Upon A Midnight Dream

by Rachel Van Dyken

  The girls looked at her with sadness in their eyes. "Rose," Gwen started. "We don't have the funds to obtain gowns nice enough to—"

  "There you are." Stefan stepped into the room, followed by a very put out butler who seemed about ready to pull pistols on the intrusive duke. His large presence stole the breath straight from Rosalind's lungs. "Your Grace." She did a little curtsy and nodded to her sisters who merely stood ramrod straight, mouths gaping. It wasn't at all proper for him to be in their chambers, but nothing about Stefan was proper. Duke or no duke, she imagined that if he decided he suddenly wanted to become king he would find a way to do it.

  Glancing at her sisters and their shocked expressions, she tried to imagine what Stefan would look like through new eyes. Tall, broad, and graced with more elegance than any man she had ever met. It was no wonder her two sisters stared at him as if a Norse god had just walked into their chambers. His Hessians were shined to perfection, a tailored jacket around his broad shoulders and a perfectly tied cravat. His blond hair was tucked behind his ears and a cane in hand. He was the epitome of masculine beauty.

  Rosalind bit back a smile. A sort of protectiveness washed over her as she realized how proud she was to be a part of his life. He did a short bow to both her sisters and approached Rosalind. Her heart beat wildly as her eyes locked onto his lips.

  Leaning down, he grabbed her hand and brushed his lips across her fingers but not before she felt the hot intrusion of his tongue against her skin. Flushing, she pulled back in time to see him wink before wrapping a possessive arm around her.

  "Now, what's this I hear about dresses and a ball?"

  Fuming, the butler mumbled something to himself and marched out of the room. Stefan glanced in his direction as if he were an annoying fly needing to be shuffled out of the room and shrugged. His full attention was now back on the three women.

  "It's nothing, Your Grace, really—" Isabelle was shaking her head.

  "Don't be absurd. I believe a shopping trip is in order, is it not? I have a carriage waiting to take you three girls wherever your heart desires. An early wedding gift for Rose. Find some suitable dresses that can be hastily made, and we will all attend the ball tonight."

  Rosalind was without words. She closed her eyes against the intrusion of confusing feelings hammering in her heart. This courtship was much easier when she was in her country estate telling the infuriating man to woo her while he had split pea soup on his chin. Now, his generosity and kisses were enough to make her dizzy.

  "We could not possibly accept." Gwen gave Rosalind a questioning look. And it seemed that Rosalind saw her sister's apparel for the first time. Both wore simple muslin dresses, a little frayed around the bottom edges and not the current style that was en vogue. She looked down at her own dress and flushed. How could she have forgotten about such a thing as their current state of dress? If things were truly as her sisters said, then there was no possible way they could attend a ball with current gowns they owned, regardless of the season being over.

  Isabelle's hopeful eyes trained on Rosalind, and she found she was too weak to do anything except nod her head and squeeze Stefan's hand. His brisk squeeze back sent butterflies from her stomach to her toes.

  "I'll just leave you ladies to it then. I'll be avoiding your mother and that awful valet by waiting in the carriage. It seems Samson needs some attention considering he kicked open the gate to his stable last night and made his way to the large feeder containing oats." He shook his head. "Surprised the blasted horse hasn't died from over-indulgence."

  Rosalind laughed and felt the need to explain. "His horse is… temperamental, to say the least."

  Isabelle smiled. "Is he at all like Felipe?"

  Rosalind had forgotten all about her sister's giant horse. "Yes, too much like Felipe. My only hope is that they don't join forces."

  "Don't hold your breath," Stefan muttered. "Ladies, I'll be waiting."

  He quit the room in long even strides and shut the door behind him. Rosalind's eyes were still trained on the closed door as memories of his touch came flooding back.

  "Dear sister, I believe you're blushing," Gwen teased.

  "I'm merely…" Rosalind cursed her inability to find the right lie, or words to excuse her odd behavior.

  "Flushing dear, you're flushed." Isabelle said helpfully. "Now, let us don our bonnets so we can be on our way. I haven't shopped in an age, and I cannot wait to visit Bond Street! Do you think the duke will allow us a short jaunt to the book store as well?"

