The Spurned Viscountess (2 page)

“They say I’m mad,” he offered, observing her reaction.

“Y-yes.” She stumbled at the final step.

Ah, the girl had heard but remained set on her course. “I have no memory of my past. Does that not disturb you?”

She said nothing, but Lucien found her transparent. The rumors bothered her. Then, without warning, her generous mouth firmed, her chin lifted defiantly, and her left hand screwed up into a fist, quickly hidden in her blue skirts.

She wasn’t going to change her mind.

An unwilling surge of admiration filled him. He shoved it away. He wanted nothing to get in the way of his plan. Someone had ordered the killing of his beloved Francesca. That someone must pay, because not only had Francesca died on that dark night, but so had his unborn child. Vengeance would be his.

Lucien’s heart hardened. If Rosalind Chandler wanted marriage to Viscount Hastings, she would have it. After all, it mattered little. Nothing mattered except revenge.

“Have you heard about the Throckmorton girl?” a woman in a dazzling yellow robe asked, her thin brows arching up in a way that guaranteed she’d garner an enthralled audience.

“Do tell,” the bejeweled gentleman opposite cried, his grin conspiratorial and eager.

Rosalind wanted to groan. It was the day after her arrival at St. Clare, and the dinner to introduce her to friends and neighbors was not turning out as she’d expected. There were so many furtive whispers from behind gloved hands and speculative stares from the gentlemen. Her spine stiffened. They were judging her…and finding her lacking.

“She’s not what I expected,” a young man whispered.

Rosalind glared down at her lap. Did they think she was deaf? She was beginning to feel like one of the prize-winning sheep from her uncle’s estate. She squirmed, eager for the meal to end.

“Stop fidgeting, girl.” The earl’s sister, Lady Augusta, punctuated her words with a narrow-eyed glare that made her freeze.

Rosalind battled straight-out rebellion. She glanced along the length of the table. Twenty were dining tonight, and she’d met most of them earlier. Neighbors. Family friends invited to witness the wedding nuptials. Four burly footmen dressed in the green St. Clare livery served with a calmness she admired, given that Lady Augusta scowled so ferociously. A profusion of candles illuminated the Royal Dining Room, creating shadows and reflecting in the sparkling glass and silverware. Rosalind wrinkled her nose at the myriad scents. The perfume from an urn of pink roses battled with the overpowering aroma of the gentleman seated opposite. Smiles and chatter abounded, grating on her nerves.

All the younger, more interesting guests sat at the other end, near Hastings and the Earl of St. Clare. She was firmly ensconced between Lady Augusta and her friend, Lady Pascoe. A part of her wondered if it was a plot by Lady Augusta to assert her authority on the newcomer. No doubt, a subtle scheme to put her in her right and proper place.

Rosalind pushed a slice of stringy roast beef around her plate and wished the night was over, that the wedding was over and all the guests had left Castle St. Clare. A sharp prod of a mystery lump with her fork did little to disperse her resentment, so she scowled down the table at Hastings, but he never looked in her direction. To lull her agitation, she picked up her glass of French wine and stared into the depths of the ruby liquid, only to set it down again with a soft sigh.

Lady Pascoe laughed without warning. Rosalind glanced up in time to catch the speculative look in the older woman’s eyes. “The gel won’t survive the marriage bed,” she declared. “Doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. Doesn’t drink much either. Get some of that good smuggler’s wine inside you, gel.”

Heat stung Rosalind’s cheeks when she intercepted the amused glances from those seated within hearing distance. She speared a morsel of jugged hare, placed it in her mouth, and chewed stoically.

“Enough, Elizabeth,” Lady Augusta snapped. “That’s hardly a proper topic for dinner conversation.”

“It’s true.” Lady Pascoe directed a query farther down the table. “What do you say, Charles? This latest batch of wine from the smugglers should build the gel’s strength.”

Her rusty cackle set Rosalind’s nerves even more on edge. The pounding in her head intensified, and she gave up all pretence of eating.

A feminine titter at the other end of the table made her wince. It was bad enough that Lady Pascoe shouted loud enough for those in the neighboring village to heed, but for Lady Sophia, daughter of the Earl of Radford, to hear and giggle was beyond embarrassing. Rosalind studied them furtively. The tilt of Lady Sophia’s head as she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings made it obvious she was avoiding direct eye contact with his scar. Despite her coquettish behavior, the imperfection bothered her. Lady Sophia placed her hand on Hastings’s arm. Rosalind’s eyes narrowed at the familiar action. That was her betrothed Lady Sophia was flirting with.

