The last word was uttered in a thrilling whisper and with the dart of a glance around them. So, the girl thought that was a secret, did she? More fool her. Griffin had no doubt exactly to whose arms Cecily referred.
Lauderdale. Something twisted in his gut whenever he thought of that damned paragon dancing attendance on Rosamund.
He burned to ask Lady Cecily for more information, but pride stopped him from doing so.
Instead, he fixed the saucy chit with a hard stare. “Let me get this straight: Even though we are already betrothed, even though I’m—” He gestured down at himself, powerless to put into words what he was. “—she wants me to
court
her?” He nearly choked on the last words.
“Yes,” said Cecily. “And she won’t marry you until you do. Oh, Rosamund might
look
like an angel, but she can be excessively stubborn. Besides, she has her pride, just as you do.”
For the first time, Cecily looked him over, with a horror that almost matched her sartorially magnificent cousin’s. “What in Heaven’s name are you wearing?”
Not that again.
“Look here, Lady Cecily, I don’t have time to waste on fripperies, so if you’re quite finished…”
But she wasn’t listening to him. Cecily tapped a fingertip to her pointed chin. “We
must
do something about your wardrobe.”
We?
“No!” said Griffin. “I don’t need to do anything with my wardrobe. I am here to take Lady Rosamund to wife, and that’s an end to it.”
She frowned. “Have you listened to a
word
I’ve said?”
It occurred to him that this little thing was the second lady, besides his sister, who had ever faced him down, unafraid. An interesting breed, these Westruther women.
Then he collected himself. “There is
no
way I am going to court Lady Rosamund. Not a chance in Hell.”
He stomped past the girl and made for the door.
She called after him, “Then you might as well go back to your pigs and your cows, Lord Tregarth, for you will not win her consent to the marriage otherwise.”
He swung back to face her, his teeth bared in a snarl, and finally,
finally,
she looked scared. With a gasp, Lady Cecily shrank back from him, her dark eyes wide, hands reflexively raised to protect herself.
Unreasonably angered by her reaction, he hissed a breath through his teeth. “We’ll see about that.”
Then he turned and slammed out of the room.
* * *
Why, oh, why do I let Mama talk me into these things?
Rosamund stood on a low plinth in the front drawing room of Steyne House, one arm curved around a pottery urn and one hand raised above her head in a graceful arc.
She was uncomfortably aware that the layers of filmy material her mother had insisted on draping about her did little to conceal the contours of her body. Particularly when the marchioness had not allowed her a corset, but only a gossamer-fine shift beneath.
“It is a pity you are so tall,” mused Lady Steyne, narrowing her darkly lashed blue eyes. “Quite Amazonian, in fact.” A frown flickered for an instant. “My dear, do I detect a little extra padding at your waist? A suspicion of fleshiness beneath the arms? François, do see if you can eliminate my daughter’s
wobbles
.” Her beautiful mouth turned down at the corners. “I am sure I never had
them
when I was her age.”
Rosamund flushed and stared at the wall.
Ignore her. It doesn’t matter what she thinks.
The old mantra was stale, worn with use. She told herself there was nothing wrong with her body, that her mother’s diet of air and champagne would keep anyone’s figure fashionably waiflike.
She longed to demand of the marchioness why she wanted her daughter to pose for this painting if she found her form so unsatisfactory.
But that imaginary piece of defiance didn’t help. The old, sick sense of self-loathing rose up within her like a murky tide.
Her sole comfort was that no one but Lady Steyne and the artist himself would know who the model for this work had been. Monsieur François would impose Mama’s raven-black hair and classically beautiful features on the face of this sprite or nymph or whatever she was supposed to be.
Rosamund could see nothing amiss with her mother’s figure, but gainsaying her parent when that lady had a fixed notion in her head was far more effort than giving way to it. Lady Steyne had sighed and muttered about taut, dewy young skin, an attribute all the marchioness’s cosmetic aids could not entirely preserve or reclaim.
She ought to pity her mother. To Nerissa Westruther, Lady Steyne, her beauty was her sole personal asset, the one true measure of her worth. While others saw the marchioness as an exquisite woman, Rosamund knew Nerissa felt her former glory slipping through her slender fingers like water. This composite portrait was a desperate—and quite pathetic—attempt to recapture it.
The drawing room was chilly despite the soft, golden sunlight that streamed through the window beside her. Rosamund shivered, uncomfortably aware that she’d developed goose bumps on her arms and that her nipples had tightened to hard, embarrassing peaks.
Far from displaying any propensity to leer, the artist himself was all business. With a hint of impatience puckering his fine black brows, he spoke around a paintbrush he held wedged between his teeth. “Hold the urn a leetle higher, mademoiselle. Higher. Yes, that is it. I must work
vite, vite, vite,
before we lose the light.”
Rosamund complied, reflecting that her mother’s lovers were becoming increasingly less aristocratic, yet commensurately younger and more attractive as the years went on. The footman at the door had been staggeringly handsome. Did François know he had a rival? Or didn’t he care?
But then, one might go mad speculating about the intricacies of her mother’s
affaires
.
How much longer? The arm she’d raised ached, her nose itched, and the wreath of spring flowers and leaves Lady Steyne had set in her hair possessed malevolent protruding twigs that stuck into her scalp.
Rosamund had agreed to model today primarily to assuage her stinging conscience. Her mother’s reproaches of neglect had merit; visiting Lady Steyne proved so emotionally draining that Rosamund seldom called in Berkeley Square at all if she could avoid it. Even then, she usually chose the marchioness’s “at home” days to avoid a tête-à-tête.
Had she made good on her promise to Montford and brought her old governess, Tibby would have found some way of extricating Rosamund from this hideous obligation. But knowing that her bluestocking former governess secretly despised her mama, Rosamund hadn’t brought her after all.