  Rosalind gave her youngest sister a warm smile. "I'm sure if you ask sweetly enough and feed Samson oats, the duke will agree to just about anything."

  Gwen huffed. "But just to be safe, we'll allow Rosalind to do all the talking. It seems to distract the brute long enough to get away with a multitude of sins."

  Rosalind really didn't have any response to the blatant truth flowing from her sister's mouth. Shrugging, she helped them find their bonnets and let out a sigh as she thought about the upcoming ball.

  Stefan counted every step he took as he made his way to the stables in search of Samson. The groom, having already put up with Samson the previous night uttered a sigh of relief when he saw the duke make his way towards the horse.

  Samson neighed irritably and Stefan found his mood exactly matched his horses, not that it was any grand revelation.

  His purpose on arriving after only receiving two hours of sleep was to tell Rosalind of the strange happenings at his home, but every serious thought left him the minute he set eyes on her. And he found he was more inclined to help her and her sisters than cause them more panic than necessary.

  After all, he hadn't any proof that the strange happenings were connected. It just seemed… odd. His brother James had informed him that his mother was beginning to show signs of the mysterious illness that had plagued Fitz. The dowager was often times tired and short of breath keeping to her bed most days. James however didn't seem ill at all but the dark circles under his eyes proved that he too felt the pressure from the curse or whatever else was happening in his family.

  "What do you intend to do?" James had asked him.

  "Marry her and be done with it." Stefan hadn't meant to sound so harsh but was losing patience in the presence of his insipid brother.

  James looked away before answering in a low trembling voice, "It will solve nothing brother, absolutely nothing."

  Stefan's hair stood on end as his brother left the room. What did he mean? On cue Elaina, Fitz's wife, burst onto the scene.

  "He's worsening! But there isn't any explanation! He only drinks his tea and barely touches his food!"

  "Tea?" Stefan looked at the woman he once thought beautiful and perfect, indignation rising in his chest over the hurt Fitz must feel at her betrayal. "Fitz despises tea."

  "It's said to have healing properties, just last week Mr. Fairbanks said it was helping his mistress as well."

  "Mr. Fairbanks?" Stefan searched his mind, why did the name sound so familiar. "Who is his mistress?"

  "The Dowager Countess of Hariss, of course." Elaina answered curtly.

  Stefan shook his head and patted Samson on the neck. Why would that strange valet Willard make a visit to their house? Naturally, if he knew they were all suffering from the same sickness he would want to help. But why did Stefan feel like help was the last thing Mr. Willard Fairbanks wanted to offer?

  Footsteps neared crunching against the grass and stopped. He whipped around to see Rosalind standing before him. A bonnet covering her vibrant hair.

  "I wanted to say thank you." Her eyes dropped to the ground.

  Stefan chuckled. "To the dirt or to me? Apologies for my confusion, but it seems when one says thank you they do so by looking at the object they are thanking."

  He noticed her swallow, watched as her neck slowly lifted that downcast head until her eyes met his in a compassionate stare. "Stefan, I…"

  Enjoying her discomfort, he folded his arms around his chest and til
ted his head to the side. "You…"

  "I was wrong."

  "Sorry love, what was that?"

  Glaring, she fisted both hands and walked closer to where he stood. "I was wrong. I know how difficult this must be for you to understand, considering you rarely apologize, but that is exactly what I'm doing."

  "And you were doing such an admirable job before you allowed your passionate side to get in the way, weren't you, Rose?"

  Her eyes darted away. He turned her head to face his, unapologetic about his grip on her chin as he drew her near and brushed a kiss across her lips.

  "What were you wrong about, Rose?"

  She stiffened. "Anyone can see us out here."

  "Let them," he growled. "Now, let's hear the apology, shall we?"

  Her eyes sparked. "Fine then. You aren't nearly as barbaric as I once thought, nor do you have the manners of an ogre."

  "You never called me an ogre."

  "Out loud, I didn't." She smiled, "And when it counts…" Her lower lip trembled. "…when I need someone, something stable, the only image my mind can conjure up is one of you."

  Samson neighed and nudged Rosalind in the thigh. "And Samson, of course." She added now giving full attention to the horse as she ran her kid gloves along his white fur.

