Certainly when she’d last attended, Rosamund had seemed to find his acting most unpleasant. Even the scene in which he’d rescued Fiona, delivering a lengthy soliloquy on her character’s beauty and charm, had seemed only to cause Rosamund’s face to pale and spur her to abandon the make-shift stage.
Marcus sighed.
And yet, despite the woman’s obvious dislike of his acting abilities and likely regret of asking him to perform the lead, every moment they’d spent together only confirmed the extent of his emotions toward her.
She’d produced the most marvelous paintings: craggy, snow-covered peaks sparkling beneath a macabre sky; rolling meadows abounding with pastel-colored flowers and beams of golden light; rainy forests comprised of a reduced palette of gray shades, nonetheless beautiful; intricate paintings of the dark castle interior from which he would rescue Angélique, the heroine.
He’d devoted rather less time to researching species than he’d planned on, he’d humiliated himself more than he ever had, and yet, despite it all, he’d never felt more alive. Stepping into Cloudbridge Castle filled him with delight, and when he recited the poetic lines lauding the play’s heroine, it was Rosamund whom he imagined saying them to.
He’d resolved to make his intentions clear today. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, not when he might be experiencing a joyful betrothal and an even more joyful marriage.
Marcus found Rosamund on the balcony. She’d placed an easel before her, and her brow was furrowed as she gazed before her, paintbrush in hand.
The sky had erupted into a sea of colors. The long clouds were as blue as waves, but the rosy color that surrounded them, highlighting each ruffle, was bright pink, a shade more pretty and perfect than anything Marcus had ever seen.
“Rosamund.”
She swung her head toward him, shock showing in her eyes.
He sighed. “Miss Amberly.”
He’d long called her Rosamund in his mind, had called her that as a child, but she was accustomed to more formality with him now.
He despised that. He couldn’t wait until they were betrothed.
She had to say yes. Had to.
Rosamund’s lips parted and her white teeth pressed against her bottom lip. Marcus was struck by the succulence of that crimson lip, just as he was struck by the faint color on her high cheekbones and the amusing manner in which her nose arched up. Her full chest moved in a pleasing manner, and Marcus darted his gaze away.
The sudden warmth on the back of his neck and face indicated his own skin might be every bit as rosy as the clouds.
And he didn’t have the excuse of blaming a glowing sun.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, the words too weak for all the emotion he now felt.
She smiled. “Yes.”
He beamed. Of course she would understand. Fiona was right: Rosamund saw beauty in everything. Her life seemed dedicated to making all around her happy. She was patient with everyone, even Sir Seymour and his wife.
“My sister is inside,” Rosamund said.
“I know.” He strode nearer her, noticing the manner in which the sunlight flickered over the nape of her neck.
The rosy pink on the clouds turned to a more sophisticated lavender as the sun darted farther toward the horizon.
“Oh.” Her voice wobbled.
“I was enjoying the view,” Marcus said.
Rosamund nodded. “How do you like Yorkshire?”
“It’s wonderful,” his voice rumbled. “And that sky is prettier than any ocean.”
“Oh?”
“I traveled to America once with my half-brother, but this is prettier than the Atlantic.” He turned to her. “I’ve grown to admire you very much. You see the beauty in things. You show it to others.”
“How did you find the ocean?” Her voice sounded an octave higher than normal, and her cheeks pinkened.
He smiled. “There is some pleasure in not being at sea, and in enjoying a world that doesn’t tip and dip without a moment’s notice.”
He swallowed hard. The answer was one he was practiced in giving to the oft-simpering ladies who gathered the courage to speak with him after sufficient encouraging looks from their marriage-minded mamas. When he spoke with Rosamund, he was conscious of a strange swelling of his tongue and heat in his collar that could not be attributed to the late summer air, and he realized that this world too was dipping and swirling with a greater force than any he had experienced on any boat, in any storm.
He gripped the stone railing of the balcony. His eyes focused on the dark green Dales, but it was not the curve of their jagged peaks he was thinking of.
“I would like to marry,” he said, surprised how quickly the words fell from his mouth.
He tilted his head toward her, worried at her response.
Instead her lips turned upward into a smile, and warmth spread through him, unfurling through every vein and nerve.
“Have a family,” he continued.
“I would like that as well,” she said finally.
Lord, she was so calm. So magnificent.
“My darling.” His voice roughened. He didn’t have a ring yet. That could wait. He would give her one. The best. She deserved it all. Soon she would be his future countess.
He grasped her hands and pulled her from her seat. Her eyes widened, and he only had a moment to see how the warm brown color deepened before he leaned his face toward hers. His lips sought hers, tasting sweetness and softness and all things sublime.
Finally, Rosamund broke their kiss, and his heart pounded, waiting for her sweet soprano voice to speak.
Instead pain seared his cheek as if someone had slapped him. Confusion filled him, and he swung his eyes open.
It had to be her. The slap had to have come from her. Even though the thought was ridiculous. Because—they had just become engaged. He loved her. Adored her.
But there was no French soldier staring at him, ranting about roast beef, which for some reason was one of the insults they seemed proudest of issuing.
Only Rosamund.