It was one thing to harbor her own misgivings about her errant parent. Quite another to see those misgivings mirrored in her respected companion’s eyes. Instead, Rosamund’s maid awaited her in the kitchens and knew nothing of what went on upstairs.
No doubt, Meg was even now enjoying a comfortable gossip with Lady Steyne’s dresser. Rosamund shivered. She’d give her eyes for a hot cup of tea.
“My dear girl, you look like you’re facing an execution!” drawled her mother. “You’re supposed to be Arethusa, the water sprite. Ethereality, my dear! Lightness!
Esprit!
”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” She forbore to point out that it would not be
her
expression on the portrait but Lady Steyne’s. Obediently, Rosamund tried again.
When her mother wasn’t looking, she sent a longing glance toward the clock on the mantel. Fifteen minutes—half an hour at the most—was all she’d intended to spend at Steyne House. No more than a formal morning call. Instead, she’d remained over two hours. She could only hope her mother’s protégé would finish with her before she was due back at Montford House to dress for the evening.
With an effort, Rosamund pushed her thoughts beyond the humiliation she felt. How soon would Griffin come?
While she’d taken a proud stand over making him court her before she agreed to tie the knot, she wasn’t certain she’d have the strength to hold out against him if he insisted on wedding her straightaway. She was all too impatient for her married life to begin.
If he came to her now and displayed the least contrition, she would abandon her plan and marry him gladly.
Somehow, she doubted that large, angry young man ever apologized for anything.
* * *
Griffin had not made it halfway to Grosvenor Square before he felt a peremptory tap on his shoulder.
“I say, slow down, old chap. What’s the hurry?”
“Damn it!” Griffin half turned to find Rosamund’s cousin, Viscount Lydgate, dogging his steps.
Lydgate lowered his cane—with which he’d presumably tapped Griffin’s shoulder—then used its silver knob to tip his beaver hat at a more rakish angle. “Thought you could do with some company,” he explained.
“You were mistaken,” said Griffin, walking faster.
Though he complained of the pace, Lydgate’s long legs ate up the ground in step with Griffin’s. “You’ll be glad of me when we get there,” he murmured.
Griffin grunted. “I don’t need your help, my lord.”
“Call me Lydgate,” said his companion. “You’re practically family, aren’t you? And you do need me, if only to run interference.”
That startled Griffin. “Interference?”
“Of course. How are you going to get Rosamund alone if I don’t distract her mama?”
Griffin frowned. He hated being placed in the position of supplicant when he had every right to claim his affianced bride. “Just let her try and stop me.”
Lydgate halted. Instinctively, Griffin stopped also.
His unwanted companion’s eyes hardened; the mobile mouth grew flat and tight at the edges. If Griffin hadn’t received ample proof of the steel beneath Lydgate’s affable charm when he slammed him in the jaw, he saw it now.
“You have no idea what that woman is capable of,” said Lydgate grimly. “I’m coming with you. If it’s any consolation, I’m doing this for Rosamund’s sake, not yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you think Xavier meant to do you a favor by telling you where Rosamund is?”
No, Griffin didn’t think Lord Steyne did anyone any favors. He hadn’t cared what his prospective brother-in-law’s motive might have been, either, as long as this business with Rosamund was resolved as soon as possible. He didn’t want to waste time dawdling in London when there was so much work to be done.
For a few moments, Griffin met Lydgate’s eyes squarely. Then he shrugged and kept walking.
“If only you’d make yourself presentable first, it would go a long way with Rosamund,” said Lydgate with asperity. “And with her mama as well.”
Griffin ignored that. Fine clothes would serve only to emphasize his unfashionable brawn and the startling ugliness of his face. He refused to make himself utterly ridiculous, even for Lady Rosamund Westruther.
Particularly
for Lady Rosamund Westruther.
“This is it,” said Lydgate, turning to climb the steps. Again, his gaze flickered over Griffin’s clothing. “You’d best leave me to do the talking.”
“Be damned to you,” Griffin said. “I don’t need you to be my mouthpiece.”
Before Andrew could rap on the door with his cane, Griffin overtook him, pounding on it with his fist. The door opened immediately, revealing an impassive footman in deep blue livery.
Griffin never troubled to evaluate the appearance of his fellow men, but even he was astonished. This was easily the most beautiful young man he had ever seen, like a dark angel or a Greek god or some such thing.
The footman seemed equally taken aback to see Griffin, though clearly for different reasons. A sudden ache in Griffin’s jaw reminded him of the appearance he must present.
He scowled; the pretty footman blanched.
The door began to shut in Griffin’s face.
He slammed his hand flat against the panel to stop it. Before he could move the footman bodily out of the way, Lydgate ducked through the opening and interposed himself between them.
Lydgate flicked out a card made of creamy stock and handed it to the bemused footman. “Might I suggest that instead of brangling on the doorstep, you ascertain whether Her Ladyship is receiving, my good man? Lords Tregarth and Lydgate to see the marchioness.”
In taking the card, the footman relinquished his hold on the door. Griffin stepped inside as well.
Tossing his hat, gloves, and cane on the occasional table, Andrew walked into the hall as if he owned it.
Griffin followed. The damned fool of a footman remained rooted to the spot, goggling.
“Weren’t hired for your brains, were you?” Griffin commented. “Do as Lord Lydgate says, and be quick about it.”
With a wary eye on Griffin, the young man bowed. “I’ll show you into the library, my lord.”
“Never mind. I know the way,” said Lydgate, waving him off. With a gleam in his eye that Griffin found hard to interpret, he added, “We’ll drink my cousin’s brandy while we wait.”