AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PROLOGUE
The Barrow, Duke of Granby’s estate, 1840
Miss Rosalind Richardson watched the proceedings of the house party as the guests strolled through the Duke of Granby’s exquisite gardens, careful to keep herself hidden behind an exotic-looking plant with pink, papery blooms. It was somewhat cowardly to take advantage of Granby’s assortment of shrubs in such a way, but her mother had left her little choice. Avoiding the Earl of Torrington and refusing to further their acquaintance was the only option at present. Viscountess Richardson had decreed Lord Torrington would make her only child a fine husband.
Rosalind heartily disagreed.
She didn’t want a husband, especially one like Torrington. Oddly enough, the earl had little in common with the usual type of gentlemen her mother sent her way.
But that made avoiding Torrington no less imperative.
Mother had been speaking of him for months, though Rosalind hadn’t actually set eyes on the man until a few days ago at this bloody house party. Usually, when faced with one of Mother’s chosen prospective suitors, Rosalind had no trouble keeping her eyes lowered, the timbre of her voice barely above a whisper, generally giving the impression she had only half a brain. But Torrington...
With a sigh of frustration, Rosalind adjusted the bodice of her gown and nearly fell into the flowering plant she stood next to, wincing as a thorn pricked at her skin. Leave it to Granby to fill his garden with hostile shrubbery. She supposed it suited his overall demeanor. A colder, more austere gentleman Rosalind had yet to meet. Frigid was a word that came to mind when considering His Grace. Like a mountain of ice. She had no idea what her cousin Andromeda Barrington saw in him.
But back to the problem of Torrington. The earl was far too attractive, even with the boredom etched on his features when they had been introduced. His hand had seemeduncommonly warm when Rosalind’s fingers made contact. A hum of awareness had floated over her skin.
None of the others had ever caused a similar effect.
Their initial meeting, even while she’d attempted to calm her rapidly beating heart, had still been awkward.Stilted. Mainly because of Rosalind’s surprise at his appearance. Meanwhile, Torrington had barely flicked a gaze in her direction, which somehow made things worse.
She had quickly resolved to keep her distance from him, reminding herself that outside of him being handsome, he was still a prospective suitor chosen by Lady Richardson and thus deserved to be dismissed. Just like all the others.
Rosalind doubted Torrington truly minded, not when the likes of Meredith Clare, Beatrice Howard, and Rosalind’s Barrington cousins were in attendance. Against such a beautiful palette, Rosalind faded into the woodwork.
Just as she wished.
Eventually, Torrington would forget about Rosalind entirely. If only her mother would give up so easily.
While Rosalind kept her distance from Torrington, her mother redoubled her efforts to entice Torrington with the dubious charms of her daughter. Last night over dinner, Lady Richardson had felt the need to regale the entire table with Rosalind’s talent at the harp, an instrument for which Rosalind possessed little to no skill. She’d only learned an instrument to please Cousin Amanda, the Dowager Duchess of Averell. Rosalind had nearly collapsed into a grateful heap upon hearing Granby didn’t have a harp at his estate, else Mother might have asked her to play.
Torrington, from the look of sheer boredom on his face, obviously couldn’t have cared if Rosalind spoke ten languages and had the ability to lead a charge of Hussars. If he’d had an opinion on her harp playing, he hadn’t expressed it. Instead, he’d taken the opportunity to study Rosalind rather intently over a forkful of roasted pheasant, a mocking half-smile on his lips.
She’d quickly lowered her gaze, pretending absorption in her slivered carrots.
Immediately after dinner, Rosalind had pled a headache and retreated to her room. She’d had no desire to encounter Torrington in the drawing room where he might question her about playing the harp. If not that, Mother surely would have insisted Rosalind and Torrington be partners for charades or some other ridiculous game. The house party was nearing its conclusion, which only stoked Mother’s determination.
Thus, Rosalind found herself hiding in Granby’s garden.
She gave another exasperated tug at her bodice. The rise of her bosom was determined to flow over the gown’s modest neckline no matter the adjustments she made. There was so... much of her that there was always a dangersomethingmight... pop out at an inopportune time. A good corset took care of the worst of Rosalind’s flaws, but not all. Of course, a tightly laced corset also served to pushthingsupward and keep her permanently breathless.
Rosalind was plump and would always be so, no matter the assortment of reducing regimens her mother forced on her. Which explained the sheer number of older gentlemen Mother found suitable for her daughter. Mother insisted only a more mature man would appreciate Rosalind’s well-rounded form.
Ugh.
There was an art to avoiding marriage, one Rosalind had perfected as much as she had the chocolate toffee cake she’d made for her cousin’s birthday last year. There was true skill in molding flour, sugar, fruit, and vanilla into a symphony of taste, just as there was in convincing a gentleman she’d be unsuitable as a wife.
Baron Delong, who had groped her every time she was in his presence, had been the first. Rosalind had kindly explained to him that his yellow, toothy smile made her think of a rabbit, and then she’d giggled endlessly, to his extreme displeasure. Lord Chambers, she’d taken into her confidence, explaining that her most fervent desire was to enter a convent. Rosalind had convinced Mr. Gaberly she was too stupid to even name the street on which she lived, giving the impression she was a simpleton. There were a few others, of course, but in the end, each of those gentlemen had slunk away, explaining to Lady Richardson that her daughter didn’t suit.
Mother despaired. Rosalind was nearly on the shelf.
But Rosalind didn’t desire to be some titled lord’s brood mare, a convenient, demure wife whose only purpose was to produce an heir. She had ambitions of her own. Plans. None of which would come to fruition if she were distracted by a husband.
“Are you hiding from Cousin Winnie or Lord Torrington?” Lady Andromeda Barrington, or Romy, as she was called, whispered from behind her.
“Both.” Rosalind nodded. “I don’t see Torrington out there with the others. Do you suppose he’s gone and lost himself in the woods as a form of self-preservation? I would hardly blame him for attempting to escape my mother. I’ve been trying to for years.”
Romy giggled. “When Cousin Winnie compared your harp playing to the music of angels last evening, I nearly choked on the pheasant. I love you dearly, Ros, but your plucking of the strings isn’t the least heavenly. Now those gooseberry tarts you made.Thosewere divine.”
