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“I’d prefer we don’t talk about that.” His mother’s prim words were underset with amusement. “We merely ignored the gossip until we grew into the honorable pillars of society we are today. The two of you will also,” she said, smiling at him and Rosalind. “Don’t worry about the ball. Everything will play out wonderfully. I’ll send the servants to hire an orchestra and have the cook concoct a spectacular dinner menu.”
“Perhaps we might even dance together once or twice.” Marlow turned to Rosalind with a teasing grin. “Even though it’s not the thing for married couples to waltz about and gaze into one another’s eyes. We’ve been unorthodox enough thus far.”
“Yes, we ought to dance together,” she agreed with obvious pleasure. “You never got to court me and add your name to my dance card. I would like my courtship now, please.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He took her hand and lifted her from her chair, drawing her into a music-less waltz, barely missing a tray-laden footman in the process. She laughed as his parents looked on with affectionate expressions. “In all this time, we haven’t danced,” he said to her in a lower voice. “What a terrible oversight.”
“Oh, but we’ve danced. Once, before one of my parents’ balls, you danced with me because I begged you to. I’d just started dance lessons and wished to show off.”
He remembered that, vaguely. “Weren’t you a child? Four or five?”
“I was eight, my lord, and terribly awkward. You grew bored of my stilted dancing and invited me to step onto your boots, then you clumped with me about the parquet floor until my mother told you to stop because I was nearly passed out from laughing.”
“I did do that, didn’t I?” He remembered it now, Rosalind’s breathless laughter and the duchess’s exasperated expression. “Here, step onto my boots.”
She grinned and did so, although the game wasn’t as easy now that they were adults. His father chuckled as Marlow clutched at Rosalind to keep her from falling.
“I hope you won’t dance like that at the ball, son. We want tongues to wag less, not more.”
“That’s something to aspire to,” he said, leading Rosalind back to her chair. One of the footmen regarded him warily, his tray now laden with desserts. “Now that I’m wed to the diamond of the season, I have to mind my behavior.”
“Goodness, Rosalind,” his mama said. “It must be true love if he’s finally willing to mind his reputation. His father and I have lectured him for years.”
“Perhaps some of his wildness has gone with his hair,” said his father, studying Marlow’s shorn curls, which were now starting to grow out into a bit of a mess.
“My hair,” Marlow groaned. “Pierre must take a whack at it now that I’m home. He can tame it into some semblance of organization.”
“You ought to grow it long again,” said Rosalind. “I think that’s how you like it best. I don’t mind having a half-wild husband.”
His father glanced at his mother, who was visibly blushing. “Warren used to say that about me,” said the countess. “That I was his half-wild wife.”
“Baga lika.” His father took his mother’s hand from the table and kissed it. “My tiger child.” He cleared his throat and looked at both of them in turn. “We all have some amount of wildness within us, even if it’s hidden. Why, who would have guessed Rosalind would have the courage to follow you to India? Or that either of you could survive a shipwreck? If you have a bit of that tiger inside you, it’s not a bad thing.” His father smiled at Rosalind with particular tenderness. “And if you find a partner that accepts your wildness, all the better.”
“As long as you keep it in check when necessary,” added his mother. “I’d prefer to have very little wildness at the ball, for instance.”
They all laughed after the emotional moment. Marlow knew a little of his parents’ history, but at times, like when his father had kissed his mother’s hand just now, he thought he knew nothing at all.
“We promise to be on our best behavior,” he said.
“And if you need any help in the planning…” offered Rosalind.
“Leave that to us,” said his mother. “The two of you must get settled into married life here in London, and perhaps have your servants at Maitland Glen prepare for a house party in the fall?”
“Yes, Mama,” said Marlow obediently. It wasn’t a suggestion. Wild or not, his mother understood society and how to move on from scandals. A house party at Maitland Glen sounded fun. Very traditional and married.
God, how he’d changed.
*
Rosalind loved Marlow’s town house on Marlborough Street. It was a “grand, modern monstrosity,” as he called it, but the halls were wide, the rooms comfortable, and the windows large enough to let in plentiful light. The servants were friendly and industrious, and quickly accomplished the transfer of Rosalind’s things from her parents’ home just a few blocks away.
They set her up in the spacious chambers adjoining Marlow’s, but she slept beside him that night rather than retire to her own bed. It wasn’t only so he might make love to her if he wished it—and he did wish it, to her delight.
It was also that she’d grown used to having him near during their travels across Europe. All those small, cozy inns… Those narrow, cramped beds had hosted their deep conversations, and kissing, and whispered declarations of the soul. The way he gazed at her and promised her his best self in all things, why, it was better than any of the romantic poetry she used to read and swoon over.
Rosalind had never worried Marlow wouldn’t make a proper, perfect husband, not once, but she was glad now that he would be able to prove himself to the rest of society. She’d come to understand that this was all he wanted—to be known as an honorable, upstanding gentleman of the ton. The gossips loved to paint him as Mad Marlow, the viscount as scandalous as Lord Byron himself, but he was not that person. He was steady, not wild. He was considerate, not perverse.
Well, he was a bit perverse, but Rosalind loved that side of him. She suspected she was more than a little perverse herself.
