The Dark One (24 page)

The thought excited her. It had been months since she'd been able to ride. “Montrose has a decent stable,” she told him. “It's a lovely estate. You know you'll inherit the rents and such from the property now . . . I suppose the property itself if we have no sons. You should speak to my stepmother's lawyers concerning the matter.”

“I will,” he said, then helped Rosalind into his carriage. Once inside, Armond sat next to her. “How was the tea social?”

Although he posed the question casually, she sensed her answer was important to him. She wouldn't tell him the truth, she decided. It wasn't Armond's fault that she was his wife. All he'd done, even going against a vow he made to himself, he'd done for her. She wouldn't make
him feel bad that his shunning had now become hers as well.

“I had a lovely time,” she lied. “The dowager and I get along well together, and Amelia was there with her mother. We had a nice chat.”

“I'm glad that you enjoyed yourself,” he said. “While I was out this morning, I stopped into an outrageously expensive shop on Bond Street and made an appointment with the seamstress for you to be fitted. I thought you might wish to have some gowns made. Whatever you would like.”

If Armond was selfish with his feelings toward her, he wasn't selfish in any other way. First the fine horse, now a new wardrobe, which Rosalind was sadly in need of. She placed her hand over his.

“Thank you, Armond. I didn't realize how shabby my wardrobe had become. I didn't need fancy clothes in the country, and the few gowns Franklin had made for me were not to my taste. I didn't bring them with me when I moved my things.”

“I want you to be happy, Rosalind,” Armond said, taking her hand and entwining their fingers. “Redecorate the house if you wish. I know the furnishings are all outdated, but bachelors care little about such things.”

He would give her anything her heart desired, it seemed. Anything but his heart. She thought it was a rather sorry trade but said nothing about it. Rosalind was still trying to sort out her own feelings for Armond. Did she love him? She knew she'd been worried sick about him the night he hadn't come home. She knew jealousy could easily consume her where he was concerned. She knew that she desired him. But did those emotions add up to love?

The coach passed her stepmother's house and Rosalind glanced away from looking outside. The house now
gave her a cold feeling inside, as if evil lived there. Evil intent upon harming her husband and, she supposed, herself as well. She resented having so much to deal with at once. Her marriage was enough of a trial. She wished all she had to worry about was making Armond fall in love with her. But finding a happy life with him would have to wait until Franklin had been dealt with and her stepmother either improved or passed on.

Recalling her instructions to Mary, Rosalind glanced outside again once the coach took the curve that would deliver her and Armond to the front door. She could see the back of the house next door, and a white sheet had been hung over the railing of the balcony to her former room.

“Mary's given me the signal,” she said to Armond. “Franklin isn't home and it's safe for me to visit the duchess. Could we postpone our ride in the park until after I've checked on my stepmother?”

“I'll ready the horses while you visit her,” Armond said. “I'll keep my eye on the place, too. If Chapman returns and you're still in the house, I'll be there in the blink of an eye to collect you.”

The coach lumbered up before the house. Rosalind decided to hurry and change into her riding habit before she visited her stepmother. She wanted to be ready for her ride once she finished the visit. Armond waited downstairs for her. He was saying something to Hawkins, but upon seeing her, came forward and escorted her outside and across the lawn.

“I won't be long,” Rosalind assured him. “The duchess isn't well enough to speak to me. She for the most part sleeps or stares off as if her mind has gone somewhere else. It's very sad, but I hope she knows that I come to visit, and that I care about her. She was once very kind to me.”

“It surprises me that such a kind lady could have produced such a cruel son,” Armond remarked. “But then, I suppose even the most normal-seeming couple can spawn the devil's own.”

The way he said it bothered her. “I hope you aren't referring to yourself,” she halfway teased. “You are hardly the beast society has made you out to be. You've proven that to me time and time again.”

“I've only done my duty by you,” he countered. “Beware the house pet you cuddle in your lap and feed from your fingers. It may one day bite you.”