Her eyes were wide and her breaths rapid, but it wasn’t desire that flickered over her face.
Ice traveled through his spine and each muscle stiffened. He moved backward, and his feet felt large and stiff, as if he were trying to maneuver blocks of lead.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He peered at her again, but there was no sign of affection from his intended future wife.
“You kissed me,” she said.
“Yes.”
They had been, after all, engaged.
Hadn’t they been?
“But what of my sister?” Rosamund’s voice shook.
“Fiona?” He blinked.
“You can’t just go around kissing women. You can’t speak of families and futures and then kiss women.”
“But—”
“Poor Fiona.” A deep flush darkened Rosamund’s cheeks.
“I thought—”
“What could you possibly think? What excuse could you possibly have?”
Marcus drew in a painful breath. The world lacked the wonder he’d ascribed to it.
*
The kiss had burned her lips, seared her soul, swept her to heavenly heights—and then she’d remembered.
A breeze ruffled Marcus’s hair and fluttered her gown, but the gust may as well have been a tornado. Her heart struggled in her chest, knowing only that it needed to beat forcefully, but unsure of the rhythm.
She fought the urge to slide her hand over Marcus’s woolen coat and pull him back toward her.
She’d been swept up into a moment of unfathomable bliss. Her body had rejoiced at the closeness with Marcus, memorized the strokes of his tongue and the firm fingers that had clutched her toward him.
Those hands were nowhere near her now. They were clasped at Marcus’s side, and his eyes—Lord, the eyes that had only just been sparkling at her—were cold.
“My sister’s inside. My grandmother,
and—” She stumbled on her words. Her tongue was thick, and her heart hadn’t halted its furious hammering.
“Oh.” The stony expression on his face shifted. “You’re worried about being improper.”
“I—”
“Because everything is different now.” He inhaled, and added, “My darling.”
She blinked. The words were ones she’d been afraid to dream of, and part of her wanted to succumb to the urge to return Marcus’s smile.
But this wasn’t the plan. She’d had a plan. A good one. One that would make her sister happy. “You’re not—”
He tilted his head. “Not?”
She slumped her shoulders. “You’re supposed to be intelligent.”
“And I’m not?”
“You kissed me!” Rosamund stammered. “Of course not.”
“And kissing you excludes all intelligence?” Somerville’s voice softened.
She pulled away. “My sister.”
“She does not need to be present at this moment.”
“But she should know!”
“That you make me burn?” His breath was hot against her ear, and her neck warmed. Energy spread through her, and she had a crazy desire to loop her arms around his neck and never open the door to the rest of the world again.
Rosamund swallowed hard. “You are to marry my sister.”
“Nonsense, my darling.”
The tender word sliced through her. “I’m not—that.”
His eyes widened.
“I’m nothing to you,” Rosamund continued. “Nothing at all.”
“I just proposed. You accepted—didn’t you?” His voice wobbled, and his face, the one that radiated calm and strength flickered uncertainty.
She swooped her eyelashes down, and her heartbeat quickened. She couldn’t—she couldn’t look at the man when he told her that. Had he been proposing when he’d spoken of building a future family? Perhaps. “I—I didn’t know that.”
His lips twitched, and Lord, even though she abhorred him right now for breaking her sister’s heart, as he inevitably would, warmth still managed to trickle through her.
Marriage.
“What do you say, Rosamund?” He grasped her hands in his. Though he fixed a smile on her, his hands trembled, the slight wobble managing to lurch her heart. “Make me the happiest man in the world.”
The temptation to accept, to fling herself into his arms, ratcheted through her body.
This man was everything.
“I love you, Rosamund,” Marcus continued.
Her chest constricted. He loved her? She’d idealized him when she was a child, and she adored his company. She respected him. Admired him. But love—that was something that would be reserved for her future husband. That was something he should be reserving for Fiona.
Her tongue arched as if to say the words. His eyes beseeched her, and the urge to reassure him strengthened.
And yet—she thought of Fiona, memorizing lines and rehearsing. Her sister had always been there for her, strong and caring even after their parents had died in a carriage accident. Perhaps Fiona didn’t seem smitten, perhaps she didn’t seem to mind whether she married or not, but someday Grandmother would die, someday Fiona would have no options, and even if Fiona didn’t seem to care about her future happiness, Rosamund did.
She could never take the man reserved for Fiona. “I can never marry you.”
“But—”
“You were meant for my sister.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice was hoarse.
“That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ve been rehearsing.”
“I’m here because you invited me.”
“Of course. You’re perfect!”
His cheeks pinkened, and she hastened to add, “For my sister!”
“I see.” Marcus’s face shifted from confusion to stoniness. The man who stood before her was a stranger. “Then everything was a farce. I misunderstood. Forgive me.”
Her chest tightened. “But you were best friends. She’ll make you happy, and—”
The plan had been good. Perfect.
“I will return to London immediately.” His features stiffened and his voice was again formal, more suited for relaying facts on distinctions between species than to speaking to a silly girl like herself.
He departed the balcony, and Rosamund’s heart lurched. She picked up her paintbrush, but the rose and lavender stripes that had billowed over the sky had disappeared. The gray sky darkened, and an icy wind swept against her.
