“Yes,” Rosamund said, gazing in some curiosity across the room to where the earl stood, his back to her, talking with Annabelle and Lana. Yes, he was extremely elegant in a blue coat that looked as if it had been molded to his frame. And a broad-shouldered and muscular frame it was, too, she thought, though his waist and hips were slender enough. His pantaloons did nothing to hide well-muscled legs. His Hessian boots looked shiny enough to serve as mirrors. His hair was thick and fair and wavy.
He reminded her ... Oh, he reminded her. But she pushed the thought from her mind. She must not begin seeing him in every young and well-favored gentleman she would ever meet.
“If you will take my arm, Lady Hunter,” the Reverend Strangelove said, “I will do myself the honor of presenting you to his lordship.”
Rosamund would have preferred to be presented by someone who would not deliver a long and involved and formal speech as he did so, but she was curious to meet Annabelle’s suitor. She placed her hand on the sleeve that was extended to her.
The Reverend Strangelove cleared his throat when they came up behind the earl. “Lana?” he said, bowing to her from the waist. “Annabelle?” He bowed again. “I had the pleasure of greeting you several minutes ago when you came downstairs, and I satisfied myself on that occasion that you felt refreshed after your journey, having spent a quiet half-hour abovestairs. Your sister-in-law, Lana, and your aunt, Annabelle, has now joined the company, and I have taken upon myself the honor of presenting her to his lordship.” He bowed to the earl.
He continued at great length. But Rosamund heard not a word. The Earl of Wetherby had turned his head as soon as Toby cleared his throat, his blue eyes smiling with warm courtesy. And their eyes had met.
How long did Toby drone on? Did they stare at each other for the whole of that time? Did their smiles remain frozen to their faces, or did they fade? Rosamund could never afterward answer any of those questions.
Toby stopped talking finally.
“Mrs. Hunter,” the earl said, making her an elegant bow.
“My lord,” she said, curtsying.
“Ah, I did say,” the Reverend Strangelove said, “though it may have been lost in the noise of convivial conversation going on about us in the rest of the room,LadyHunter, my lord. Lady Hunter is the widow of Sir Leonard Hunter of Lincolnshire.”
“Lady Hunter,” the earl said. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“I hope you did not mind us coming down ahead of you, Rosa,” Lady March said, “but Dennis brought word that Lord and Lady Wetherby had arrived.”
“Not at all,” Rosamund said.
“Rosamund.” Beatrice Handsforth, Lady Carver, Lana’s elder sister, laid a hand on Rosamund’s arm and peered around into her face. “Itisyou. Goodness, how you have grown up. You were a mere girl the last time I saw you— the year before your marriage, I believe. Ferdie told me you had come with Dennis and Lana. Do come and talk to Christobel—my daughter, you remember? Ferdie’s sister?
But of course you must remember—you were quite like one of the family for several years. She is all grown up now too and about to take thetonby storm as soon as the Season begins. But you do not have a cup of tea, dear. How remiss someone has been. I shall take Rosamund to the tea tray, Lana.”
Rosamund allowed herself to be borne off by Lana’s sister without a backward glance. She fought to regain control, to find some semblance of normalcy in the scene about her. It was not real. It could not be real. She would wake up soon. Or else she had mistaken. She had only imagined that it was he. She had been struck with the similarity as soon as she had seen his back, and so her imagination had transformed his face, too.
A very foolish thought. A ridiculous thought, she realized when she glanced hastily back over her shoulder and met a pair of familiar blue eyes before jerking her head back again.
He had said he was to be betrothed in one month’s time. Oh God, he had said it. Why had she not made the connection? But why should she have? Only the most bizarre of coincidences could have arranged this turn of events.
She needed air. She needed it now before she disgraced herself and fell to the floor in a swoon.
“Here we are,” Lady Carver said. “Valerie will pour for you, won’t you, Valerie, dear? Do you two recognize each other? You were both just girls when you used to be such friends.”
“Rosamund,” Valerie Newton said, “I thought it was you when I saw you talking to Mama and the girls a few minutes ago. How lovely it is to see you again.”
No, she would not disgrace herself. She certainly would not. How unspeakably embarrassing that would be—everyone fussing over her and he knowing very well what had caused her swoon. No, she would not.
“Hello, Valerie,” Rosamund said. “I hear you are engaged.” She smiled brightly and determinedly.
The Earl of Wetherby continued, to talk with Annabelle and Lady March. He continued to smile. He exchanged kisses with his sister Marion when she crossed the room to his side, and pleasantries with Lord Sitwell, his brother-in-law.
He did all that was right and proper by sheer instinct. He could never afterward remember what he had said or what had been said to him.
She was there—in that very room. For a month he had called himself all kinds of a fool for letting her go without finding out where he might communicate with her. For a month he had wondered if he would ever set eyes on her again, wondered if she would ever come to London or if they would ever be at one of the spas at the same time.
For a month he had told himself and told himself that it was better so. And just an hour before he had put her finally behind him, Firmly in his past, to remain there forever. And yet here she was, at the same house party, in the same room as he. And that was not even the whole of it. She was Anna-belle’s aunt. The Dennis she had spoken of, the brother with whom she had quarreled before leaving his carriage, was Lord March, Annabelle’s father. If he had gone with her that morning to find him, he would have discovered the truth.
God! He glanced across the room, half-expecting to find that he had mistaken the matter, that in reality she was a woman who merely resembled Rosamund. But when his eyes met hers for one painful moment, he knew the absurdity of that hope.
“I think we can slip away to the library and have that talk you asked for, Wetherby,” Lord March said after what seemed like interminable minutes or hours of being sociable. He had laid a hand on the earl’s shoulder.