He could be depressingly dark if the mood suited him. The mood didn't suit Rosalind. But the closer she came to the house next door, the more she felt the darkness closing in around her. They reached the back door and Rosalind rang the bell that delivery persons and servants used. Mary opened the door, spied her, and smiled.

“Was beginning to wonder if you'd seen my signal,” she said. The woman noticed Armond and sobered. “I hope he's not coming in.”

“I'll leave you then and prepare for our outing,” Armond said to Rosalind. “Don't be long. I don't like you being here at all.”

Rosalind nodded and walked into the house. She cast Mary a dark glance. “Mary, I will not tolerate you being rude to my husband. He isn't at all like the dark rumors that float around him suggest. He's a good man.”

Mary blushed with guilt. “Sorry, milady, it's just been the way of it for a while now.”

“Well, it's time that way ended,” she said. “How is the duchess?”

“The same,” the woman answered. “I was just getting ready to take her up some tea.”

“I'll take her tray,” Rosalind offered. “No sense in the both of us walking up to the third floor.”

“Bless you for a saint,” Mary said. “These old legs are about worn-out from going up and down those stairs. I keep hoping Mr. Chapman will get around to hiring some more help for me, but now that you're gone, I suspect he thinks I can do everything on my own.”

Cheap and cruel and, if Armond was right, a murderer. Rosalind lifted the tray sporting a small pot of tea and a cup and saucer.

“Mind that she drinks it,” Mary called to her back. “Mr. Chapman said it's about the only thing keeping her alive, and I tend to agree. Can hardly get even broth down her these days.”

“I'll do my best,” Rosalind said in parting. She carried the tray up to the third floor, thankful her stepmother's door was open since her hands were full. The duchess sat in her usual chair by the window, staring at nothing.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Rosalind called cheerfully. “I've brought your tea.” The lady did not respond, but then, Rosalind hadn't really expected her to. She sat the tray on a nearby table and poured tea.

Steam didn't rise from the cup, so Rosalind knew it wasn't so hot that it would burn her stepmother's mouth, but she wanted to make certain it was at least a comfortable temperature. Short of sticking her finger in the cup, she had no choice but to take a few sips. The tea had a definite clove taste, but she couldn't say she fancied the flavor. She took another sip, but it remained rather bland and even a tad bitter.

Walking carefully, she went to her stepmother's side. She placed the cup to the lady's lips. “I want you to drink, Your Grace. You need some type of nourishment. You're rail-thin.”

To her surprise, the lady drank from the cup, almost greedily, in fact. Rosalind patiently handled the chore of seeing that her stepmother drank the whole cup. She tried,
to think of something light to chatter on about, but the woman's deteriorating health made the task difficult. Rosalind was still in a whirl from having tea with the dowager. More precisely, from what the dowager had said to her.

“I wish you were well, Your Grace. I wish you could talk to me. I'm so confused. I miss not having a mother. I miss the advice you might offer me, and an arm around my shoulders telling me all will be all right.”

The duchess had closed her eyes. The woman had no doubt already drifted off to sleep. Rosalind walked to the table and replaced the lady's empty cup.

“I might be in love,” Rosalind said softly. “I am married and so it would seem I should be in love, but of course not all marriages are the result of such tender emotions. I wish you could tell me what you think love is. Or I could tell you how I feel, and then you could give me your opinion. I feel so alone at times.”

Rosalind rubbed the chill from her arms. She remembered that Armond waited for her. The thought lifted her suddenly low spirits. She picked up the tray, walked to where the duchess sat sleeping, and regarded the poor woman fondly.

“I must go, but I'll be back. Please try to get better. I need you.”

She was certain her stepmother was oblivious to her plea. Rosalind started to turn away, then suddenly turned back and looked at the woman. A single tear traced a path down the lady's sunken cheek.

Armond was just to the point of going to fetch Rosalind when he saw her walking across the lawn toward the stable. She noticed him and waved. Having her in the house next door made him uncomfortable, even when he knew for a fact that Chapman was not at home. After Rosalind
had gone inside the house, he'd snuck around Chapman's carriage house and had a look inside. His carriage and driver were gone.

