“Please, Mama—it is my future that hangs in the balance! You must tell me what is to happen.”
“Hmpf!” The duchess rose with an air of wounded dignity. “How am I to eat my breakfast amidst this onslaught of badgering?” She gestured to a footman. “Make me up a fresh plate and bring it to my chambers. Admit no one.” She accompanied her last sentence with a pointed look in Rosalie’s direction.
Rosalie stood as well. “Please, Mama. I only want to know how I shall get through this evening. Everyone is bound to ask me what is happening in light of theRake Reviewcolumn. What am I to say? How am I to…”
She trailed off as she found herself speaking to a closed door.
Rosalie sank back into her chair. She tried to finish her breakfast, but each bite made her feel queasier than the last. It was bad enough that her betrothal had just fallen apart and she was about to be humiliated before the entirety of thehaute ton. But the gossip column had contained another piece of unwelcome news—that her least favorite person on the face of this earth, Lucian Deverell, was on his way back to London. Not only that, but he was to be elevated to the rank of viscount. There truly was no justice in this world!
She could just picture the smug smirk that would grace his handsome face when he saw her again, when he learned that she was still a spinster, and by now quite firmly on the shelf.
She wondered if her father owned any properties in the Outer Hebrides to which she might retire for the foreseeable future, and if not, if he could be persuaded to make a purchase.
Speaking of her father, she might as well go and find him, as she was clearly done with her breakfast. Papa would tell her what was going on. She picked up theRake Reviewcolumn, folded it neatly into thirds, and took it with her.
But she could not find her father in any of his likely haunts. When she reached his bedchamber, she encountered his valet, Baxter, who informed her that the duke had departed at dawn to see to some urgent business with his solicitors. Rosalie supposed that probably had something to do with her betrothal, or the unraveling thereof.
Desperate, she rapped on the door to her brother Robin’s room to see if he knew what was going on. Robin, who was two years younger than her at twenty-two, had come down from Oxford especially to attend her betrothal ball. But there was no answer other than the faint sound of snoring from within.
Rosalie spent the rest of the day flitting nervously about the house, hovering near the door in hopes that she could catch her father upon his return. But the duke remained out, her mother refused to receive her, and none of the servants knew what her mother had meant by her cryptic comment about Papa having everything “well in hand.”
Just before luncheon, Rosalie was pacing the length of the library, wearing a rut in the Axminster carpet, when a footman appeared in the doorway. “You have a caller, Lady Rosalie. It is Lord Valen—” He cleared his throat, then amended, “Mr. Lysander Deverell.”
Chapter Two
Rosalie all but tripped over her feet in her haste to follow the footman to the morning room. She doubted Lysander could shed much light on her present circumstances.
But at least she could commiserate with him about this whole ridiculous situation.
“Mr. Deverell,” she said as she entered the room. She saw him wince, and quickly said, “I’m sorry. Lysander.” The name felt awkward on her tongue. She had always called him “Lord Valentine,” or “my lord.” They had somehow never advanced to deeper intimacies during the two-and-a-half months since his proposal.
She gestured toward one of the striped Chippendale chairs, then took the seat opposite him on the sage-green sofa. “I saw theRake Reviewthis morning. I’m so sorry.”
Lysander’s poetic features took on a wounded expression. “It’s that dastardly cousin of mine, Lucian. He’s always been terribly jealous of me. Well, he finally managed to take me down a peg. I suppose he’s happy with himself!”
Rosalie was no fan of Lucian Deverell’s; quite the opposite, if she was being frank. But the Brazen Belle had stated that it was a former schoolmate, Lord J—, who had instigated the investigation against Lysander’s claim to the title. Rosalie suspected that this referred to Lord Jarvis, who was about the same age as Lysander, and whose animosity toward him was well known.
Frankly, it was difficult to imagine how Lucian could have been involved, as he was hundreds of miles away, galivanting across the Continent. Normally, she would not have hesitated to point out the flaw in Lysander’s logic. But, as this had to be one of the worst days of his life, she forced herself to bite her sharp tongue. “Why do you despise him so?”
She truly was curious. If there was anyone on the face of this earth who detested Lucian as thoroughly as she did, it was Lysander. At the same time, she could not deny that Lucian had a strange pull on her, one that she found difficult to resist.
Now that he was on his way back to England, she found herself longing for more tinder to keep her animosity burning bright.
Lysander spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “We have never been close. Our temperaments could not be more different. And yet, I like to think that we could have put childhood quarrels aside and been civil with one another as adults.Icertainly could have, if not for…” He trailed off, looking down.
Rosalie very much wanted to know how that sentence ended. “If not for?” she prompted.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “The thing I was unable to forgive was his mistreatment of our grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?” She blinked, startled. “Are you referring to the fifth Viscount Valentine?”
“The very one,” Lysander confirmed.
“What did he do?” Rosalie asked eagerly.
Lysander’s handsome brow creased in sorrow. “As Grandfather grew older, certain things were no longer safe for him to do. At the same time, his mental faculties decreased so that he no longer had a firm grasp of cause and effect. Someone had to look after him—to make sure he ate properly, took his medicines, and didn’t drink himself into an early grave.” He made a bleak sound. “Of course, no grown man likes to be told what to do, but the expression that someone issufferingfrom gout is no mere hyperbole.”
“You were looking out for his best interests,” Rosalie said.