  Stefan glared at his horse and silently conveyed a message of a land without oats void of any trots and filled with nothing, save geldings. Samson, didn't seem to notice the look of disapproval on his master's face and merely rubbed against Rosalind all the more.

  "Bloody animal," Stefan stepped in between the two and grabbed Rosalind by the shoulders. "I care about you a great deal, Rose. I—"

  "—Are you two ready?" Isabelle came around the corner with her sister in tow. "It's late in the morning, and we need time to find gowns and prepare!"

  Words of love hung in the air. Would he never get his opportunity to tell her how he felt? With a shake he nodded his head, "Of course."

  The girls turned and giggled. Rosalind ran ahead to join them. All three of their little heads together in excitement.

  His face took on a smile that nearly hurt from its expansiveness, and Samson nudged him quite hard on the backside, as if to say, "Don't be an idiot."

  "Helpful," Stefan muttered and followed the girls to the awaiting carriage, but not before stopping and giving the groom strict instructions to hide the oats. He left the stables with noises of Samson's protests. That'll teach him to try to steal his future duchess.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  One may smile and smile, and be a villain!

  ~ Hamlet ~

  That night as Rosalind looked in the mirror at her silk ball gown, she let out a giggle of delight. She hadn't been to a ball since the night of Stefan's re-appearance into society. Her nerves were on edge but only because the last time she was at a ball, she had promptly fallen asleep under one of the spells that so often plagued her. Mayhap the sickness was leaving her. Doctors were proven wrong all the time, weren't they? And she hadn't had a spell for months!

  She took a sip of tea that Willard had brought and exhaled as she donned her new gloves and went in search of her sisters.

  Stefan was waiting at the bottom of stairs looking more like a duke than she had ever seen him. Shuddering with delight at his devil may care smile, she felt herself flush as she met him at the bottom of the stairs.

  "One more day," he said as he kissed her hand.

  "Pardon?"

  His eyes raked her up and down. "I'll allow your imagination to finish the sentiment."

  Before she could swat him for his rakish attitude, her sisters descended the stairs giggling in excitement. They were beautiful. Isabelle was in a light yellow that brought out her warm features and Gwen was in an off-white that set off her red rose lips and dark hair to perfection.

  "Shall we, ladies?" Stefan announced holding out his arm to Rosalind. They all nodded and followed him out to the ducal carriage.

  As they were announced at the ball, Rosalind could not help but wince as people began whispering immediately. No doubt, they were all privy to the rumors surrounding both families and the mysterious deaths that encumbered them.

  "Pay them no mind." Stefan whispered. "Today you enter as a lady, tomorrow you will be received as a duchess."

  Gaining strength from his words, Rosalind was able to nod and smile at those who would wish ill of her and talk about her.

  "Grandmother," Stefan said as the dowager of Barlowe approached them with her jeweled hands extended. "Stefan! And look who is with you! Have I understood correctly that you both are to be married tomorrow?"

  "Yes," Stefan said looking away. "It will be a short private ceremony we aren't inviting anyone, just merely want to be done with the whole business."

  "Well, I never!" The dowager sputtered. "My dear, he is such a rakehell. Please forgive his misdeeds and marry him despite his foolishness." She turned back to Stefan, "And you!" She poked him in the chest. "A woman's wedding day is very important, how dare you say otherwise. I am appalled." With a shake of her head she walked off leaving Rosalind with the terrible problem of hiding her laughter from Stefan.

  "Laugh all you want, the woman has no shame. She also seems to know everyone's secrets, though for the life of me I cannot figure out how. It appears she has ears everywhere. Be careful Rose, it seems the room is enchanted." He winked and led her to the refreshments.

  Rosalind took in the expanse ballroom. It did in fact seem enchanted, whites and silvers were everywhere, the candlelight dancing on the walls and ceiling. A sudden chill washed over her. Why was her excitement always followed by foreboding?

  Deciding that she needed to enjoy herself, she watched as several people nodded to her and stared at Stefan as if he was Adonis himself. It wasn't as big of a crush as normal. People seemed to be enjoying the food and drink more than usual as well. Debutantes weren't dancing in droves, and it seemed that every hallway was darkly lit, whereas during the season it was hard to make an escape.

