Karen Harbaugh (8 page)

Rothwick looked at him keenly. “You seem to be taking this quite calmly, Amberley,” he commented.

Richard had the grace to blush. “Yes, well—that is to say—” He stopped and looked Rothwick straight in the eye. “Frankly, sir, after my first, ah, misgivings, I’m not all that sure Sophie didn’t have it coming to her. She’s—she’s damnably difficult to live with sometimes.”

The earl smiled disbelievingly. “Really? She seems charming enough to me.”

“Of course,” Richard replied bitterly. “You’re not her brother. What’s more, you’re an earl. Easy enough to be charming to someone like you.” He paused and came to a decision. “I’ll tell you what, Rothwick: I think you are doing the right thing. I think Sophie is not really ready for marriage; but convincing her to end the engagement won’t be easy. Father’ll see your side of it; any sensible man would. But females aren’t sensible. Sophie is sure to make a fuss over it, but—but I can do something about that.”

Rothwick looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps we should talk with your father.”

Richard shook his head. “Oh, no! After all, it is not as if Sophia did not have an army of admirers. She will be speedily consoled.” Privately he thought his father would have little effect on Sophia’s actions. He believed he could make her break off the engagement, but a little doubtful part of him was sure his sister would even the score if he succeeded. But oh, how wonderful it would be to manipulate Sophia for a change!

* * * *

Linnea’s breakfast was taken from her chamber almost untouched. When Rothwick came to see how she did, he found her curled up on a large armchair by the fireplace. She had a faraway look in her eyes as she gazed into the fire, but it was a sad look as well—or so he fancied, he told himself.

Miss Ashley did not look up at him immediately when he came near. “You did not tell me you were betrothed,” she said quietly, still staring at the fire.

“I did not deem it necessary,” replied Rothwick. “The saving of your reputation was of more import than any social announcement, I think.”

“That poor girl,” said Linnea, and she finally looked at him. The flames in the hearth had far less heat than the anger in her eyes. She stood up. “I think she is well out of the betrothal, my lord, indeed I do! To carry off a woman with the intent to make her your mistress, just when you are newly betrothed!” She raised her hand to her cheek to damp a rising blush and turned away. “It is despicable!”

She did not know what to expect—excuses, protestations. Instead she heard only the crackling fire in the short silence between them, and then: “You are right.”

Linnea turned back slowly, then searched his face for any trace of insincerity. There was none. Rothwick’s eyes were grim, his mouth turned up in a self-mocking smile. “I am wholly despicable, am I not, for trying to separate my rich and gullible nephew from what I thought was scheming Covent Garden ware. And what a horrible beast I am, for trying to teach that bit of muslin such a salutary lesson that she would never manipulate a member of my family again.”

“How could you mistake me for a, a—Surely there was nothing in my dress, or my manner, that could have, have—”

Lord Rothwick grimaced. “No, there was not, especially now that I look back on it. But my sister described an attractive young woman in half mourning, who was setting herself up as a widow—”

“You must have been mad to have carried me off on that description alone!” gasped Linnea. “Why, there must be hundreds of young women in half mourning in London!”

The earl had the grace to look uncomfortable but said: “Paul is not in the habit of escorting hundreds of young women in half mourning, and he had his usual besotted look that he gets when he is falling into calf-love. I assumed, therefore, that you were Cassey Pickens.”

“You assumed! Could you not even have asked my name?” cried Linnea.

“I am not in the habit of conversing with courtesans in the presence of family,” Rothwick replied stiffly.

“‘You are not in the habit—”‘ Linnea stared at him, nonplussed. She felt for the armchair and sat down suddenly. She covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders started to shake.

“My dear Miss Ashley!” exclaimed Rothwick, and put his arm around her shoulders. “You have had some severe shocks, I know. But you must not cry. I know you are a woman of sense; your situation is salvageable, you know.”

