Lady Rosabella's Ruse

by Ann Lethbridge

  She pulled another sheet out of her desk drawer, her father’s desk, which Garth had sent over on her second day here, and began anew.

  Dear Grandfather, I hope your health is as good as ever.

  She tapped the feather against her lip. While we have not always been in accord…

  The sound of a bump came from beyond the window that looked out over the small walled garden at the back of the house. Someone outside? One of the servants going to the privy? Oh, she was so easily distracted from her task. Not this time. She would finish it.

  A large figure hurtled through her open window and landed with a thump on one knee. A scream rushed from her throat. She leapt to her feet, the chair falling backwards with a clatter.

  ‘Hush,’ the figure said, rising. ‘It is only me.’

  Garth? Here? In her chamber. ‘What on earth are you doing? Are you drunk?’

  A sardonic smile crossed his lips. ‘Drunk doesn’t seem to help.’

  She ran for the bell pull. He stepped in front of her, large and intimidating, sullen. ‘Hear me out.’

  ‘I will hear you tomorrow. I already told Penelope I would.’

  ‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘She told me when we met at dinner. I wouldn’t have gone, but I thought you would be there.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t need an audience.’

  Rosabella tried not to look at the bed. ‘There is nothing we need say to each other that would possibly cause us embarrassment in the presence of another. Indeed, should we meet at any time in future, it will never be alone.’

  His shoulders stiffened. His eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so cowardly. If you can hear me tomorrow, you can hear me now.’

  The proud arrogant bearing told her he wouldn’t leave, no matter what she said. She folded her arms over her chest. ‘Very well. Have your say, but stay on your side of the room.’

  He flashed a grin of triumph and she had the strong desire to bash him over the head with a fire-iron.

  He crossed the room to the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket. ‘In case you decide to run away before I’m finished.’

  ‘Perhaps you should also remove the ladder in case I go through the window. It was a ladder you used, I assume?’

  ‘Taking a leaf out of our honoured Lord Chancellor’s book,’ he said cheerfully.

  Years before, Lord Eldon had run off to Gretna Green with an heiress by escaping with her down a ladder. In the end, it had been one of the most successful and happy of marriages. If Garth thought she would elope with him, he had porridge for brains.

  ‘Hurry up and tell me what you want. I am tired and in need of a good night’s sleep.’

  His eyes slid to the bed and a smile curved his lips.

  Heat warmed her belly as she remembered their last night together. Dash it, he only had to smile and she lost all reason. Why had she reminded him they were in her bedroom? She tapped her foot. ‘Well?’

  He cleared his throat as if it had suddenly gone tight.

  A nervous Garth? Now that was something new.

  He dropped to one knee in front of her. She backed away, putting her hands behind her when he reached for them. It didn’t stop his flow of words. He fixed his dark eyes on her face with no vestige of a smile. ‘Rosabella Cavendish, I am asking you to be my wife.’ He held her gaze for a long moment. ‘I love you.’

  The words lacked conviction and still the air rushed from her lungs. The three words she’d most longed to hear on his lips scored a path through her heart, leaving it bloody and torn. Why did he have to say them now, when she didn’t need him? When she couldn’t pretend they were real, because she knew the truth? Her heart urged her to run to him, to let him fold her in his arms, to tell him what was in her heart, but she didn’t believe him. She couldn’t. When he grew tired of her, he’d take her heart and flail it with his tongue. The pride, the arrogance, his presence here, was all about winning. He just wanted his own way.

  In the end, neither of them would be happy.

  No matter the pain in her heart, the longing to give in, she shook her head, knowing she was right. ‘You don’t have any idea about love. You said so yourself.’ She took a deep breath, knowing what she would say next would sever the tie between them forever. ‘And besides, it is not necessary—I am not carrying your child.’

  If she had known better, she would have thought the fleeting expression on his face was disappointment. As it was, she could only assume it was chagrin at being forced to bend his knee, tell her what he thought she wanted to hear, only to be refused.

  ‘Not with child,’ he said slowly. His eyes were unfathomable, his expression carefully blank.

  Though he showed no emotion, she was sure he must be pleased at the reprieve. ‘No. So there is no need for your sacrifice.’

  His eyes blazed. ‘Damnation, Rosabella, it was not and is not a sacrifice.’

  ‘When you never wanted to be married in the first place?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. Didn’t you hear me say I love you?’ He held out his hand to her. ‘I ruined you. You have to marry me. I’m not entirely devoid of honour.’ He smiled at her, encouraging her to relent.

  Honour. The real reason for this display. His honour was at stake. His declaration of love was nothing but words.

  ‘You don’t believe in love.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I love my brother.’ He looked as if he’d said something painful.

  ‘But not your mother or your father.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is your duty to love them.’

  Bleak eyes stared back at her. ‘Why, when they both wished I had never been born.’

  ‘Why would you say such a thing?’

  His expression tightened. He shook his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. ‘Let us just say I was not the son they wanted.’

  ‘No one can choose their children.’

  His smile was grim. ‘So my father discovered.’