Chapter Six
Marcus stormed through the adjoining hallway and corridor. China rattled, bouncing in the glass cabinets, and the ancient castle floorboards creaked beneath him.
He’d thought Rosamund returned his affections. It had all been nonsense. Fancies from an overactive imagination he should have quelled.
He steeled his jaw. Rosamund was as scheming as any lady of the ton. She was—
“Good evening, Marcus,” Fiona chirped.
He didn’t halt his pace. Politeness could be for another time. Or—preferably, never.
He didn’t have to stay in Yorkshire. He could claim some massively important engagement and be off to London at once.
“Marcus Harold Ignatius Lesley Worthing.” Fiona’s crisp voice followed him.
Blast.
He swung his head toward her, not knowing when they would next meet. “What?”
“Surely you’re not escaping when we have the performance tonight?” Fiona laughed, and he tried to echo her sound.
No need for everyone to know his pain.
Fiona’s face sobered.
Clearly his laugh had sounded bitter.
Perhaps he hadn’t honed his ability in mimicking carefreeness. The play tended toward melodrama, and he’d focused his little acting skills on expressing sorrow and anger rather than calmness.
“Marcus.” Fiona’s voice softened and emanated kindness.
Which didn’t make the situation better. Lord, she knew.
He shifted his legs and pondered that he’d failed to give them sufficient credit for their ability to lift him up consistently for his lifetime.
“She said no?” Fiona asked.
He nodded and then steeled his jaw, because he really, really didn’t need to contemplate the memory of Rosamund’s refusal.
They were supposed to be happy now. Celebrating. He was supposed to be twirling her about the castle as they planned their lives.
No sound of giggles and ecstatic exclamation filled the corridor; only an uncomfortable stillness pervaded.
“I’m sorry, Marcus.”
The words were simple, but they both knew nothing could alleviate his pain. His nostrils flared. The faint scent of lavender that permeated the room, the preferred fragrance of Mrs. Amberly, had conjured up a home-life he’d never had, one he’d desired to possess.
Some things were not to be. Unfortunately, happiness seemed reserved for others.
“It seems Miss Rosamund Amberly’s interest in me was purely platonic. Please—please apologize again for me, for my ungentlemanly behavior.”
Those seconds of bliss had seemed to last a lifetime, and now they seemed to have been a lifetime ago.
The only thing he knew was that he loved Rosamund. That fact hadn’t been concocted, even if he hadn’t planned on loving anyone yet. At some point in his thirties he’d imagined he would succumb to a matchmaking mama and marry some debutante from a satisfactory family who would prove to be an equally enthusiastic mother to his future heir and spares. He certainly hadn’t planned on feeling any of this.
Rosamund was the youngest child of a now-dead county squire. She would be reliant on her uncle once her grandmother passed away. The ton would say she should be overjoyed at the prospect of marrying him. He hadn’t contemplated that she would reject his proposal.
Moreover, she’d easily confessed that she’d attempted to manipulate his affection, matching him with her sister, as if unaware of
any wrongdoing.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “Please give my greetings to your Grandmother.”
He didn’t mention Rosamund. Her name was too painful to utter again.
“I’m sure there must have been some misunderstanding.”
“Your sister was clear that the only misunderstanding was on my part.”
“Perhaps if you stay—”
“No.”
Fiona fiddled with her brooch and her face transformed into an expression of uncharacteristic uncertainty. Finally, she inhaled. “Perhaps you won’t stay for my sister, but might you stay for me?”
“Why?” He tilted his head, scrutinizing Fiona.
Lord, was she going to suggest herself as suitable wife material? They were childhood friends, for goodness’ sake. He was still unaccustomed to not seeing her with muddied attire.
Though perhaps—perhaps Rosamund was right. Perhaps Fiona would be a suitable wife for him. They conversed easily, and she’d confided in him that she was working on an interesting project of her own. She would understand his commitment to zoology, and he would be supportive of her work. There was a certain attractiveness in her auburn hair and green eyes. Her intelligence and kindness made her more than suitable to be a wife and mother.
Except she wasn’t Rosamund. He didn’t simply want to marry a friend, even a good one. He desired Rosamund, and marriage to her sister was unthinkable.
He braced himself for what Fiona would say.
“It’s just…” Fiona tossed her head, and an auburn lock fell from her chignon. “I’m so fond of acting.”
His shoulders slumped with relief, and he tilted his head. “Your fondness for complaining about the pastime would suggest otherwise.”
“I would hate to not do the performance after so much work.”
Marcus sighed. They had worked hard. And he was fond of Fiona, even if his appreciation did not extend to a desire to marry her. “If you feel my presence will not shock your sister…”
“Please,” Fiona repeated. “Stay a few more hours. We have guests arriving for the performance.”
The prospect of delaying his departure seemed more tempting than it should have. Sir Seymour would be suspicious if he left too hastily. Marcus had some sense of decorum. And worst of all, the prospect of seeing Rosamund, even after she’d shattered his dreams, still enticed him. “Fine.”
The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) Page 4