Linnea pulled away and to Rothwick’s astonishment raised eyes full of tears of laughter, not of sorrow. “I think—I think,” gasped Linnea, “I must be living in a farce. First you mistake me, a vicar’s daughter, for a fallen woman; you then abduct me, and heap all sorts of abuse upon me; then, after you find out your mistake, your betrothed nearly calls me a doxy. And now you say you are not in the habit of conversing with courtesans—” She gasped again and went off into another wail of laughter. “All this because of one little ‘habit.’“

Linnea put a hand to her mouth to suppress another hysterical giggle and finally managed to sober herself. “Oh, my, I never thought a virtuous habit could ever have such disastrous results, did you?”

She saw affront and then a reluctant grin on Rothwick’s face. Linnea laid a hand on his sleeve. “You must not think, my lord, that I was laughing at you. I think—I think, if I didn’t laugh at all this, I most surely would cry, and I couldn’t do that, you see,” she said simply.

Rothwick did see, and a spark of admiration for her flared in him. There were not many women who would have stood the rigors of what she had just gone through without succumbing to hysterics or the vapours, or at least casting a few sorrowful looks at him. But she was not one of those; indeed, he was not sure what sort of woman she really was. A superior sort, at least, perhaps.

“You are a most admirable lady, Miss Ashley,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. The kiss was brief, but she blushed.

“Fustian, my lord!” she replied. “It is only that I have few sensibilities.”

“Who told you that?”

“My cousin, Lady Boothe, for one. My father never said it in so many words, but he often praised me for my practicality.” She smiled wryly.

“A worthy virtue,” said the earl.

“Mmm, yes, but hardly romantic,” said Linnea, and waved a dismissing hand. “I am resigned to it. Certainly it is a more comfortable attribute than excessive sensibility.”

“Most certainly!” Rothwick grinned. Then, sobering, he said: “I have talked with Miss Amberley’s brother. We have agreed that his sister’s and my betrothal should end.”

“But, my lord, surely that is not necessary!”

“It is most necessary. I hope to brush through this thing with as little scandal as possible. He hopes to convince her to break off the betrothal because I am not worthy of her.” He grimaced. That news should not be difficult to spread. It was already being bruited about by the servants, he was sure. It was awkward, damned awkward, and an annoyance. He had had his marriage and life with Miss Amberley fairly well planned out in his mind. Now it seemed he would have another bride. With any luck, his life would not change much. He continued. “If he is successful, I plan to retire to the country to, ah, nurse a broken heart and repent the consequences of my vices. Meanwhile, you will be staying with my sister, Lydia, where we ostensibly meet for the first time. After a suitable period, we will marry.”

“And have I no say in what is to happen to me?” Linnea said quietly. Rothwick looked at her set face and felt perhaps she might have a point.

“I am sorry, but what else can we do? I have no doubt Sophia herself is thinking of the proper wording to end our formal betrothal even now.” Or so I hope, thought the earl.

* * * *

Indeed, Sophia was in a state of indecision: Should she make Rothwick come up to scratch after all? Or should she be the first to meet with her father and tell him what a horribly debauched man William was and that she wanted to break off their engagement? She knew Rothwick would only send a letter to her father requesting a meeting with him: her fiancé was enough of a gentleman to delay any explanations until her father arrived, at least. She ruminated on the vision of herself grandly rejecting an earl. How easy it would be to set it about that he had dealings in... Well, nothing of which a lady could speak.

Or perhaps she could make Rothwick drop that horrid woman and continue the betrothal. She paced her chamber in a tight line. How dare that hussy steal her prize from her! And yet what did she care? She knew she could have a duke if she wanted one. Indeed, she could have accepted the duke of Garston, except she had thought him a little overweight for her taste. Also, he was not as rich as Rothwick. She furrowed her brow in thought.

Richard. Sophia stopped her pacing and smiled. She always could decide what to do after talking with Richard.

Her brother did not take long to arrive at her door. Richard was used to her demands by now. Besides, there was always the faint possibility that Sophia might leave his jeweler’s bill somewhere in sight. Very faint, but he still hoped.

“Oh, Richard!” cried Sophia, casting herself at his chest. Richard neatly sidestepped her embrace and helped her to a chair. His sister gave a brief moue of discontent but said: “Did you talk to that horrid man? What did he say?”

Richard paused. He had thought long and hard about what he would report to Sophia about his meeting with the earl. An innate sense of honesty warred with at least a decade-long need for revenge. He thought of the bill for the sapphire necklace. Revenge won.

