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“Are you sure?” Marlow leveled a look at him. “Sure you want to go back?”
“Oh, I’m certain.” August grinned. “I wouldn’t miss this family reunion for anything. Wescott will be put out that he missed the fireworks.”
Marlow smiled too, though there wasn’t a great deal to smile about. He’d be lucky if there were only fireworks, and not a viscount of questionable reputation being burned at the stake.
*
Lord Augustine had always been Rosalind’s friend, one of the older boys who ran about with her brothers during the London season or country house parties. He’d always had smiles and gentle teasing for her, but presently, in his private, luxurious coach, he was quiet, studying her now and again from beneath his dark lashes. She supposed he was the first of many to be scandalized by her behavior. She must get used to furtive, questioning glances.
At least she was in a comfortable conveyance with velvet cushions rather than hard benches, and windows one could see out of without straining one’s neck. She was in a fine traveling gown, too, a pristine dove gray silk with tasteful pearl trim and the longer sleeves that were coming into fashion. With Lord Augustine’s assistance they’d paid a visit to a modiste in Rome’s most fashionable quarter, and within twenty-four hours, three new creations had been delivered to his rented house.
It was a very nice house, as one would expect of a wealthy earl like Lord Augustine. She’d wanted to stay a few days longer, to hide away in the luxury she was accustomed to, but once Augustine wrapped up his Roman affairs, Marlow said they must depart to “face the music.” It had been one thing to travel to see Felicity. She was sweet and sisterly, and not so scary. She had imagined Felicity could help her write a second letter before they journeyed back to England, a letter of support and solidarity to really iron things out.
Now her parents were in Florence too, staying in the prince’s household, along with her oldest brother Townsend and Jane, his pregnant wife. To face her father and mother after what she’d done…
She sighed and rested her head against Marlow’s shoulder. They’d arrive in Florence soon, too soon. Three days, if the weather held. Well, she would not wish for a storm, not after the storm at sea, which had terrified her of all storms forever.
Marlow took her hand and squeezed it as their coach bobbed down the scenic country road. If we can survive what we survived, he’d told her, gazing at her with his pale blue eyes, then we can survive this together.
Together, yes, but since they’d been at Lord Augustine’s house, Marlow had kept a certain distance. Did he regret teaching her the secret, intimate things they’d been doing to one another since they’d married? Perhaps he only wished to be discreet in August’s company. The man sat across from them in the carriage like some dashing chaperone as the hours ticked by. Now he looked at their entwined hands and gave a tilted smile.
“I’ll never get used to seeing you two together,” he said. “Like this. You were always so different from one another. None of us could believe…”
“Believe what? That we loved each other?” Rosalind could feel Marlow’s tension against her cheek. “Just because no one could understand doesn’t mean our feelings weren’t true.” His voice took on a gruff tone. “We had to go through too much to be together.”
Rosalind thought briefly of her beloved poetry book, lost at sea. “Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey,” she said, lifting her head to quote Lord Byron.
“Love doesn’t always find a way,” said August. “But I’m happy for both of you. As for wolves, you may prefer them to the ton’s judgment.”
“The ton can bugger itself,” Marlow muttered. “Pardon my language,” he added, glancing down at her.
“What does ‘bugger’ mean?” Rosalind asked.
August let out a bark of laughter, quickly silenced by Marlow’s glare. “She reads Byron, but she doesn’t know,” said August.
“Because she’s a genteel woman.” He turned to her. “Bugger is a sort of curse word, darling. Bugger this, bugger that. It’s vulgar. Don’t ever say it.”
“This is what I mean when I say it’s difficult to imagine you together,” said August.
“Even so, we’re together now.”
His terse words silenced August, who turned to the window. She did not think Marlow meant to be cross to his cousin. He was only tired, like her, and arriving in Florence would not be the respite they needed, not with her family there waiting to demand explanations. If she could go back in time, would she have done things differently?
She leaned her head against Marlow again. No, she would still have followed him. Three days later, as they rolled up the stately drive to Prince Carlo’s Tuscany palace, she knew it was worth the uproar they were about to endure.
She could tell Marlow was consumed by nerves, though he tried to hide it. He had taken extra care with his appearance before they left the inn that morning, sitting for a long shave and asking August’s valet to polish his boots. His coat and trousers had been starched and pressed to perfection, and his cravat tied in a neat, high knot with one of August’s borrowed pins stuck through it.
Rosalind had taken great care too, donning the most beautiful of her new traveling dresses, a deep burgundy gown with tiny silk flowers at the waist and neckline, along with a set of pearls August had paid for, calling it a wedding gift. Her hair had been swept into a passable chignon by one of the inn’s housemaids who’d had experience as a lady’s stylist, and her kid gloves were brand new, without a speck of dust upon them.
It felt cramped in the coach for the first time, though it hadn’t felt so before, even with the two big men sharing it with her. Perhaps it was the fear of expectation that made her feel suffocated. Marlow had assured her last night for the dozenth time that all would be well, but still, he only kissed her and held her when they retired to bed together, like she was not all his anymore, and he dared not do more.
She did not like that feeling.
But she could not ask the question she wanted to ask, for she was too afraid of the answer. Can they dissolve our marriage? Does a marriage by a priest in Santa Maria di Leuca even count?
Lord Augustine was known at the palace, having only just been there, so the guards waved them right through the gates. But when they presented themselves to the butler at the palace entrance, the man visibly blanched and asked in bewilderment, “Lady Rosalind? Are you sure?”
“Of course she’s sure,” said Marlow. “If you could request an audience of her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge, we would appreciate it. They will wish to see her.”