Rosalind bit back a nasty word, one she’d overheard the coachman use during the journey to St. Clare. Naively, she’d presumed her betrothal would be a time of celebration, of giddy happiness. Not for an instant had she thought her betrothed would ignore her or suggest she cry off. She shuddered inwardly at the idea of returning to live with her uncle and aunt. No, it was unthinkable.

Dinner continued. The footmen removed the tablecloth to serve dessert.

Finally the meal ended and Lady Augusta stood. “We will leave the men to their port and pipes.”

Rosalind trailed after the rest of the women as they wandered through to the Chinese Drawing Room. She chose an upright chair, as far away from the roaring fire as she could, and tried to look inconspicuous. Lady Augusta waited for the ladies to settle before glancing around the expectant faces. “Rosalind, you may entertain us while I pour tea.”

Rosalind wanted to refuse. She hated to play the harpsichord and always had. She hesitated, hoping one of the other women would offer, releasing her from obligation.

But Lady Pascoe shooed her toward the harpsichord. “Go on, gel. Play. Something lively. Augusta, I hope you purchased some tea from the latest shipment. The last lot you served tasted like straw dipped in water.”

Several of the ladies tittered, and Lady Augusta’s gloved hand tightened around the teapot.

“I serve nothing but the best at Castle St. Clare,” Lady Augusta said in an icy tone. “Rosalind, music, if you please.”

Bowing to the inevitable, she settled behind the harpsichord, drew off her gloves and cast them aside. At least they hadn’t demanded she sing. Rosalind forced her lips to smile and arranged her cream skirts before running her hands over the keys. About one third of the way through the Bach hymn, she hit the wrong note.

A flurry of whispers erupted. Rosalind bit her bottom lip and looked up to see Lady Sophia snicker behind her fan. She immediately struck another discordant note. Her heart leaped as mortified color gathered in her cheeks. Somehow, she fumbled her way through the rest of the hymn, coming to a crashing halt as the men filed into the drawing room to join them.

“Thank you,” Lady Augusta said. “Lady Sophia, perhaps you would care to take over?”

Rosalind slid off the stool and escaped toward the open terrace doors that led out to the formal gardens at the rear of the castle. A quick glance confirmed no one would miss her, and she stepped outside.

The sky glowed softly, the color of deep blue, almost black silk, neither day nor night but the time in between. Rosalind inhaled and detected a hint of salt in the air. When she passed the North Tower, the muted surge of the waves became audible. She followed a gravel path, lit at intervals by torches, and savored the peace after the stuffiness and loud chatter in the dining room.

As she rounded the sweeping curve of the path, Rosalind paused to trail her hand over the foliage of a leafy green hedge. A pungent aroma, peppery and spicy, rose when her fingers crushed a leaf, and she realized she’d left her gloves inside by the harpsichord.

“There you are. What kept you?” a harsh voice demanded.

Rosalind froze at the sound of voices coming from the other side of the hedge.

“I had to wait for the courier, Hawk. He said to tell you the shipment’s due tomorrow night. On the tide.”

“About time,” the man who appeared to be in charge growled. “Notify the men. We meet an hour before the tide. Go now, before someone sees you.”

Smugglers? Not unusual in these times. Lady Pascoe had alluded to their presence at dinner. But even so, Rosalind instinctively hid, pressing against the foliage, despite the branches jabbing through her silk gown. It wouldn’t do for them to catch her eavesdropping. Most people ignored smuggler operations since their presence benefited everyone from villagers to the titled, but Rosalind had heard tales of the gangs farther down the coast—stories of murder and brutality.

Stealthy footsteps passed a few feet away from her while the other man left in the opposite direction via the gardens. When she could no longer hear the firm footsteps, her alarm eased and the tension left her shoulders. She edged from hiding. It was time for her to return to the drawing room and Hastings. She turned to retrace her steps and came to an abrupt halt, her nose flattened against a solid chest. The air hissed from her lungs, and a startled squeak escaped. She wobbled and strong hands shot out to grasp her upper arms.

“What are you doing out here alone?”

The husky growl made her stomach lurch. Had it been Hastings she’d overheard? Rosalind stiffened with defiance before raising her gaze to meet her betrothed’s frowning visage. “I needed some air,” she murmured.

His bare hands sent a tingle racing up her arm. Rosalind wanted to move away, to free herself of this strange sensation, yet contrarily she wanted to move closer to inhale the spicy, sweet scent of tobacco that had permeated his clothes. She felt a flush bloom on her cheeks at the thought.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“Why?” Was it because he was worried she might have seen something? “This is my home now.” The heat in her cheeks intensified, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice her unease. “After tomorrow,” she added hastily.