Rosalind stumbled and Armond immediately moved forward, but she righted herself and soon joined him. The horses were saddled, and he held a basket Hawkins had prepared for them draped over one arm.

“What do you have there?” Rosalind asked.

“Hawkins packed us a nice lunch. I thought we'd picnic. It's a lovely day.”

Her beautiful face lit up. “I love picnics. I haven't been on one in such a long time. Not since I was a little girl.”

“Are you ready?”

She nodded, came forward, and he set the basket down to help her mount. Rosalind had only gotten her foot in the stirrup when she almost fell backward. Armond caught her. She placed a hand to her head. “Oh dear. There it is again.”

“What's wrong, Rosalind?”

She looked a little dazed when she glanced up at him. “The dizziness. I felt it a moment ago when I stumbled, but it seemed to pass quickly.”

Her paleness alarmed him. Armond quickly discarded their plans. “You must go into the house,” he said. “You need to lie down.”

“No,” Rosalind protested. “I don't want to ruin our outing. I am so looking forward to it. I'll be fine.”

Armond wouldn't take chances with her health. “We'll go another day,” he assured her. “Riding a horse while your head is spinning around is dangerous. You might take a tumble and hurt yourself.”

“But I—” Rosalind swayed again before she could finish the argument. She sighed. “I suppose I do need to lie down for a while.”

Henry, one of the grooms, held the horses. Armond walked to the lad and handed him the basket Hawkins had prepared for their picnic. “Put the horses away and you and the other stable help can have a nice lunch.”

He walked to Rosalind, swept her up in his arms, and started for the house.

“I can walk, Armond,” Rosalind fussed. “I don't know what's come over me. I'm usually as healthy as a horse.”

“The path to the house is somewhat rocky, as you know,” he said. “I don't want you to fall because your head is spinning again. You're probably exhausted, Rosalind. You've been through a lot during the past few days.”

“I suppose,” she agreed. “I am suddenly tired, and a good long nap sounds enticing.”

She weighed little and he easily carried her to the house and inside. Besides his brothers, Armond had never been responsible for another person. The responsibility was new to him; so were the feelings of worry that went with it. Hawkins hurried after them as Armond approached the stairs to take Rosalind to her room.

“Does the lady need anything?” he asked. “Should I send for a doctor?”

“I'll be fine, Hawkins,” Rosalind said over Armond's shoulder. “I just need to rest for a while. Please go about your duties.”

“My Lord?”

“I believe Lady Wulf will be fine after she's rested for a bit. If I need you, I'll call you, Hawkins.”

“Very well, Lord Wulf,” the man responded.

Armond proceeded up the stairs and into Rosalind's room. He gently sat her down upon the bed. Her riding habit was not only outdated but a bit too snug in certain areas as well. Armond was hardly complaining, but he knew the outfit would not be comfortable to nap in. He sat
beside her, turned her to face him and went to work on the buttons.

“May I ask what you're doing, my lord?” Her voice seemed slightly slurred.

“I'm readying you for bed, my lady,” he answered.

When she made no further comment, he continued with the buttons. Armond shoved the garment off her shoulders; then he loosened the laces at the front of her corset.

“You seem skilled at undressing women,” she commented.

He smiled. “I'm not a saint. You knew that about me when you married me.”

She frowned. “One of the few things I know about you. Was this your mother's room?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Sometimes, when I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still smell her perfume.”

It was the closest he'd come to telling Rosalind he wasn't like normal men. He had gifts. Gifts that seemed to be strengthening. But Armond didn't want to think about that. Not now.

“How nice for you,” she commented. “I remember nothing about my mother. She died giving birth to me. The duchess is the closest I've had to a mother in my life, and her stay at the country estate was rather short.”

Armond rose, knelt before her, and removed her dainty kid boots. He leaned forward and pulled her riding habit down her body and off her legs. She sat before him in chemise, corset, and one thin petticoat. He reached up and removed the pins in her hair. She'd worn it fashioned up with rows of dainty ringlets hanging down her back. Now it came tumbling down around her shoulders. Black silk. He wanted to bury his face in it, feel it sweep across his bare skin.