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So he would go somewhere, anywhere, to escape.
*
Rosalind kept to her room in the days after Marlow’s unsuccessful proposal and refused to take more than a bite or two from the trays her mother sent up. She had no appetite. She put away her light, pretty gowns and dressed in black, using the mourning gowns she’d been fitted for after her grandpa had died. The jet bombazine made her look pallid and wan, which suited her perfectly. She wanted to look as mournful as she felt.
And she was mourning. She mourned the loss of her happiness, the loss of her choice to make a love match. She pored over romantic poems, works by Keats, Shelley, and the enigmatic Lord Byron, crying over the pages until she suffered a headache. Love was real, and she wanted the poetry and passion of it. Without it, she’d never be fulfilled.
She was not given to bold acts and histrionics, but the situation was desperate. She hoped her parents would notice the depth of her grief and reconsider a match with Lord Marlow. On her fourth day of self-imposed exile her mother knocked and entered her outer bedchamber, taking in her black frock and severe hair style with a frown.
“Rosalind, darling. We must talk.”
Rosalind stayed where she was, curled up in her overstuffed chintz divan, and rearranged her ebony lace-trimmed skirts. She did not meet her mother’s concerned gaze though she could feel its weight upon her. “What is there to talk about?”
“Dearest, please.”
“My opinion is not to be noted, anyway.”
Her mother crossed to join her, sitting beside her with a sigh. “How long will you sulk about this? It’s not proper behavior, especially with Felicity and her family in town.”
“What have they to do with me?”
“She’s your sister and she loves you. They’re your family. We are all a family and we all want what’s best for you.”
“But Mama, Lord Marlow would be best.”
“You believe so, but you’re thinking about the matter with a child’s heart.” She sighed again, taking Rosalind’s tense hand. “We’re not saying you’re to have no choice in the matter of your marriage. But dear, you’ve not even come out yet. There are so many gentlemen you’ve yet to meet.”
“Like Lord Brittingham?” she said bitterly. “I don’t like him at all.”
“You don’t know him yet. I promise he’s all that’s desirable in a husband, and handsome too. But no, it needn’t be Brittingham if you’re so set against him. You’re the daughter of a duke, Rosalind. You’ll have your choice of husbands. It only must be a good, fitting choice.”
Rosalind bit her lip against more recriminations. She knew she was behaving badly but she was heartsick she wasn’t to have her way. Marlow loved her. They’d known one another forever. He was perfection in her eyes: daring, beautiful, exciting, kind, mysterious.
Yes, they were different, but that was precisely why she needed him in her staid, obedient life.
“Rosalind, did you hear me?”
She pulled her hand from her mother’s and plucked at her black skirts again, banishing the haunting images of her would-have-been-perfect husband. Who would he marry now? Not her.
“I asked if there were any other gentlemen you were interested in getting to know better,” her mother said.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Her mother’s lips tightened with barely perceptible irritation. Like Rosalind, she was not accustomed to expressing dramatic feelings. “Darling,” she said, once a fraught moment or two had passed. “There are so many options besides Lord Marlow. Why you’re so set against Lord Brittingham, I’ll never know. He’s the most eligible bachelor of the season, for good reason. He’s surely as attractive as Marlow, though you seem to perceive him as some ogre or toad.”
When Rosalind refused to react to this goading, her mother’s voice softened.
“Do you have a problem with the man, or is it just that he’s not the viscount?”
Rosalind shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters to me now. I don’t care who I marry.”
“My dear, be reasonable. Lord Marlow is…well… He’s a bit too undependable in our esteem. He’s always been unsettled and impulsive in nature. I’m not sure he’s found who he is yet, and the age difference between you…”
“Lord Brittingham’s older as well.”
“But he’s also steadier, much more so. He’s a better match to your breeding and temperament.”
“How can you know that with such certainty, Mama?”
