Mad About the Earl (39 page)

Ignoring him, Oliphant said, “Did you sleep in that chair last night? Are those yesterday’s clothes? Dearlove will have a fit.”

“I’m surprised he’s still with me, to tell you the truth,” said Griffin. “There is nothing for him to do here.” He scratched his chin, which he had not allowed Dearlove the privilege of shaving in the past week. “Do you know, Olly, having a sensitive manservant is the very Devil? He is forever in a snit about something. It’s like living with a damned female, only without any of the privileges.”

The vicar poured himself a drink and disposed his long-legged body in a chair. “Surely not,” said Oliphant.

Griffin flung out a hand. “Take yesterday, for example. ‘Dearlove,’ I said, ‘hand me that green coat.’ ‘But my lord!’ says he. ‘That thing cannot be dignified with the name of
coat
. It is a rag, not fit for polishing Your Lordship’s boots with. I cannot allow you to wear it.’ ‘
Allow
me?’ says I. ‘Just who is master here?’
He
bleated on about his reputation;
I
put on the coat. And do you know what he did?”

Oliphant regarded him with a twinkle in his eye. “I couldn’t guess.”

“He burst into tears.
Tears!
” The horror of it was nearly unspeakable.

“Good God!” said the vicar.

“Precisely.” Griffin gave his brandy glass a fulminating glare.

There was a pause. Then Oliphant said, “I see you are not wearing your green coat.”

Griffin rolled his eyes heavenward. “What was I to do? When a woman cries, it’s bad enough. But a man!” He shuddered.

“Regardless, you must dress and come riding with me this morning. No, I insist,” said Oliphant, raising a hand to silence his objection.

Griffin repeated his earlier, vulgar recommendation and sank deeper into his chair.

He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He certainly couldn’t ride. Everything, everywhere reminded him of her, even the places she’d never been.

The agony of living without Rosamund drained him until he scarcely had the will to move beyond lifting the brandy glass to his lips. He couldn’t even get thoroughly drunk, for some reason. At least, not drunk enough to numb the pain.

And now Oliphant thought a hack around the estate would restore him?

Oh, Griffin knew he had responsibilities. He’d get around to recovering eventually. Now, he wanted to wallow, and anyone who tried to stop him could go to Hell, including the bloody vicar.

Before their argument could become more heated, Mrs. Faithful tapped on the door and walked in, beaming with delight. “One of the maids found Lady Rosamund’s locket, my lord. It had fallen down behind a sofa. I’m so pleased, for Her Ladyship wore it often and was distressed to have lost it.”

Feeling as if she’d planted him a facer rather than dropped a piece of jewelry into his outstretched hand, Griffin could barely find his voice to thank the housekeeper. His fingers trembled as they closed around the locket.

He shut his eyes, remembering the argument they’d had over this piece, the way he’d ripped it from about her slender throat. The earth-shattering love they’d made against the wall.

She’d implored him not to open it. But what did it matter now?

He gazed down at the small gold oval with intense focus, as if by concentrating very hard, he might see through the metal to the portrait or keepsake within. His fingers moved over its surface, rubbed the ridge of its clasp.

He shouldn’t. It was a violation of her privacy. An honorable man would not open that locket.

She’d begged him not to look inside it that day in the music room. He’d taken it from her anyway, and no consideration of honor would have stopped him opening it then. In the end, only his desperate need for her had eclipsed his jealousy.

Then, he’d
known
that if he opened that locket, he’d see Lauderdale’s face or perhaps a lock of guinea-gold hair or some such keepsake that told of her love for the glittering captain. Griffin was equally certain now that the locket did not contain a memento of Lauderdale and never had.

His fingers fumbled with the small catch. Then he stopped and closed them again around the cool gleaming metal.

Suddenly, he didn’t need to open it. He
knew
whose face he would see.

And like tumblers clicking over in a lock when a key turned it, everything suddenly fell into place.

Rosamund hadn’t tried to change him at all. She’d tried to give him the life he ought to have had. If his grandfather had been a decent man instead of a vitriolic tyrant, if his parents had not died far too young—he would have been as comfortable in London society as she.

Rosamund had not tried to model him into the perfect husband. She’d tried every way she knew to restore his confidence. To take away his fear.

Fear.
A big, strong beast like him, afraid? But she’d sensed it from the first, hadn’t she? He’d been terrified of that exquisite slip of a girl who stood up to him and saw through his snarls and his bluster.

His fear had prevented him from accepting her love. It had stopped him from taking his role in the community and stamping out the tyranny of Crane and his cohorts, once and for all.

Fear had made him shun his neighbors before they had the opportunity to reject him. He had shut himself away, resenting them and their prejudice instead of showing them he was not the monster his grandfather had always made him out to be. And it was his isolation that had made popular opinion turn against him when he stood accused of Allbright’s murder.

All of it because he had been too afraid to reach out to anyone, in case they ridiculed him as his grandfather had.

Rosamund had seen it all, hadn’t she? And she’d tried so very hard to make it all better. She’d very nearly succeeded. But no one could take that final leap for him. He had to do it himself.

“Will you send it to her?” Oliphant broke the long silence.

“Hm?”

“The locket.”

“No,” said Griffin, launching to his feet. “I’m going to take it to her myself.”

*   *   *

Possibly the last place on earth Rosamund wanted to be after a fortnight in the sickroom was at the Duke of Montford’s annual ball.

Cecily had insisted, however. “You simply must get out of that house! Take me to your dressing room this instant and show me what you will wear.”

So between Cecily’s scolding and Rosamund’s own desire not to appear to wear the willow for her absent husband, she made up her mind to go.