His grip on her arms tightened. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“I beg your pardon?” Questions whirled through her mind, and not one possible answer presented a glimmer of understanding. This was the second time he’d asked if she wanted to call off the marriage. Why was he so insistent?

“Now is the time to change your mind.” The strain in his voice made her stare. “I can’t make you happy.”

Rosalind tugged from his touch while she struggled to control the panic sizzling through her veins. She wanted to get married. She wanted a husband.

Security.

Children.

And since the men of marriageable age in Stow-on-the-Wold and the surrounding district thought she was a witch, Hastings was her very last chance.

She didn’t expect love, but surely friendship wasn’t too much to ask? “I want to marry you,” she said, ignoring for the moment the conversation she’d overheard earlier.

They stared at each other. Rosalind’s heart raced, but she refused to look away before her betrothed.

Hastings cracked first. “So be it,” he ground out. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.” He took possession of her arm and propelled her toward the drawing room.

Rosalind hurried to keep pace with his longer stride and finally dug in her heels, forcing him to stop by a rose bed. “Warned about what? I don’t understand.”

In the light that spilled from the drawing room, she saw the tightening of his mouth, the slash of the scar down his cheek. The warmth of his hand heated her own and, without warning, a picture formed in her mind. Rosalind stiffened, felt her eyes widen.

It was the woman again. Heavy with child and bearing a broad smile, she skipped, happy and carefree along the edge of a stream. Rosalind’s insides churned with sudden fear, but the vision remained despite trying to block her betrothed’s thoughts. Her skin felt hot, and her clothes clung to her clammy body. She cast a quick glance at Hastings.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” She swallowed, trying to disengage from him without being too obvious. No one must learn of her accursed gift. She didn’t want tales of witchcraft to find her here at Castle St. Clare. For once she wanted an ordinary life, to feel the same as others. Mary knew of her gift, but she was the only one. It must remain that way. If Hastings discovered she had the sight, he might call off the marriage. Panic made her voice sharp. “It’s nothing. A touch of indigestion.”

Hastings snatched up her hand and, in her mind, Rosalind saw a couple dancing beneath the stars, a full moon hanging low in the sky. She bit back a soft moan of distress. The couple was in love. It was obvious in the way the man held the woman, the soft smile on his face when he gazed at her.

Questions trembled at the tip of her tongue, but one look at his face made her choke them back. Dark and unapproachable. Brooding. His expression did nothing to encourage chitchat.

The wedding would take place tomorrow. Rosalind couldn’t call it off. She wouldn’t. She refused, despite his rebuff.

Rosalind glanced at her betrothed’s face then down at the ground. Tears stung her eyes and she bit her bottom lip.

How could she marry this man knowing his thoughts were for another?

How could she not?

***

“Good morning, Miss Rosalind.” Mary’s voice sounded seconds before she whipped back the damask curtains screening the bed.

Morning? Already? Rosalind groaned softly in fatigue, not ready to rise from the comfort of the feather mattress. Not even for the enticing scent of hot chocolate wafting from the pot Mary had placed on the walnut dresser. She yanked the covers over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It was dark under the covers, but not distracting enough to keep the shadows in her mind at bay.

Today was the day.

Her wedding day.

Confusion had tied her stomach in knots, keeping her awake, twisting and turning late into the night. The fault of new surroundings, she tried to tell herself. Yet that wasn’t the whole truth. For despite the wail of the wind and the rap of a loose shutter throughout the night, the specter that preyed on her mind was that of the dark-haired man to whom she was betrothed.

The enigma—the man called George St. Clare, Viscount Hastings, or the name he answered to, Lucien—and the man who privately spurned her.

“It’s time for you to prepare for the wedding, miss.”

“I’m tired,” Rosalind muttered, struggling to sit.

“Oh, miss! I’m not surprised. Did you hear all the strange noises last night? Ghosts, I reckon. The other maids said people sometimes search for the long-lost St. Clare treasure. The ghosts haunt the castle to scare everyone away.” Her voice held distinct relish. A tiny shudder of delighted horror rippled down her body. “Or it could be smugglers. I hear they employ many of the village men.” Mary cocked her head and pursed her lips in a considering manner. “The noises be like chains rattling and moans. Lots of moans.” She shuddered again, her gaze darting to all four corners of the chamber. “No, miss. I’m sure it was ghosts.”