“Sophia,” he said solemnly, “I have never seen a man more heartless than the Earl of Rothwick.”

Sophia’s face brightened. “So, he is dropping that horrid woman after all!”

“No!” said Richard, flustered. “That is—What I mean to say is, he means to keep you both.”

She laughed. “Silly boy, he cannot marry both of us!”

“That’s not what I mean! He plans to marry you, and keep the other woman as his mistress!” He made his voice convincingly horror-stricken.

Sophia looked thoughtful. “I suppose that is tolerable. Just as long as he keeps her well hidden away.”

Richard was aghast. This was not going the way he intended at all. He thought quickly. “Well, that’s just it, Sophie. He is not going to keep her out of the way. He plans to leave you in the country and establish a house for her in London.”

“What!” shrieked Sophia.

A little thrill of joy in Richard’s heart threatened to make him smile, but he put it down manfully. “He specifically stated that you were to tend the estate at Staynes, and bear him strong sons to continue the line.”

“No!” Sophia’s face was set in clear disgust.

“But yes!” Richard shook his head. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but I found him... well—”

“Vulgar,” said Sophia.

“He said he preferred his light o’ love in Town. She’s got the looks that are all the crack now.” Richard had not laid eyes on the girl but knew Rothwick was always at the forefront of fashion. It did not matter what she looked like.

Sophia knew Rothwick was fashionable. She also knew Linnea had dark hair. The fashion for dark tresses had always been a matter of deep discontent with Sophia. It was unjust, something to which she had never been able to reconcile herself. And now she was to moulder in the country simply because her betrothed—former betrothed!—had the stupidity to prefer dark hair to her own wonderful blond. The vision of herself dramatically rejecting Rothwick rose again before her eyes.

“Richard, find me a pen, ink, and paper,” Sophia said grimly. “I am writing to Papa.”

Richard made a mental note to write a letter of his own. One could never be sure what Sophia would say.

* * * *

Linnea looked out of the carriage window and gazed at the green hills of Wiltshire before her: a different prospect them she had known only a few days ago. She glanced at Rothwick, and he smiled at her.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

Linnea clasped her hands together nervously but said: “I have never seen such lovely country, my lord.”

“Which is why you are tying your handkerchief into knots, I suppose.”

Linnea looked down at her hands to discover she was indeed twisting her handkerchief all about. She smoothed it out upon her lap. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“Nonsense.” Rothwick’s smile turned from wry to grim. “You have no other choice. My sister will welcome you with open arms, believe me.”

Linnea looked at him. She was not certain of that at all. “You mean, do you not, that you will tell her to do so?”

Rothwick thought of the letter he had sent Lydia, requesting her at her country house near Bath. She would not like to do so as the Season was still in force in London, but he was sure he had been convincing enough.

“Not at all,” replied Rothwick. “I have merely told her that I have some important information concerning Paul and Cassey Pickens.”

Linnea eyed him with suspicion. “But I am not Cassey Pickens.”

“I know.”

“I think Miss Amberley is well out of the betrothal,” said Linnea, irritated that he was not more forthcoming.

“I am sure she is,” he said with a grimace.

He’d had a disagreeable meeting with Sophia the evening before, in which she had tearfully broken their engagement. She had not made much sense in her accusations—something about leaving her to moulder in the country—but he had let her speak and agreed that he was a veritable monster. He had been relieved to hear she had already written to her family, informing them she would never allow herself to be allied with one such as he. It needed only a letter from him confirming the end of their engagement.

“And I suppose you are not going to tell me what you wrote to my cousin?” Linnea said testily. “I would dearly love to know how you explained my abduction.”

“I did not explain it at all, really,” replied Rothwick. “Instead I wrote—in definitely shocked accents—that I found you strangely unaccompanied on Lady Boothe’s errand. Doing the gentlemanly thing,” he said, ignoring Linnea’s gasp of outrage, “I took you to my sister’s house, where she in turn invited you to stay with her in her country home.”

“And of course my cousin will believe everything you have written.” Her voice was sarcastic, her cheeks becomingly flushed in anger, and her dark eyes snapped.