But her most important conundrum—whether she should marry Lucian Deverell—remained as puzzling as ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
The following day, the Brazen Belle published a follow-up column as promised:
Greetings, Dear Readers,
I had not thought I would have an update for you for some weeks. But in a most unexpected twist, Lu— D— returned to London on the very evening my column appeared! Not only that, but he has already received his letters patent from the House of Lords, affirming his position as Lord V?—.
This does beg the question of why he chose to return when he did. I have it on good authority that Lord J— did not send his letter summoning the new viscount back to London until the last week of January—not nearly enough time for Lu— to receive the letter and make the voyage home. What, then, prompted him to return? Your diligent Belle continues to investigate.
But that is neither here nor there. The primary reason I am publishing this second column is to properly document the amorous exploits of our new Lord V—. Alas, I fear an entirecolumn will not be sufficient to truly do them justice, but we will make the attempt….
Rosalie skimmed the majority of the column. She did not particularly want to read about how a young Lucian had cut a swath through thetonafter leaving Cambridge and was sought after as a bed partner by such luminariesas Lady Nesbitt and the Countess of Rugeley, nor about his recent affair with the Marchesa D’Arienzo while he was in Venice.
She finally reached the conclusion:
I hardly need relate what has happened in the week since Lord V— returned to London. I believe the entiretonwas there to watch as he stepped into his cousin’s shoes, claiming not merely the title and Deverell House, but his cousin’s betrothed! One cannot help but wonder if he really means to go through with it. We all know how determined Lord V— is to spite his cousin. But it is difficult to picture a man who has sampled the charms of so many of Europe’s most beautiful women shackled to a sad little spinster like Lady R— d— L?—.
Rosalie set down the gossip sheet with a sigh. She didn’t know why she read the blasted thing. It wasn’t as if the Brazen Belle ever portrayed her in a flattering light.
Still, the Belle had raised an interesting point. If Lord Jarvis had indeed written to Lucian to notify him that he was in line for the title in the last week of January, then he could not possibly have made it back to London by February first.
Why, then, had he returned?
Rosalie had little time to contemplate the answer, as her mother came bustling into the breakfast room. “Rosalie,thereyou are! What on earth are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?”
Rosalie glanced down at her Wedgewood-blue morning dress flocked with tiny white fleur de lis. “I’m eating breakfast, Mama. And I am dressed.”
Her mother huffed. “Not in anything you can wear to the wedding! Go and change. The archbishop will be arriving within the hour.”
Rosalie blanched. “Wedding? What wedding?” Although she had a terrible feeling that she already knew. There was only one reason for an archbishop to be coming to their house, and it did not involve a respectable eight-week engagement.
Her mother responded with a withering look. “Yourwedding, of course. Did you see what that awful Brazen Belle woman wrote about you? As if anyone could object to marryingmydaughter!” The duchess radiated scorn. “Well, we’re going to show her how very wrong she is when Lucian marries you this very morning.”
“But I haven’t agreed to marry Lucian!” Rosalie protested.
Her mother rolled her eyes, an action that would have earned Rosalie a reprimand. “Not this again.”
The duchess seized Rosalie’s elbow, lifted her from her chair, and propelled her through the door. As her mother marched her up the stairs, Rosalie reflected that her mother was surprisingly strong for a woman four inches shorter and twenty-two years older than her. But of course, Henrietta de Lacy had a superior motivation. She had been dreaming of this day, when she would finally make a respectable match for her obstinate daughter, practically since Rosalie was in leading strings. A battalion of cavalry elephants could not have stopped her.
The duchess propelled Rosalie into her bed chamber. Spread out on the bed was a dress Rosalie had never seen before. She knew at once it was her wedding dress. It was white silk with an overlay of gossamer-thin white netting, embroidered richly around the hem and up the front with pale pink roses. Rosaliewas partially pleased, because the dress was truly stunning, and partially annoyed, because it did not seem to have occurred to her mother that she might like to have some input into her own wedding gown.
Rosalie was summarily stuffed into the dress by Bernadette and her mother’s lady’s maid, Margaret. Her hair was taken down from its simple twist and woven into an elaborate tower of curls and ringlets, adorned with threads of seed pearls and, of course, pink roses that perfectly matched the embroidery on her dress.
Forty minutes later, Rosalie’s mother was dragging her back down the stairs.
In the entryway, Stephens came over and murmured something in her mother’s ear. “Archbishop Sutton!” her mother exclaimed, hurrying toward the cream parlor. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Rosalie paused in the corridor connecting to the foyer, taking a moment to gather herself. What on earth was she going to do? Her mother clearly expected there to be a wedding. Gracious, the Archbishop of Canterbury was here! And yet, Rosalie felt dread churning in the pit of her stomach when she contemplated shackling herself ‘til death did they part to the man who had uttered such cruel words to her in Mrs. Parkhurst’s orangery two years ago. At the same time, her investigation had not turned up sufficient evidence of villainy to persuade her father to call the whole thing off.
The front door swung open, and Rosalie braced herself, expecting to see Lucian.
But the man who appeared in the doorframe looked to be around sixty years old, with grey hair and shoulders that had just started to stoop. Rosalie could not make out all of their conversation, but she heard the man say her name.
Curious, she drifted closer, stopping behind a potted palm. She caught the visitor mid-sentence. “… called on me yesterday, but I was out. I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I would stop in.”
Stephens bowed. “That was very kind of you, sir. But I am afraid Lady Rosalie will not have time to meet with you this morning. You see, today is her wedding day.”
