It was not to be thought of. Somehow through the night ahead she was going to have to do some long and serious thinking. She was going to have to adjust her mind to the fact that Justin was not after all lost to her sight forever, but was to be in her sight daily for the coming two weeks and in her life forever after.
Would it were not so! If only she had never seen him again. Parting forever had seemed cruel at the time. Now being forever acquainted with him seemed many times more cruel.
“Rosamund,” the marchioness said, linking her arm through Rosamund’s, “have I mentioned to you how very lovely you have grown? I do believe you were a handsome child, but you always had a torn dress or a smudged face or a braid that had come unbraided. It is amazing that Dennis’ hair is not as white as mine.”
“I’m afraid I was rather a trial to him,” Rosamund said.
“But, then, he did put rather too tight a rein on you,” Lady Gilmore said. “Now, do tell me how Sir Leonard treated you. At a guess I would say he indulged you quite shamefully. At least, during my short acquaintance with him at Bath it seemed to me that he doted on you.”
He had thought her lovely when they were in Northamptonshire. But there he had had no one with whom to compare her. Now he knew her lovely indeed. She drew the eyes like a magnet and somehow made all the other ladies present look pale and insignificant. He was biased, of course. Had he met her for the first time that day, as he was supposed to have done, perhaps he would not have noticed her so particularly. But then, perhaps it would snow in July, too.
Besides, he was not the only one. Josh fancied her and had eyes for no one else. And the Reverend Strangelove was regarding her with a proprietary air. Even the marquess was watching her appreciatively. She was seated at the pianoforte in the drawing room, playing while Pamela Newton sang.
The Earl of Wetherby conversed determinedly with Lady Newton and her husband, Sir Patrick, and with Lord and Lady March. But only half his attention—not even that— was focused on the conversation. Somehow he was going to have to find time alone—that night, perhaps—to adjust his mind to this new turn of events, to bring his mind and his emotions and reactions under control. He and Annabelle were to go rowing with her and Josh, Marion, and David the next day.
Devil take Beresford!
Pamela moved away with Strangelove’s younger brother. Rosamund stayed at the pianoforte and played something by Mozart, quite brilliantly. The Reverend Strangelove stood at her shoulder, talking constantly. Doubtless he was commending her on her performance. The earl wanted to set his hands at the man’s neck and twist.
“Don’t you agree, my lord?’’ Lady March asked.
Lord Wetherby jerked his mind back to the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “My attention was distracted by Lady Hunter’s playing. She is very good.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” Lord March said with evident pride. “She always was, but Hunter paid for an expensive music master for her. He liked to hear her play.”
This was ridiculous, the earl thought. Downright ridiculous. They had been lovers for two nights and a day—a very brief affair, as she had put it. They had been good together-damned good. He would have liked to have had longer with her. A week longer. That would probably have been enough.
As it was, they had not had quite long enough, not for him, anyway. And so he found himself looking on her now with desire unfulfilled. That was all it was. It was nothing so very earth-shattering. He wanted to bed her. He forced himself to look at her as she played and put into bald words in his mind exactly what he felt. She was very lovely. He had had her already and knew just how well she performed in bed and how well she satisfied him. And he would have liked to repeat those performances.
There. It was all very simple really. He lusted after the woman. And she was forbidden to him, partly because he was about to become betrothed and was forbidden to any woman other than Annabelle and partly because she was Annabelle’s aunt.
It was all very simple—the eternal attraction of forbidden fruit. If he had been free a month before to pursue the acquaintance, he would probably have done so. And by now he would have tired of her, and she of him, he supposed.
“You look to be in a brown study, Wetherby,” Lord Carver said from beside him.
“Just enjoying Mozart,’” the earl said.
“Played by the delectable Lady Hunter,” the other said. “Who do you think is going to have her, Wetherby? Toby or Josh?”
“I would guess neither one is going to ‘have’ her, as you so crudely put it, Carver,” the earl said, “unless she wishes to be had.”
“My wager is on Toby,” Lord Carver said. “He needs a wife and it will suit his consequence to have a beautiful one. At least she will never have trouble sleeping at night. He will bore her to sleep.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
“An admirable compliment,” Lord Wetherby said, watching Rosamund play and Strangelove talk.
“Josh means only dalliance,” Lord Carver said. “He is a shocking rake, you know, but you doubtless do. I don’t think Lady Hunter would be interested in dalliance.”
“You are probably right,” the earl said.
He was not going to wait for the night and the privacy of his own room, after all, he decided suddenly, walking away from Lord Carver without another word and making his way toward the pianoforte. By God, he was going to settle this thing now. He could think of a dozen men if he tried who were on perfectly comfortable terms with former mistresses. This embarrassment was ridiculous.
“Lady Carver was looking for you, I believe, Strangelove,” he said, interrupting a monologue.
“Most obliging of her,” the Reverend Strangelove said with a bow. “And how condescending of you, my lord, to be the bearer of such a flattering summons. It seems ill-mannered to hurry away, but—”
“But we will excuse you,” the earl said. “I shall give Lady Hunter my company.”
The Reverend Strangelove hurried away after delivering another monologue of thanks on Rosamund’s behalf.
