southam,” said the Duchess, assuming an air of regality that was rather uncommon of her. “Your mother has informed us that Lady Templeton has departed to return to her betrothed?”
“So it would seem,” he muttered, though he hadn’t finished the sentence before the two beautifully styled heads in front of him began shaking to and fro.
“That cannot be,” cried Lady Anne. “Rosalind is certainly not betrothed to anyone, especially the horrific Lord Templeton. Why, he’s even more of a rotter than her first husband.”
“That, I can agree with,” he said with a sigh. “But she has left a note, and it seems that she has, truly, decided to leave and go to him.”
The Duchess waved her hands in the air, disregarding his words. His head was fuzzy from the drink, and he wished she would stop moving so quickly.
“Are you certain she wrote it herself? Let me see it,” she said, to which he shook his head. She might be a duchess, but
he certainly was not going to share with her private correspondence regarding his unreturned feelings toward Rosalind. He would not make himself a laughingstock.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot do that,” he said. “I can tell you that she was very clear that she has deliberately chosen her current path.”
“But she hates Lord Templeton,” the Duchess said, surprising William. “She came here to escape him, Lord Southam, and you must realize that if there is any man she longs for, it is you.”
He refused to allow her words to provide him any sense of hope but instead resolved to remain resolute.
“You are quite mistaken,” he said. “Now, excuse me, but I must prepare myself to leave for the hunt.”
He placed a foot on the stairs, but couldn’t take his mind from what the Duchess had said. Was there any chance that Rosalind had not written the letter? He doubted it, yet … the only time he had ever seen her write before was in that notebook of hers. He tried to recall her penmanship, but couldn’t bring it to his mind. An unbidden image of the journal amongst her belongings in the library came to mind. But no, if she had left, she surely would have taken it with her. It was one of her most valuable possessions.
As much as he told himself he was being foolish, he found his feet taking him down the corridor toward the library. He pushed open the door, finding one or two men amongst his collections, and made his way over to the corner — her corner, by his way of thinking now. He picked up the stack of books tucked in the small corner cabinet and rifled through them. Ah, so she had decided to read Waverly, he thought, a small unbidden smile coming to his lips that she’d trusted his recommendation.
He halted as he came to one book that stood out among the others, a green leather-bound volume only half filled with notes, the rest empty, awaiting her thoughts.
These were her notes. And yet, would she really leave them behind? He thought that odd, and a sense of unease began to replace his melancholy, sobering him up and focusing him. His eyes skimmed over a passage, one in which a young woman yearned for a gentleman who she had always known but who had never seen her in return.
Why, she is writing a novel, he thought with a start, her words intriguing him, making him want to read more. Before he could do so, however, he quickly observed that this writing did not match to the note. It was similar, to be sure, but — the Duchess of Barre had been right. Rosalind had not written that note, he realized, his heart beating fast. Hester had lied to him. Who had given her the note, and where was Rosalind?
“Ah, my dear Rosalind,” Bart kicked the door shut as he strode into the room. “How lovely you are here waiting for me.”
“Bart,” she said, hearing the anger in her own voice as the man she hated with such passion walked toward her. “What is this meaning of all of this?”
“Is this any way to greet your soon-to-be husband?” he asked, with a leer on his face as he advanced toward her. “Especially when I have come all this way to collect you?”
“You have wasted your time,” she said, trying not to let her voice tremble, despite the mad beating of her heart in her chest. Now was the time to show him the strength that had always been within her. “I will never marry you.”
He shrugged, clearly not affected by her words. “You have not much choice anymore, my dear. This will all be much simpler if you do not fight it.”
“Why me, anyway?” she asked, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “There are plenty of eligible young women looking to be married. I hate you. I’m sure your cousin told you that I am not worth marrying. So why?”
Bart sighed as if it was a chore to speak of this with her, but he continued. “Surely you have heard of my reputation.”
She had heard whispers, although no one had ever fully explained the reason why fathers were reluctant to wed their daughters to such a man. Bart was a second son, true, and not a particularly attractive one at that, with a paunch belly and facial features that were always pulled into a sneer of some sort. She had figured those were reasons enough but apparently there was more.
She shrugged, needing to know as much as she didn’t really want to. “I do not pay attention to the gossips.”
“Well, as you will soon learn,” he said, so close to her now she could smell the lingering ash, fish, and whatever else he had for lunch on his breath. She tried not to recoil in her disgust. “I have certain sexual tastes that many young women are not fond of feeding. Unfortunately, I had an encounter with a particular woman of the ton some years ago, and she found it her duty to share with others what they could expect from a dalliance with me. Alas,” he sighed, “I have not had much opportunity to find a woman who would share such proclivities, besides those who are paid for. Hence, I have not found a wife to this point in time. It didn’t much concern me until now. For now, I am an earl, and I need heirs.”