  ‘The way you spoke to your mother…’ Just thinking about it made her feel sick. Who was to say how long it would be before she was the target of his cruelty? Before he was throwing up the fact that she’d trapped him into a marriage he didn’t want. She’d have no defence. A man who did not love his mother had no concept of love. ‘I’m sorry, I really do not think we would suit.’

  ‘I care for you, Rosabella.’

  He sounded so sincere, she wanted to believe him, she really did. Her whole body vibrated with the longing to go to him. But what they shared was not love. It was attraction. A physical thing. Having seen the love between her mother and father, she would not settle for less. Not when she didn’t have to. ‘Love is much bigger than a word. It is deed and thought. You destroy people with wicked words and think nothing of it. You threatened to take my child from me if I did not do as you wanted. That is not love.’

  His hands opened and closed. ‘I was angry. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Love isn’t a weapon.’

  He stared at her, his face draining of colour. ‘Then you will not accept my offer?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, crippled by the pain in her chest and trying not to show it.

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He closed the distance between them, took her mouth in a kiss of passion. Hard and fast and full of anger. It softened to something else: regret, loss. Or were those emotions all in her own mind?

  Only by force of will could she remain stiff, unyielding, cold to his touch. And even then her heart reached out, beating hard and fast in her chest with longing. She felt herself weakening and stiffened her spine.

  He pulled away, breathing hard.

  She touched a finger to her lips. ‘Goodbye, Garth.’

  He spun around and unlocked the door. He opened it, stood for a moment with his back to her. ‘I’m sorry.’ He strode out.

  Tears running down her face, she closed the door to the sound of his running footsteps on the stairs. The pain inside her chest felt w
orse than anything she’d ever imagined. This time he would not come back.

  They would never make a child together, or play cricket on the beach with their children. She would never marry.

  She couldn’t. He would always take up too much room in her heart.

  Love isn’t a weapon. But what the hell was it? Garth stared into his burgundy, hoping the answer might emerge from its ruby depths. It didn’t.

  He pushed his untouched dinner aside with an impatient hand and took his glass to the window, looking down into the street. It was like one of those childhood riddles where the answer, once known, was obvious, but took ages to tease out. A half-smile touched his lips. Kit had been good at those riddles. Garth had preferred action.

  Action hadn’t worked so well with Rosabella. Now he was floundering around in quicksand with no handy branch in sight to pull him out of the mire. He’d been so sure she’d relent once he said the words. Once he’d kissed her, reminded her of the pleasure they had together.

  The love she wanted was beyond him.

  Love. Such a stupid word.

  For some reason his facial muscles refused to form their customary expression of scorn. They wanted to do something stupid like form a smile as he pictured her face, her courage in her convictions as she faced him, her perseverance in seeking what she knew should be found. The soppy sort of smile that went along with baskets of puppies or sunrise over the ocean. Or the sight of a baby.

  He would never have a baby. He’d sworn it to himself when Kit left for America. It seemed like a way of making up for being born. What an idiot to be disappointed when she said it hadn’t come to pass.

  He should have guessed she wouldn’t have him. He’d been unwanted since the day he was born.

  He downed the wine.

  She was right. She was better off without him. He was broken. Missing an important part everyone else took for granted. Or at least the good people.

  Kit had it. Mark had it, though it didn’t seem to be making him happy.

  Perhaps he was better off without it.

  He just wished he felt better off.

  Love isn’t a weapon. She’d looked so sad when she said that. Every time he thought about the hurt in her eyes, he couldn’t breathe for the pain in his chest.

  If this was love, he’d prefer a quick death. He slammed his fist on the nearest piece of furniture. A spindly-legged table. A vase toppled to the floor with a satisfying crash. Shards of china scattered. He crunched through the debris, intending to ring for a maid. A habit. Make a mess, have it cleaned up.

  His hand stilled on the cord.

  He’d certainly made a mess of things with Rosabella. No one could clean that up.

  Love isn’t a weapon. Was she right about that? It damned well felt as if she’d pierced him with a sword and twisted it.

  Was that love?

  A groan rose in his throat. If it was, then it was only one-sided.

  Alone in the house for the afternoon, Penelope having gone off to make her calls, Rosabella reviewed the advertisements in The Times, carefully looking on the map to ensure each address fell within the circle drawn by Mark. Outside of that circle the ton would turn up its nose.

  ‘Lady Stanford,’ the butler announced.

  Garth’s mother? Her heart stopped beating. She drew a quick painful breath and felt it falter to life louder than before.

  She rose and dipped a curtsy as the lady swept in. Once more she was startled by the widow’s fair beauty. If she was this lovely now, she must have been a diamond of the first water as a young woman. ‘Lady Stanford.’

  ‘Lady Rosabella.’

  Rosa forced a stiff smile. ‘The butler should have informed you of Lady Smythe’s absence.’

  The lacy handkerchief appeared as if by magic in her gloved hand. Drooping from her fingertips, it looked a bit sad. ‘I’m glad we are alone. I just had to see you before the wedding.’

  ‘There is no wedding. I’m sorry Garth didn’t tell you and you have had a wasted journey.’

