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“Because we know Brittingham, and we know Marlow. We’ve watched Marlow grow from a child.” Her mother’s calm voice rose over Rosalind’s anguished one. “He runs about and behaves brashly, he always has. He chases dragons, as your father used to say, like St. George himself.”
Rosalind knew the legend of St. George and the dragon. He had bravely slain a dragon to rescue a princess. Perhaps Marlow could cut down Lord Brittingham for her, to take him out of the ton’s vaunted marriage market—and her parents’ favor. She imagined the steady, earnest Brittingham as a dowdy old dragon and realized she was truly losing her mind.
“I don’t think Marlow is as wild as all that,” said Rosalind, although that mysterious wildness within him was exactly what drew her to him.
“We must disagree on that front. We love Marlow like a son, but you should forget him as a marriage prospect. You have no choice now, anyway.” Her mother grimaced, clasping her hands in her lap. “He has decided to travel to India.”
“To India?” Rosalind wasn’t prepared for this shock. India was worlds away, too far away for any hope. “What, has Father banished him there, only for kissing me?” Papa had given her a lengthy lecture on virtue and spanked her soundly for that transgression; it wasn’t fair of him to punish Marlow too.
“It was not your father’s doing, but Marlow’s choice to take some time away from England. If you truly love him, you must think of this as a good thing. Perhaps in India, he’ll discover a greater purpose to overcome his restless nature. Perhaps he’ll find what he’s been searching for.”
Rosalind wanted to cry, to wail, but she was too shocked to make the tears come. Why would he go to India, abandoning her to her fate? Why was he giving up so easily on what might have been?
“He’s absenting himself for your own good,” her mother went on, reading her daughter’s tortured features. “He too knows that he would not make you a proper husband. In that way he’s been very honorable, and a good friend. Really, Rosalind, you ought not to have kissed him. It was your doing, I warrant, even if he attempted to shoulder the blame.”
Yes, her doing. Her fault, all of this. If she hadn’t burst into the parlor and told her parents about that scandalous moment between them, there might have been some chance to keep trying, to keep pressing. Now all was lost. “I can’t believe it. India. What if something happens to him there? He’ll be so far away.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s a capable young man and many English travelers reside in India now. His mother, Countess Warren, lived in India for many years, so he has a family connection as well. He’ll surely enjoy his time there and perhaps return to us entirely changed.”
Changed? Why would anyone want him to change when he was perfection as he was? “When will he return?” she asked bleakly.
Her mother’s lowered gaze told her the answer. He would return when she was married to some other man, some staid, acceptable prospect who could offer her a dreary and loveless life.
“I’m sorry things are not turning out as your heart had planned,” her mother said softly. She patted Rosalind’s fingers, now curled into a fist. “But you have no way to know yet what your future holds as far as marriage. It will not be as grim as you imagine it now. Why, I had no desire to marry your father when we were betrothed, and I love him now more than life itself.” She laced her fingers through her daughter’s when her fist relaxed. “And your sister and Prince Carlo have been married ten years now. You saw how happy they were at their anniversary ball. I promise we’ll do all we can to find you a good match. The right match.”
There was no right match anymore, not for Rosalind. There was no match at all. Lord Marlow was going to India. “When is he leaving?” she asked.
“Within the next few weeks, I imagine. Soon after Felicity and Carlo depart to return to Italy. We’ll go to the dock to see him off and you can make a proper goodbye. Until then, you are not to contact him or try to dissuade him from these plans. Promise me, Rosalind. Otherwise, your father will…”
Her voice trailed off, but Rosalind understood what further misbehavior would mean. Another, even worse punishment from her strict father. She shifted on her bottom, still tender from her previous lecture and correction. It was a reminder that she had no power, no recourse even if her heart ached. She’d never hated her lack of power more than in this moment.
“I promise, Mama,” she said in a dull, defeated tone. But inside, a red-hot ember of rebellion burned.