He leaned in, his face a breath away from hers. “And you are going to give them to me.”
Rosalind was horrified. If the ton knew of this, her father must as well. And yet, he would allow her to be married to such man? Did he care nothing of her at all?
“Get away from me,” she ground out, pushing back against his chest. He hardly moved at all, her small, slight build being no match for his round, heavy one.
“I think not,” he said, laughing. “I shall do as I please.”
Rosalind closed her eyes for a moment. What was wrong with her? Why had she not taken her chance for happiness with William? If she had, she would not find herself in such a predicament. She had been stupid, too lost in her own self-doubt. She had let her parents, their questioning and needling from the past invade her future, and in doing so had prevented her own happiness.
Not anymore, she resolved. She would fight for what she wanted, for the future that was still within her grasp. But first she had to get away from Bart.
She lifted her hand ever so slowly so as not to attract his attention, up his chest until it neared his throat.
“Bart,” she said, her tone even, determined to show no emotion on her face. “I said, get away.”
He looked down now, and jumped back hurriedly when he saw the blade in her hand at his neck.
“What do you think you are doing with that?” he asked, his mouth agape, and it was now her turn to smile, despite the fact that she was still near trembling with fear and anticipation.
“Your friend Alfred used that wretched cottage for a few days and seemed to have forgotten to clean up after himself,” she said. “He left a few utensils in the cabinet, including, luckily, a hunting knife.”
“You would never have the nerve to use it,” he said, his initial surprise having fled, to be replaced by his usual smugness. “You are timid, Rosalind. You are not strong enough, you are not sure enough, you are not confident enough to do anything more than make idle threats. Be the good girl you always are, put the knife down, and come home with me.”
“I will not,” she said, though in her heart his words pulled at her. He had a point. She wasn’t sure if she was capable to do anything with the knife besides point it at him.
“Rosalind,” he said again, taking another step toward her. “Even if you do escape from me, what are you going to do? I’ve heard you have a penchant for Southam, but you must know the man cares nothing for you. His brother said you have been mooning around here for days, trying to get him to notice you, but Southam is to marry the beautiful Huntington girl. Do not make a fool of yourself, Rosalind. You have nowhere else to go but home with me.”
Rosalind shook her head, trying to clear it. She felt, in her heart, that William had feelings toward her, but were they enough? She knew his family, and likely his own mind, was telling him that he should be with a woman like Diana. Hell, Rosalind herself had told him to be with Diana. And yet, despite her head telling her how wrong she and William were for each other, despite the struggles they would have or the adversity they would face, her heart told her that there was no other for her. She loved him, and would find no j
oy in life without him. After everything she had been through, did she not at least owe herself the chance to see if she could be happy?
“You’re wrong,” she said, now resolute. “And I do not appreciate you trying to get into my head. Now, Bart, do not come any closer.”
The only warning he gave her was the wicked smile before he shot his hand out to try to wrest the knife from her. As he did so, she lashed out with her arm to push him away, but instead felt her entire body jar as the knife hit something solid. As he screamed, she realized she had sliced the knife into his shoulder, where it now jutted out. As he grabbed the hilt, she overcame her shock and scampered around him as fast as she was able, reaching the door and running up the hill with all the speed she could muster, toward safety — toward William.
23
William patted his horse’s neck as they approached the stables. He had looked throughout the house for Rosalind, had questioned all of the servants and found nothing. He had excused himself from the hunt, spending his time searching the yard and the house for her. He questioned the men before they left for the hunt, but none said a word. Even Alfred and Richard seemed in the dark.
The exertion and fresh air helped him emerge from the shadows that engulfed him and the pain that radiated through his skull. And yet, as good as it felt, his thoughts never wavered from a pretty girl with chocolate brown hair and eyes that haunted his soul. He thought on all she had said to him, on what the Duchess of Barre and Lady Anne had told him, and of her own words, written on the pages of her novel. Could it be? Did she really love him, as he did her? But what did it matter, if he couldn’t find her?
He sighed from the door of the stable as he looked at the group returning to the house. He knew Rosalind wouldn’t have returned to the home of Lord Templeton. So where had she gone? He gave his horse one final pat, looking over at the dogs. They were a few days old now, and were snuggled up next to their mother. They reminded him of Rosalind, he realized, and emerged in the late afternoon sunshine to find Friday sprinting up the hill toward him.
Loved by the Viscount_A Historical Regency Romance Page 15
