“Wemustmarry,” he said tightly. “Before it is too late.”
She crossed her arms. “Why must we?”
“Because…” Frustrated, he raked a hand through his blond curls. “I am not one of those men who easily gives words to his most intimate feelings.”
Rosalie had always had a good nose for a liar, and she did not believe for a second that Lysander harboredintimate feelingswhere she was concerned. “Please do not insult me by pretending this was a love match. Because we both know it was not.”
His posture stiffened. “You have disabused me of the notion that my feelings are returned. Nevertheless, I still wish for us to marry, with all possible haste.”
Rosalie was having none of it. “Do you know how many times you have called on me in the two and a half months since I accepted your proposal? None.”
He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“Do you know how many times you have asked me to dance?” she continued. “Five. Once at each ball at which we were both in attendance. At the conclusion of each dance, you returned me to my mother. Not once did you ask me to take a turn about the room, or bring me a glass of punch, much less sweep me out onto the balcony. And so I ask you, Lysander, how do you expect me to believe you harbor tender feelings for me, when all available evidence suggests that you have no desire for my company?”
He lifted his chin. “I do not expect you to understand.”
“Which is fortunate, because I do not,” she shot back. Drawing in a breath, she made a great effort to gentle her voice. “I did not mind that the arrangement you proposed was pragmatic in nature. But I did assume you would makesomeeffort to get to know me after your proposal. But every time I attempted to engage you in conversation, you contrived an excuse to leave. What else was I to conclude?”
He spoke in a clipped voice. “Suffice it to say, I had my reasons for proposing. I will ask you one more time—will you come with me to Gretna Green?”
“No,” she said gently. “No, I will not.”
“Then my reasons shall remain my own.” He bowed stiffly. “Do excuse me, my lady.”
He strode from the room, leaving Rosalie alone with her thoughts.
Chapter Three
Eight hours later, Rosalie was laced into the cornflower blue silk gown her mother had commissioned for the occasion of her betrothal ball. Her maid sculpted Rosalie’s pale red hair into a crown of braids atop her head, held in place by a ribbon of white silk. Her mother, who had still not spoken to Rosalie since breakfast, sent over a piece of jewelry from her personal collection, an oval moonstone pendant. It was two inches long and set in gold with a trio of small diamonds at its base. The duchess also sent a matching pair of earbobs.
Finally, it was time. Rosalie’s heart fluttered as she made her way toward the ballroom. Nobody had deigned to tell her what would transpire tonight, but she had spent the better part of the afternoon thinking of cryptic phrases she could employ in response to the questions she was bound to receive.
My betrothal? Now, now, I mustn’t spoil the surprise!
Never fear. My father has things well in hand.
How I wish I could tell you, but my mother has sworn me to secrecy!
Fortunately, the family butler, Stephens, waylaid her at the top of the stairs. “Lady Rosalie, if you would be so kind as to follow me.”
He led her away from the grand central staircase toward a less prominent one in the east wing. “Have you seen my father, Stephens?” Rosalie asked as she trotted after him.
“Only very briefly, my lady.”
“Did he say anything?” She hated the desperation in her own voice but was powerless to suppress it. “About what is to become of me?”
Stephens paused at the top of the stairs. His eyes were full of sympathy. “I gather that your father is planning to make some sort of announcement to start the ball. I have been instructed to bring you to the side entrance adjacent to the dais, so I presume he will call for you to join him. Although I am not privy to the nature of this announcement, I do not believe you will be forced to endure this suspense much longer.”
Rosalie swallowed. “Thank you, Stephens.”
He led her down the stairs and through a long corridor, then left her at the pair of doors he had mentioned. Rosalie bounced on the balls of her feet, full of pent-up anxiety. She could hear eager chatter from inside the ballroom. It was strange, knowing that there were five hundred people standing on the other side of that door, yet feeling so utterly alone.
Suddenly, new voices—deep voices—emerged from the far end of the corridor. Rosalie turned and saw that the door to her father’s study had opened. Two men emerged. One was unquestionably her father, but the other she could not make out between the distance and the candlelight. The only things she could say for sure were that the man had dark hair and was shorter and less burly than her father, which narrowed it down not at all.
She squinted, struggling to see. She couldn’t explain why, but something about this man had every hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Her father had his back to her now, blocking her view. She couldn’t make out any of his words, but the tone of his voice was jovial. She watched her father clasp the man’s hand, pump it three times, then slap him on the shoulder for good measure. She heard laughter as the two men broke apart, her father striding down the corridor toward her, and the dark-haired mystery man disappearing through the door from which he had come.
She lifted her skirts and hurried down the corridor to meet him. “Papa, what is going on? Who was that man? What are we?—”
