“Thank you!” Fiona clapped her hands together.
“But I will return back to Sir Seymour’s now to prepare for my departure, which will be directly after the performance.”
Chapter Seven
Marcus’s footsteps crunched over the cobblestones and his voice murmured below. Likely he was asking the groom for his horse, but her heart still flitted in her chest, the velvety sound of his tenor affecting her improperly.
She’d never see him again.
Had she been too quick to reject him? She shook her head.
Fiona came first. Always.
Now she had to tell her sister that her childhood friend, the man she’d been laughing with, would return to London. She hadn’t told Fiona of the plan, but the affinity between the two was apparent. If Fiona had ever hoped for Percival—and she couldn’t have been immune to his many charms—she would be devastated.
And Rosamund would be the cause of her sister’s distress.
Fiona stepped through the door. “We need to speak, my dear.”
“Yes,” Rosamund stammered. “Lord Somerville. He’s not what I thought.”
Fiona raised her eyebrows.
Rosamund swallowed hard. “He doesn’t want to marry you.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, and Rosamund hated to see the shock reflected in them.
This must be terrible for her poor sister. “I’m sorry.”
The words could be no consolation for Fiona. Rosamund understood that.
Fiona blinked. “I have no desire to marry him either.”
“You don’t?”
“No,” Fiona repeated. “Now come inside.”
“But he’s—”
“Perfect?” Fiona’s eyebrows arched upward, and heat flooded Rosamund’s cheeks, the night air not cool enough.
“But—” Rosamund followed her sister into the drawing room. The floorboards creaked beneath her ever-quickening strides. Energy coursed through her, but there was nowhere she could go, nothing she could do to rectify this.
She’d rejected him for Fiona’s sake.
But Fiona lacked the signs of heartbrokenness Rosamund was certain she should have. She scrutinized her sister for symptoms of irreparable distress. “Do you feel quite well?”
“I’m always the epitome of good health.”
“Right.” Rosamund pressed a clammy hand over her brow. “But you must adore him. How could you not?”
“Were you trying to match Marcus and me together?” Fiona asked, her voice stern.
“P-perhaps.”
“But I have no desire for a husband. Besides, he was my childhood best friend.” Fiona’s nose crinkled.
Rosamund dropped onto a chair and slumped against the decorative gilded back, no matter that her governess had told her that proper ladies sat straight.
“Grandmother will die, and then we’ll both need to leave, and—” Rosamund swallowed. “You would be happy with him.”
“Marcus is a good man,” Fiona said. “But the mere fact that we can converse easily is not enough to indicate love.”
“Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes down.
“You are far too stubborn,” Fiona said. “I’ve told you before that I possess no desire to marry. You cannot feign ignorance.”
Rosamund frowned. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“You thought you knew me better than I did myself.” Fiona frowned. “You should have been considering your own desires.”
“But I want to help you!”
“And everyone else.” Fiona tilted her head. “You are very sweet. But I am content with my books, my research—”
“What research?” Rosamund interrupted. “You never share anything with me.”
“I’m an archaeologist,” Fiona stammered. “I think there’s a Roman palace buried underneath the apple orchard. I’ve been finding the most intriguing things—it’s thrilling.”
“You should have told me.”
Fiona sighed. “I wanted to be sure. And—maybe I wanted something that would be just my own.”
“Oh.”
“I am content here,” Fiona said. “I want to stay as long as I can. This is my life, and that is my choice.”
Rosamund rubbed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Then you’re really not in love with Marcus?”
She knew the answer. Had known it all along, but had been too stubborn to see it.
“I think you made a mistake, my dear.”
Rosamund occupied herself with blinking, hoping her sister did not notice the uncharacteristically furious manner.
“You need to speak with him,” Fiona said.
Tears stung Rosamund’s eyes. She couldn’t speak with him again. There would be no more lengthy afternoons with him and Fiona. There would be no more discussions of the flora and fauna prevalent in the Dales. There would be no more—Marcus.
“He’s returning to London.” This time she couldn’t mask the sob that soared in her throat from sounding, and she grabbed her handkerchief. The lace edges and embroidered birds seemed impossibly indulgent.
“Not without doing the performance.”
Rosamund dabbed the tears that slid down her cheeks. “He said he would return to London immediately.”
“And he will return later tonight,” Fiona said, her voice more serious. “He’s doing this as a favor. I convinced him of my deep desire to act.”
“Oh.” Rosamund flickered her eyes downward.
Perhaps Marcus would be there, but that didn’t mean that they would be able to speak. What could she say? That she regretted her refusal? Rosamund may never have had a formal entry into society, but she was well aware that propriety had certain rules even she could not break.
Fiona tilted her head. “I do confess, that after further thought, I may not be feeling as well as I said.”
*
Branches scraped the sides of the coach, as if seeking to halt Marcus’s journey to Cloudbridge Castle.
No good would come of returning to the site of his greatest disappointment. If only Fiona hadn’t been intent on performing.