  Lady Stanford’s blue eyes widened with childish innocence no doubt many men found appealing. ‘No wedding.’ Her expression brightened. ‘Well, let me offer you my congratulations. It seems you have had a lucky escape. I am sorry I was a little concerned about your…er…profession, but you really are better off without him.’

  Rosa’s scalp tightened. Prickles ran across her shoulders. Wasn’t that what she’d been telling herself? Then why did she feel so annoyed to hear it from this woman’s lips? Shouldn’t a mother defend her son? She eyed the widow’s innocent blue eyes and saw a hardness she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain?’ She gestured to a chair. ‘Pray be seated.’

  With much twitching of skirts to achieve just the right drape, the lady proceeded to settle herself.

  Warily, Rosa watched her. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you, no. My carriage is waiting.’

  She frowned. ‘Are you here on Lord Stanford’s behalf?’

  The widow patted the blond ringlets touching her cheek and glanced around the room. ‘Certainly not. Garth is nothing but trouble. His father was the same. A rake and a seducer.’

  Rosa gasped. ‘Lord Stanford?’

  She fluttered a dismissive handkerchief. ‘Silly girl. Garth isn’t an Evernden. You have only to look at my younger son to see it. He married a Duke’s daughter, you know.’

  Rosa furrowed her brow. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He will try to cozen and charm you like his dreadful father did to me. He ruined my life.’

  ‘Garth’s father?’

  ‘No, Garth. The child of a man who was not my betrothed. What was I to do? I was set for a brilliant match and quickening with child. All my hopes were about to be shattered.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘My father wouldn’t hear of calling off the marriage. The settlements had been signed. He got Evernden so drunk on our wedding night, he never knew a thing.’

  ‘You passed off another man’s child on your husband?’

  ‘What else was I to do? My father would have cast me off. If only he’d been a girl. My husband realised the moment Garth was born he was no son of his. In time, he forgave me, knew I had been taken advantage of, but he could never bear the sight of Garth. Thank God for Christopher. It broke my dear husband’s heart that his true son would never inherit.’

  How cold she sounded. How uncaring. Rosa couldn’t believe a mother could be so lacking in warmth for her own child. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  The widow pursed her lips. ‘I just wanted you to know what sort of man he is, that is all. Nature will out, they say. He ran wild as a boy. We sent him away to school. It did no good. I half expected him to kill himself before he came of age.’

  A chill breeze ran through the room. Did she mean she hoped Garth wouldn’t survive his boyhood?

  ‘Be warned, Lady Rosabella. Garth is just like his father. Do not be taken in by his charm. He will ruin your life as he ruins everything he touches. Even his brother left the country to get away from him.’

  The woman despised her own son. What kind of childhood would Garth have had with parents who hated him? Was it any wonder he knew nothing of love?

  Anger like nothing Rosa had ever felt before coursed through her veins. Anger for a child left out in the cold, unloved and unwanted. Mixed in with the anger was the terrible knowledge of how much she’d wronged Garth. The bleakness she’d seen in his gaze was not born of cynicism, it was born of this woman’s cruelty, her selfishness.

  How could he know how to love when he clearly had never been loved? It was a miracle he could express any kind of affection. And she’d scorned him when he told her he loved her.

  Anger as cold as ice and sharp as steel took control of her tongue. She rose to her feet with all the dignity of an earl’s daughter. ‘Please leave.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Go. Now. You are not welcome here. Garth is right. You are
a cruel unfeeling woman.’

  ‘You go too far, young lady.’

  Not nearly far enough.

  Lady Stanford got up with a huff. ‘Take heed, Lady Rosabella. Don’t make my mistakes.’ Head high, she left the room.

  The warning came too late. Rosabella had made exactly the same mistake when she’d judged Garth and found him wanting.

  She wasn’t sure she could put it right.

  Armed with a taper, the butler entered Garth’s study to light the candles. Garth raised his chin from his chest and studied the window. Nightfall. Where had the day gone?

  The man finished with the candles on the mantel and proceeded to the wall sconces.

  ‘That’ll do.’ He didn’t need any more light. The images in his head were perfectly clear without candles.

  The butler crept away. All the servants had been creeping around since Rosabella left.

  He chuckled grimly.

  Poets spoke of love as if it was something to be desired. In his experience, it was a knife in the back. A blow to the kidneys. A flogging with fishhooks would be easier to bear.

  Thank God, Kit was coming home. He’d missed his brother like the devil. More than he’d ever expected. He could take some small satisfaction in knowing that one day his brother would take his rightful place as Lord Stanford. That he would right his mother’s wrong.

  Small comfort.

  His father—he shook his head—Christopher’s father, would be have been pleased. Hell, it would even make his mother happy.

  It was bloody ironic really.

  It had nothing to do with his parents. He cared nothing for what they thought. It was Christopher who mattered.

  Yes, he really did love his brother. And he did love Rosabella, though it was better that she didn’t believe him. Better for her.

  The candles blurred. His throat burned. He blinked to clear his vision, swallowed the stupid lump in his throat. Pointless emotion. The kind he’d learned to suppress as a lad.

  A scratch at the door. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Not now.’