God, what a coil! They were not even officially betrothed, yet they were both bound as tightly as if their nuptials had been celebrated and their marriage consummated—he because he had already spoken to her father, and she because she felt bound in duty to her parents’ wishes, even though they had given her the freedom to make her own decision.
“Will you have a disgust of me?” she asked, her face hidden against his shoulder. “Will you think me quite lost to all conduct?” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “But it was not wrong, was it, my lord? We are almost betrothed.”
“It was not wrong,” he said, smiling down at her.
“I liked it,” she said quickly.“I do have an affection for you already, Justin. I swear I do.”
He kissed her lightly on the nose. “Then you must tell me more about yourself,” he said. “Tell me who Annabelle Milford is. I want to know. We had better ride as we talk. I don’t think your papa will be too happy with me if I keep you alone for much longer.”
She talked quite freely as they rode down the hill and across the pasture to the park surrounding Brookfield. Perhaps, he thought, she was even trying to answer his request that she tell him who she was—though without much success. Who was this girl who had known at the age of nine that her future husband had been chosen for her, who had apparently put up no fight whatsoever against the arranged marriage, who was desperately trying to like him and want him? One thing was becoming increasingly clear to him: she was not a happy girl.
And he would swear that there was another man.
“No,” she said in answer to one of his questions as they rode. “I had never been anywhere except here until we went to London last year for my come-out. Except to Lincolnshire, that is, when I was fourteen. Mama and I spent a month with Aunt Rosa and Uncle Leonard. I always wondered why she married him when he was so much older and she was so very lovely. But they were happy, you know. I think for him the sun rose and set on Aunt Rosa.”
He smiled at her, willing her to continue.
“I cried and cried when news came that he had died,” Annabelle said. “Papa had gone there when he was very low and sent word back. I knew Aunt Rosa would be quite grief- stricken. And now Papa is trying to marry her to Tobias. I do think it wrong of him.”
“I daresay he wants your aunt to be happy again,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But Aunt Rosa chose for herself the first time and was happy. I am sure she can do the same again and perhaps choose someone younger, someone with whom she can spend the rest of her life. I do think people should be allowed to choose for themselves.”
There was a sudden and awkward silence between them.
“When they are older, like Aunt Rosa, and have had some experience of life, I mean,” she said.
“And yet,” he could not stop himself from saying, “she was only seventeen the first time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Did I tell you that? That she was only seventeen, I mean?”
“I must have heard it somewhere,” he said.
She began to tell him about her presentation to the queen.
She had been seventeen. Nine years ago—when he had met Annabelle for the first time and the match between them had first been suggested as a desirable possibility. Where had Rosamund been during that month? Had it been just after her marriage or just before?
If she had been at Brookfield with Annabelle, they would have met, she seventeen, he twenty. What would have happened? Would he have fallen in love with her then? And she with him? Would they have eight or nine years of marriage behind them by now? Perhaps several children?
But she had been afraid of younger men at that time. That was why she had married Sir Leonard Hunter. She certainly would not have fancied a young buck who had still expected every female to swoon at his feet if he merely favored her with an appreciative glance. And at that age he would not have fancied a female who could not immediately be tumbled into bed.
Though that was a strange thought, considering the speed with which he had bedded Rosamund at the age of nine-and-twenty. He had not changed so much, after all.
And was he in love with her? Was that a suitable description of his feelings? Did he not merely want to make love to her again? Was it not a purely physical thing between them? Something that would wear off once he was married?
He hoped it was only that. He did not care to be “in love,” whatever that expression meant. He was certainly hoping that it did not mean what he was beginning to think it might mean.
Annabelle was looking to him inquiringly, and he returned his attention to her. Obviously he had missed some cue.
The following day progressed far more to Rosamund’s liking than any day at Brookfield so far. The marchioness decided to take her friend Lady Wetherby, Lana, and Annabelle about with her to visit various neighbors, and the Earl of Wetherby was enlisted to escort them.
“Everyone is dying of curiosity to see you, anyway, Justin,” Lady Gilmore said, “with strange rumors about you beginning to circulate, and it would be too cruel to keep them waiting until the evening of the ball.”
“You mean I am to have four ladies all to myself?” he said with a grin. “It sounds like my sort of day, ma’am.”
“And if you think flattery is like to get you into my good graces, young man,” she said, tapping him on the arm, “you are quite right. I have ordered the barouche. You will have to squeeze between your mama and Annabelle.”
“And I can let my breath out,” the marquess said, chuckling, “and start to think of billiards.”