Sir Seymour and Lady Amberly sat opposite him, clothed in finery befitting a visit to Almack’s. Even their son, Cecil, a man near Marcus’s age, had been dragged from London. Marcus suspected that Cecil’s mother would be favorable to a match between her son and one of the sisters, if her non-stop laudations of the sisters’ beauty and charisma was any indication. Even Sir Seymour refrained from his more sarcastic comments.
“A private performance,” Sir Seymour said merrily. “Witnessing an earl acting. Who else has had that pleasure?”
“No one,” Marcus said.
Thankfully. He still abhorred the thought of acting.
“Ah, I suppose not,” Sir Seymour said. “Cecil, you are witnessing a great honor. Most actors are not noblemen. Think of the performance you will witness! Even the king himself would be jealous of us.”
“There will never be another occasion,” Marcus said. When Sir Seymour beamed, he added, “I would not want your expectations to be overly high, as flattered as I am. I assure you I have no talent—”
“No talent? You are an aristocrat. Have no fear. I will share the story of your acting debut with all the members of the ton.” Sir Seymour’s eyelids flickered down and his lips stretched into a wide smile. “They will be consumed with the most utterly agonizing envy.”
“You overestimate my strengths.”
“What nonsense,” Sir Seymour said. “I’m sure you even know your lines!”
“Naturally.”
“It’s a pity you are not acting with Rosamund. She always struck me as the more sensible Amberly sister,” Sir Seymour said.
“Though they are both not without charms,” his wife said hastily, directing a gaze at Cecil.
Marcus glanced at his hosts’ son, wondering whether he might be the future husband of one of the sisters. The man seemed entirely uninterested, and Marcus found his shoulders inexplicably relaxing.
/> “Miss Rosamund Amberly was deeply involved in the set design process,” Marcus said.
“Set design?” Sir Seymour’s burly eyebrows soared upward. “Well, well. I’m sure that’s not proper. Watercolors are a much more feminine occupation.”
“Perhaps she used watercolors,” Lady Amberly said. “Did she?”
“Oil paint,” Marcus said. “Most impressive.”
“I must warn her of the importance of maintaining her femininity,” Sir Seymour said. “Oil paints are a much more masculine pursuit. The thicker brush might lead to muscles.”
Marcus blinked. “I much admire her skill.”
“Indeed,” Sir Seymour said as the carriage slowed. “I suppose even aristocrats must be allowed their eccentricities. I am of course quite familiar with the mysterious ways of the ton.”
“I am most looking forward to the performance,” Cecil said, his gaze lingering on Marcus. “Loretta Van Lochen’s plays are always so romantic.”
Marcus flashed him a tight smile, desperately wishing he would not be spending the next two hours asserting amorous affections.
He inhaled. Marcus would do the performance, satisfy Fiona’s newfound passion for acting, and then he would leave for London, returning to the place where men did not shoot in the open, trees were carefully planted and maintained, and young ladies did not go flitting about, confusing his heart.
The carriage halted, and Marcus stepped from the coach onto the cobblestones. Cold wind swept around him and the first fallen leaves swirled around his legs. The medieval towers soared into the inky sky, and Marcus squared his shoulders as he entered the castle.
Candles flickered from cast-iron sconces and shadows swerved and darted over the stone walls, as if realizing the festivity of the occasion. A golden hue imbued the once familiar objects.
“My dear Lord Somerville.” Mrs. Amberly stretched her hands to him, her skin crinkling around her eyes. “My granddaughters tell me you are returning to London tonight.”
“Indeed.”
“I was unaware that the work of a zoologist was so demanding. But I hope you will be back to see us soon.”
“I’m sure he will.” Sir Seymour slapped Marcus on the back. “One doesn’t visit Yorkshire without falling in love with everything in it.”
“My granddaughters will certainly miss you,” Mrs. Amberly said.
Marcus’s smile tightened. He wished that were true. Neither Rosamund nor Fiona were about. Clearly they were eager for his absence.
He’d been far too forward. She hadn’t anticipated his proposal at all because the thought of marrying him was something so removed from her dreams. He’d acted impulsively when he’d first seen her, trying to rescue her. But he wasn’t her hero. He hadn’t been then, and he certainly wasn’t now.
The servants had set out punch and refreshments. Sir Seymour’s family charged in the direction of the cook’s temptations and mingled with other guests. Marcus’s chest constricted. He’d been so focused on Rosamund that he’d forgotten he’d be spending the next hours humiliating himself before an audience of the local gentry.
Never mind.
Marcus marched into the adjoining room reserved as a dressing room for him. The hero of the play was a knight, so he slid on chainmail and shiny armor. He shoved his helmet over his head, destroying his coiffure. A crimson plume draped from his helmet and beaconed the absurdity of his attire.
He paced the room, and the uncomfortable metal plates clanged with his every move. There was a reason armor belonged to the past, along with other ridiculous notions such as chivalry, colossal churches, and constant battle.
Two hours. That’s how long the play would take, and then he would return to London and live the normal sort of life that did not entail adorning himself in ridiculous materials and pretending to be a romantic hero, when everyone knew that sort of person existed only in medieval songs. Marriage was something manufactured, arranged by women’s mothers and sisters.
He strove to tell himself it would be good to return to London. At least there he understood the rules.
