Mrs Harrod bustled about, opened the curtains and then departed. After pouring herself a cup of the steaming chocolate, Rosalyn sunk back on her pillows, wondering if there was any way she could escape tonight’s ball. She had been to more of these affairs since arriving in London ten days ago than in the eight years since her own coming-out.
Her husband, John, had considered ton parties a frivolous waste of time, as did most of his scholarly colleagues. After the miserable, tongue-tied shyness of her one and only season, she had been grateful.
Sometimes she had longed for a little more gaiety. It seemed after the first year or so of their marriage, as he became more deeply immersed in completing the massive book he’d spent years working on, that anything which distracted him from his work was a waste of time.
Including her.
Tears pricked her eyes. She brushed them away with an angry hand. It was only that she had lost so many people she loved in the past five years, first John, then her mother a year later. Her father’s spirit had been buried along with her mother, his body finally succumbing to a bout of influenza two years later. Now, she was losing James.
She had come to London, hoping to somehow bridge the gap between them. Since their mother’s death, he’d walled off his emotions, rarely talking to her as he once had. Her father had been no help; lost in his own sorrow, he’d scarcely noticed James was growing more unmanageable, running around with some of the wildest young men in the neighbourhood. After her father died, he stayed away from Meryton for long periods of time, only once bringing a group of his new friends down for a week.
Rosalyn had been appalled. It took no more than a few hours in their company to discover he kept company with some of the most disreputable rakehells in London. She’d stayed out of their way, afraid to say anything to James for fear he’d shut her out even more. But he’d never asked them again.
She finally forced herself out of bed. Her abigail, Annie, helped her dress in a long-sleeved navy print cambric gown with a ruff around the throat, then dressed her hair in its usual knot.
Rosalyn had just reached the staircase when Mrs Harrod bustled up to her, her plump face shining with curious excitement.
‘You have a visitor, my lady. I have shown him to the drawing room.’
‘A visitor? Is it James?’
‘No, not your brother.’ Mrs Harrod clasped her hands. Her voice quivered with anticipation. ‘It is the Marquis of Stamford, my lady. He wishes to see you.’
Rosalyn backed away from the staircase, her hand fluttering to her throat. What was he doing here so early? It was hardly the hour for morning callers. Did he think she was at his disposal at any time?
‘Lord Stamford? He wishes to see me? Please inform him I am not at home.’
‘But, my dear, he is very anxious to see you.’
‘No, I certainly do not want to see him. It is much too early.’
Mrs Harrod pursed her lips in disapproval. When she saw Rosalyn did not plan to relent, she nodded and bustled away.
Irritated, Rosalyn turned back to her room. She supposed he’d finally decided to return her fan. A full three days had passed since the rout. Well, he could leave it with Mrs Harrod. She would hide out until he left. She picked up a novel she was reading, but the words jumbled into nonsense.
She jumped at the knock on her door. Mrs Harrod poked her head around the edge, her face devoid of expression.
‘His lordship wishes me to inform you he will not leave until you see him. He will wait for your convenience, even if it is past midnight.’
‘That is most ridiculous.’ But something about his confident, overbearing manner made her think he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, effectively holding her prisoner in her room. She could hardly go about her business while he cooled his heels in the drawing room. What if someone called? Her grandmother, for instance. She closed her book and rose.
The strange sensation that her life was about to be altered forever floated over her. But how silly—she had never been prone to such fanciful notions.
With reluctant steps, she entered her drawing room. The morning sun cast a friendly glow about the small yellow room. Her unwanted visitor sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, absorbed in a leather-bound volume, his buckskin-clad legs stretched out before him. He didn’t notice her presence for a few seconds and then he glanced up, closed the book and laid it aside. He rose to his feet in a lazy movement.
He was dressed much as he had been the first time she saw him, in riding coat and breeches, and top-boots, his cravat tied carelessly about his neck. His elegance looked out of place amidst the fading Oriental carpet and the comfortable but old-fashioned furnishings of the room.
His face was relaxed and his manner confident, as if there was no reason he was not perfectly welcome in her home.
‘Lady Jeffreys, I did not expect to see you quite so soon. I was betting on some time in late afternoon.’
This threw her off completely. ‘Indeed. I usually don’t keep visitors waiting that long.’
‘In my case, I was not sure. I am relieved, although my day is at your disposal. I decided to fetch a book from the library to occupy my time.’
‘A book?’
‘Does that astound you? I occasionally engage my mind in less dissipated pursuits, such as reading. I have even been known to pick up a volume of philosophy or history on occasion. But only when I have tired of sitting around a gaming table, stealing away estates or pursuing improper women.’
‘Is there a purpose for your visit, my lord?’ she asked with ice in her voice.
‘Yes. To return your fan, of course. And to speak with you in private. I would not have called so early, except I did not want you to flee.’ He held out her fan. She took it from him, careful to avoid any contact with his hand.
Her voice trembled for some odd reason. ‘I see. I can’t imagine what you would wish to speak to me about.’
‘I wish to discuss your brother’s gambling debt. I have a proposition to lay before you that I believe will benefit both of us. If you will sit, I will tell you.’
Even more confused, she quickly seated herself on one of the Queen Anne chairs. He settled back in the other, his eyes fixed on her face. The horrid premonition he was about to offer her another carte blanche caused her heart to beat uncomfortably fast. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
‘I do not think you will find my proposal too distasteful. I merely want you to become betrothed to me.’
Her heart stopped for a dizzying moment. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I would like you to become betrothed to me in exchange for returning your brother’s estate to him.’
Her hand went to her throat. ‘Betrothed to you! You must be mad! I would never consider such a thing!’
‘Do you always answer your offers with such an excess of civility?’ he inquired drily. ‘Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time. I am in need of a temporary fiancée.’
He sounded as if he were discussing the need for a new pair of boots.
‘A temporary fiancée? Whatever for? I have never heard of anything so…so ridiculous!’ She stood up and backed away from him towards the window, knotting her hands.
He rose and followed her. ‘Not at all. My father has informed me it’s high time I marry. He’s already chosen the bride. I want to put a stop to his plans before I wake up one morning and find I’m expected to show up at the altar before noon. If I produce a fiancée