“Yes,” Lord March said. “As stubborn as she ever was, though. Tobias is interested in her, but when I mentioned the fact on our way home from Lincolnshire, she was so irate that she got out of the carriage and I did not see her for three days. I thought she was lost in a snowstorm.”
The marchioness laughed merrily. “I don’t blame the girl at all,” she said. “Tobias, Dennis! I am dearly fond of the boy and proud of him too, but he is no lady’s dream of romance, you know.”
“But it really was not funny, Mama,” Lady March said. “Unspeakable things might have happened to Rosa during those three days. I am very glad I did not know of it until she was safely found again.”
Unspeakable things, the earl thought. That was precisely what had happened to Rosamund Hunter—Lady Hunter. She had not mentioned the fact that her husband was a baronet. But then he had not been quite open about his identity, either. Would that he had been. If only they had known right from the start, they could doubtless have guarded against what had happened.
“Little Rosamund,” the marquess said with a chuckle. “She was always into mischief when she was here, if I remember correctly. Usually egged on by Joshua, am I not right, Eugenia? With Tobias making lengthy excuses for her when she was in trouble with you, Dennis.”
Lord March laughed too. “The trouble was,” he said, “that by the time Tobias came to the end of his speech, I had usually forgotten the reason for my wrath.”
“We will be boring you,” Lady March said to the earl. “And you will be thinking my sister-in-law very lacking in conduct. I do assure you she is the dearest girl. You will be wanting to have some rest before dinner.”
She got to her feet and they all followed suit.
So the Reverend Strangelove was the new suitor her brother had picked out for her, Lord Wetherby thought as he ascended the stairs to his room. And he had been her champion in times past. As Josh had been her fellow conspirator.
It was not at all difficult to imagine Rosamund involved in all sorts of mischief as a girl. He doubted she had changed a great deal.
He had flashing memories of her trudging along a road already covered with snow, shivering, her teeth chattering, too stubborn to turn back to meet her brother. And of her helpless with laughter as he pelted her with snowballs, her own flying quite wide of the mark nine times out of ten. And of her frowning with chagrin when she realized that she would not be able to lift the head of her snowman onto its shoulders. And of her lying full-length in the snow, quite unselfconsciously making a snow angel.
And he had a vivid image of her standing in front of the fire in her bedchamber, all but lost in the folds of Mrs. Reeves’ flannel nightgown, rigid with terror, but telling him that she did not want him to go away. She wanted him to make love to her.
He stood against the inside of his closed bedchamber door, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth clamped together.
Damnation! He had arrived with such firm resolve and such high hopes for putting behind him what could not be recaptured. He had been so determined to get on with the rest of his life and to make of it as positive and as pleasant an experience as he possibly could.
Hell and damnation!
What the devil was he going to do?
Chapter 8
“Well, Justin . . .” Lord Beresford was straddling a chair in the earl’s dressing room, his arms stretched over the back of it. He was watching his friend get ready for dinner. “You look fine enough to take a whole army of ladies by storm. You have so much lace at the cuff you will have to be careful not to dip some of it in the gravy.”
“Jealousy, jealousy,” Lord Wetherby said, brushing with his hands at the sleeves of his maroon velvet evening coat. He had had so little time to himself. Why could Beresford not be like any normal gentleman and take his time over changing into his evening finery?
“Is the announcement to be made at dinner?” his friend asked. “Are there to be champagne and speeches and everyone kissing everyone else and slapping everyone else’s back and all laughing their heads off? If so, I had better offer my condolences now.”
“No, not tonight,” the earl said. “Next week on the marquess’s birthday—if it takes place at all, that is. Annabelle has not said yes yet.”
“Ah,” the other said. “But she will, of course. She would have to have windmills in the head to reject the grand prize of the London marriage mart, now, wouldn’t she? You should have had your valet do that, you know, before he left. You’ll never get it in the center.”
Lord Wetherby was attaching a diamond pin to his neckcloth. He had wanted to be alone just for a short while to collect his thoughts. That was why he had dismissed his valet early. But as Henri had left the room, so Beresford had entered it.
Somehow he had to collect himself before going down to dinner. He could not simply gape at her as he had done at teatime. Lord! He could not have imagined a worse scenario if he had set his mind to it. He had turned around to greet yet another family member, and found himself smiling straight into the dark eyes that had haunted his dreams for a month. She was March’s sister. Had he known that March’s given name was Dennis? But then there must be thousands of Dennises in England. He could not have been expected to guess.
“I suppose I’m fortunate that there is Annabelle to be fussed over and married off and to occupy everyone’s thoughts for the next few months,” Lord Beresford said. “At any moment now eyes are going to begin turning my way— you reminded me of it this afternoon. Here I am twenty-six years old, heir to the marquess, and free as a bird. I am mortally afraid I am going to be paired off with Christobel.”
“Handsforth?” the earl said. “Carver’s sister?”
“The very one.” Lord Beresford said. “Red hair and freckles and all. It stands to reason that it would be a desirable match, doesn’t it? The marquess has no son, but only two brothers, both deceased, one nephew, also deceased, and a great-nephew—me, the sole survivor and heir. What could make more sense than to marry me off to one of the granddaughters? And since Christobel belongs to the elder daughter, she is the obvious choice. I would not have minded Annabelle so much, though someone ought to teach the chit to smile. But not Christobel.”
“You don’t like red hair?” the earl asked.
“It’s not that,” his friend said. “She giggles . . . and bounces. And one sometimes wonders uncharitably what she has inside her head to keep her ears apart. Anyway, I seem to be safe for the moment, though I may not remain so for the next moment. I don’t trust these house parties. One never knows what is in store.”
“Chin up,” the earl said. “You escaped from old Boney with only a limp. Perhaps you will escape from the marchioness, too.”