“The performance, my lord.” Evans interrupted his musings.
“Miss Amberly is on stage?”
“Everyone is waiting.”
Marcus blinked. The man hadn’t answered his question. He hadn’t seen Fiona all night. She’d better be ready. The sooner he finished this bloody thing, the sooner he could return.
Blasted butlers and their overly-developed sense of decorum.
Marcus headed through the door, managing to only cringe slightly as the armor clanged and the outrageously-sized plume brushed against the ceiling’s wooden beams.
The whole first act centered on him rescuing Angélique, Fiona’s character, from the crumbling castle the unseen villain had trapped her in.
With a sigh he picked up a lance and charged onto the stage, conscious of the audience observing him.
He refused to ponder the beauty of the painted backdrops.
He refused to ponder anything about Rosamund.
“Is that a damsel I spy in that crumbling castle?” He lowered his lance and shielded a hand over his brow, repeating the words he’d rehearsed. The words were stilted, and his throat dried. He craned his neck in the direction of the wooden castle Rosamund had had the servants build for the occasion. “I spy some scar—”
He’d meant to say scarlet hair. That was the phrase he’d rehearsed for the past weeks. He hadn’t forgotten the words. Fiona had added them specifically, changing them from the raven hair the original script mentioned.
But the locks that spilled from the window were most certainly not scarlet. They were bronze-colored, and a familiar urge to delve his fingers in their silky strands overwhelmed him.
It couldn’t be.
Perhaps Fiona had put on a wig.
“I spy some hair,” he said.
Sir Seymour cleared his throat. So far the audience seemed underwhelmed.
His metal boots thudded over the stage and he retained his focus on that hair. Definitely not scarlet or crimson or any of the other colors Fiona’s hair tended to be, the exact shade varying with the precise amount of light and shadows.
It was Rosamund.
On stage with him.
Before absolutely everyone.
What in heavens was she trying to do?
He didn’t want to see her. She’d declined his proposal, and if Fiona hadn’t wanted to act, he would be safely on his way to London. Where clearly he should be now. The thought of spending any time in her company was intolerable, much less two hours.
His nostrils flared, and his nails scraped against his palms.
“What on earth are you doing?” he bellowed.
Chapter Eight
He was a fortress. A furious, gleaming fortress. One that clanked and creaked and thundered toward her. His visor slammed down, and he stopped to tear it off and hurl it off the stage.
The bang echoed through the medieval room, abetted by the low timber beams, and Rosamund froze.
This had not been one of Fiona’s better ideas.
She swallowed hard. They needed to talk. And unfortunately, speaking now before everyone was the only way.
“What are you doing?” He roared.
“I’m Angélique,” she squeaked.
He scrunched his eyebrows into a scowl.
“Sweet, innocent Angélique?” His words were sarcastic, and she shot a glance at the audience.
Smiles stretched on their placid faces, and she struggled to square her shoulders. “Tis I.”
He glowered, and the urge to flee rocketed through her. The dark edges of the stage tempted her, and she fought the desire to switch roles with her sister again.
But this was her chance. Her only chance. Even if all her relatives and all her neighbors were observing, mistakenly believing that her nerves derived from her abhorrence of acting and not from the fact that her future happiness was at risk.
“This was a mist—”
&nb
sp; “You’re supposed to be rescuing me,” she prompted.
He stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “You can’t be serious.”
The audience rustled in the armchairs the servants had laid out in rows, likely impatient with their whispers.
Rosamund raised her voice. “Woe is me. This is a tragic tale.”
The audience members leaned forward.
“An entirely new version,” Sir Seymour said, his resounding voice easily carrying the several feet from his seat to the stage. “Most intriguing.”
Marcus lowered his voice. “Fiona is indisposed?”
“Y-yes.” Rosamund inhaled. “And I am in need of a hero.”
“That seems unlike you.” His voice was still stiff, still formal.
“Perhaps,” she said brightly, “you can be my hero!”
Sir Seymour chuckled. “He’s wearing the right attire.”
Rosamund thought she heard Aunt Lavinia hushing him.
“Perhaps the damsel would prefer to remain in her castle,” Marcus said.
“Do you want me to remain?” Rosamund asked.
Marcus’s eyes flickered in confusion. “Perhaps there is another lady I might rescue instead?”
“Another!” Sir Seymour laughed and he cupped his hand to his mouth. “You don’t need to juggle here, your lordship! You’re acting. Rescue the lady.”
This time Rosamund was certain Aunt Lavinia was silencing him.
Marcus’s face was still stiff, and Rosamund’s chest constricted.
The plan had been ridiculous, a last attempt before he fled Yorkshire, never to be seen again. She’d already given him her answer, and why would anything change now? The man seemed to despise her.
She strove to retain a pleasant smile for her relatives, even as Marcus’s eyes clouded, even if the warmth that had once existed there seemed forever extinguished. But the act of raising her lips seemed an impossible task, and she suddenly felt a great compassion for Atlas and his task of holding the world up.
“Sir!” She cried, and she scrambled from the makeshift castle. “You—you are my knight.”
The Perfect Fiancé (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 0) Page 5