Deliberately, she chose a gown with a demi-train so that she would have an excuse for refusing to dance. She was not ready to dance yet. She could barely contemplate listening to music at this juncture, much less taking part in a waltz or jigging about in a lively reel.

At the ball, Rosamund was glad of her forethought when Andrew offered to lead her into the first set.

She declined, making him eye her suspiciously. “You’re not increasing, are you? Never known you to knock back a dance.”

She flushed and turned her head, tears starting to her eyes. “Don’t be vulgar, Andy. Of course I’m not increasing. If I look peaky, it is true that I am a little weary from tending to Jacqueline. I do not feel equal to dancing tonight.”

“Tregarth not back yet?” he said in a casual tone.

“Not yet, no.”

“Any idea when he’ll return? Only, I had an appointment with him at Jackson’s next week.”

“I have no idea, Andy,” Rosamund said with something close to a snap. “I should not count on him.”

“Deuced shame, that. I was looking forward to rearranging that ugly face of his.”

The steel in his voice made her glance sharply at him. One ought never to underestimate Andy’s perceptiveness.

“He has hurt you.” He sighed. “I’d suspected as much.”

She did not want to talk about it. She pasted a brilliant smile on her face. “Pray, excuse me, my dear. I see someone I
must
speak with.”

With an ironic bow, he let her go.

She escaped and moved through the ballroom, greeting various acquaintances but taking care not to stay long enough to be quizzed about Griffin’s failure to appear. Finally, she joined the Duke of Montford and Lady Arden.

After a few minutes of small talk, Rosamund wound around to the topic she wished to broach with Her Ladyship: Jacqueline and Mr. Maddox.

With a flick of her fan, Lady Arden said, “My dear, do not concern yourself. All is in hand. Mr. Maddox was before you in asking for my help, and I have arranged it all with deVere. He is sulky as a lion with a thorn in his foot, poor man, but I have promised him certain concessions if he lets Maddox have Jacqueline.” She turned to the duke. “Do you know Anthony Maddox of Trenoweth Hall, Your Grace? He is
quite
a favorite with me.”

“I believe we’ve met,” murmured the duke. To Rosamund, he added, “I am relieved to hear that your sister-in-law has found a palatable alternative to either a decrepit old man her grandfather chose for her or her henpecked cousin.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Rosamund. “And they are in love, which is the very best part, of course.”

Montford’s expression said,
You are in love, and look what it has done to you.
But he didn’t put that sentiment into words, of course.

“How is Lady Jacqueline?” said Lady Arden. “Such a dreadfully daunting thing to have the girl faint before she answers your proposal, don’t you think? One would wonder, did she faint from happy surprise? Or horror? Terribly unsettling for the poor boy.”

“I believe that when Jacqueline finally came to her senses, it was an enthusiastic yes, my lady,” said Rosamund, smiling. “She is well now, if a little low in spirits. She detests being cooped up indoors.”

The relief of unburdening herself of her secret had been the catalyst for Jacqueline’s collapse, Rosamund did not doubt.

The reminder made her think again of Griffin and the difficulties he faced alone down in Cornwall. The agony of knowing nothing of what went on there wrenched at her chest until she could scarcely breathe, much less smile and engage in witty repartee.

Rosamund did not know how much longer she could bear to remain at this ball. Every encounter stung her with reminders of Griffin, of what she’d lost. As the orchestra struck up a waltz, she made her excuses and left the duke and Lady Arden. She hurried away to find a quiet place where she might curl up for a good bout of weeping.

As she threaded through the crowd, she stopped and squeezed her eyes shut. That melody. It was “The Angels’ Waltz.” The one she’d wanted so desperately to dance with Griffin.

Hurrying now as tears welled in her eyes and dripped down her cheeks, she left the ballroom and dashed up the servants’ stair to Cecily’s bedchamber.

Cecily wasn’t there, but Ophelia was. Rosamund plunked down on the rug beside the big old dog, flung her arms about her, and wept into her graying old coat.

At least half an hour passed before Rosamund lifted her head and dragged herself to Cecily’s looking glass. She shuddered at the sight and rang for a maid.

Perhaps, she thought, as she descended the stairs again some time later, she might go to the card room and avoid the dancing altogether. Andy would play with her, she was sure.

She went to the ballroom to find him, but ran into Xavier instead.

“There you are.” There was a gleam in his eye she found difficult to interpret. “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

And there it was
again,
that confounded “Angels’ Waltz”! Would it haunt her for the rest of her days? She clutched Xavier’s arm. “Take me to the card room. Please, Xavier. I—I can’t stay here.”

“But I don’t want to play cards,” he said, glancing beyond her. “And neither do you.”

“No, you are perfectly right. I want to go h—”

“I believe,” a deep voice rumbled behind her, “that this is our waltz.”

She froze. She knew that voice.

Glancing up, she saw Xavier quirk an eyebrow at her, then melt away into the crowd. Traitor!

She took a deep breath, steeled herself, and turned. Her first sight of Griffin after so very long—too long—made her heart rap against her rib cage and her mouth turn dry.

But
he had left her,
and she was not going to let him get away with it so easily.

She raised her eyebrows with her best attempt at cool disdain. “A
gentleman
would surely notice that I wear a train and do not dance this evening.”

“Would he, indeed?” Griffin looked remarkably composed for a man who had just received such a cold rebuff. “But as you have so often remarked, my lady, I am
not
a gentleman.”

She inspected him slowly, from the top of his dark, tamed curls to the soles of his evening pumps. She did not linger at his jaw, so manly and strong, or at his shoulders, gloriously molded by skintight black superfine. Nor at the diamond pin in his exquisitely tied cravat nor even at the sliver of pearly waistcoat that showed beneath his coat.