  "So you've decided to come back to us, is that it?" A masculine voice interrupted her thoughts.

  Turning on her heel, she gasped and let out a laugh as Lord Rawlings bowed over her hand. "I imagine I should ask for a dance before my wife sees you and doesn't allow any of us the pleasure of your company."

  With dark hair and bright eyes, the man had always been pleasurable to look at. But he was her dear friend, Abby's husband. And a better husband Rosalind had never seen. In all honesty, it was what made her heart sick when thinking of a forced marriage. For one moment, she wanted to know what it would be like to have a man look at her the way Rawlings looked at his wife.

  "Shall we?" he asked, his hand outstretched.

  As they twirled around the floor, Rosalind could not help but reflect on her first impression of the man. Dark, dangerous, and a rake at heart. His countenance was now different, happier, and more comfortable in his own skin than she had ever seen him. It also helped that women didn't throw reticules at his head anymore, but that was an entirely different story.

  "Are you well, Lady Rosalind?" Rawlings turned, and joined hands with her again.

  "As well as I can be. I'm to be married."

  Rawlings smile vanished. "To whom?"

  Suddenly shy and not at all confident she should be sharing her tale of woe, she shrugged. "The Duke of Montmouth."

  "Ah, the barbarian lost at sea. Tell me, does he use utensils at the table or merely growl and chew his meat like a brute?"

  "Both." Rosalind laughed. "But to be fair, he has been very good to me."

  Lord Rawlings squinted, looking into her eyes with such seriousness that she felt the need to turn away. "And the state of your heart, Rosalind? Let us talk of that matter. Do you love him?"

  Leave it to Rawlings, once the most notorious rake in all of London, to pose such a question. "I cannot seem to help my heart from doing so, yes."

  "And does he reciprocate your affection?"

  The dance was coming to an end, a
nd Rosalind was suddenly feeling tired, as if lead was pouring into her slippers.

  "I can only hope that one day he will."

  Satisfied, Rawlings turned her once more and bowed over her gloved hand. "Then I won't kill him."

  "Rawlings!" she scolded but noticed he wasn't at all joking. With a smile she curtsied. "There is no need for you to kill him."

  "Yes, please don't kill him," a deep and sensual voice interrupted.

  "Ah, the barbarian approaches." Rawlings flashed a grin and pumped Stefan's hand. "A very wise woman once told me that women rarely play fair. I hope you understand what you are getting yourself into."

  "I believe I can handle myself."

  "It wasn't your emotional state I was referring to." Rawlings flashed another serious glance at Rosalind and bowed. "Do come visit us during your stay. Abby would be very pleased."

  "Of course, my lord."

  Stefan cursed under his breath and pulled Rosalind from the edge of the dance floor, doing nothing to hide his jealous sneer. "Just what was the man getting at? Was he rude to you? Why are you smiling? Devil take it, Rose!"

  "Why, are you jealous?"

  "That's preposterous." Stefan swore than patted his head. "I'm merely trying to protect you. I know Lord Rawlings to be a good fellow, but I may not trust him as easily as you though. He was quite the notorious rake."

  "He offered to kill you." Rosalind added cheerfully, thinking it would be quite interesting to see Stefan's color change to a purplish hue of rage.

  "He what!" Stefan bellowed.

  "Rose!" Isabelle approached in a hurry. "Rose, he's here."

  "He?" Rosalind asked.

  "Whom?" Stefan looked at Isabelle his curiosity obviously piqued as well as his color, perhaps she should be kinder to the man.

  Isabelle blushed. "Domi—"

  "—Dominique Makyslov, Earl of Hariss." A deep cultured voice interrupted them, and Rosalind found herself wanting to kick Isabelle for not giving more warning that the man in question had followed her.

  Turning, she looked into icy blue eyes and suddenly felt the need to hide behind Stefan. Though the man matched Stefan in height as well as build, a cold bitter cynicism lay behind his eyes. Unruly black hair fell below his ears and when he smiled it reminded her of a gothic horror story where the man was really a werewolf.