Mad With Love, page 2
“What if we ran away? What if we went to Gretna Green and eloped?”
He took her arm, pulling a stern face. “Don’t imagine such things. It would be a shame on both our families. Nothing must dishonor you. You are pure and upstanding, and you must remain so.”
“And I must lose you.” She gave a very un-Rosalind-like cry of frustration. “It is too high a price.”
She moved toward him, her gaze tortured. He let her come close, meaning to comfort her, but then their lips were an inch away, a half inch, and they were kissing. He was quite sure, when he thought back later, that both of them had done it, had moved forward against fate and propriety and stolen the kiss they should not have. Her lips were intoxicating, soft and sweet, gentle, untutored. He grasped her, one hand on her face, the other around her waist, showing her how to kiss when you could only kiss once, a first and a last time.
He was probably too rough. She was too yielding. It took all of two seconds for sanity to return, for him to pull away. She took a couple seconds longer to remember herself, a couple seconds where she looked avid and discomposed and painfully kissable. She touched her lips as his mind raced. I’ve kissed her. I’ve kissed Rosalind.
He looked past her to the outside. No one looked in at them. Everyone was still clustered around the tables in the garden, unaware this monumental kiss had just taken place. It was the first and last. It had to be.
Their gazes met and locked. Ah, Rosalind. How could he explain to her, make her see how hopeless it was? She still stood too close to him.
“Rosalind, I’m sorry. I should not have…” Should not have touched you. Should not have besmirched you. Should not have allowed either of us this glance into certain madness. “Will you forgive me?”
“For what?” She was still in a dream state. Her first kiss, he was sure of it, saved for him. “You’ll ask my parents now, won’t you? Now that you’ve kissed me?” Her brimming eyes were hopeful, full of light. “You’ll ask my parents if you can marry me? You must. Surely you see now, more than ever, that you must.”
“Are you trying to trap me into marriage? Is that why you kissed me?” He pretended to tease though his heart cracked into splinters.
“No, that’s not what I was doing.” Her delicate expressions changed like quicksilver, from satisfaction to hesitation to worry. “Marlow, we have kissed now, and I can tell more than ever that we’re meant for one another. Aren’t we?” She tried to read his grim features. “Is it that you don’t…don’t want to marry me?”
It pained him that she could even ask the question, that she could feel uncertain of her desirability after what he’d just done to her, the passionate, fleeting kiss they’d just shared.
“Of course I want to marry you, Rosalind. I ache to marry you. Damn it.” The curse shot past his crumbling defenses. “It doesn’t matter what I want. Your parents will refuse me. You’re meant for the Marquess of Brittingham. He’s a fine enough fellow. Much better than me for sure.”
Rosalind made a face. “The Marquess of Brittingham? Surely not. He’s too old.”
“He’s only a few years older than me. And he’s wealthy and powerful, the sort of man worthy to marry the daughter of a duke. Why else do you imagine your parents invite him to dinner so much?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a friend of my father’s. Just a family friend, like you. I don’t have any intention of marrying him. Anyway, you are as wealthy as him.”
But not as powerful or honorable. Marlow’s father, the Earl of Warren, was powerful indeed, active in the House of Lords, a politician and noted scion of English society. Daunted by the breadth of his father’s responsibilities—and encouraged by his profligate friends—Marlow had embarked on a notorious bachelorhood given to entertainment and pleasure instead. He’d imagined he could develop the needed couth and respect when his father was of a mind to retire, and then take over his many worthy activities. He’d never meant to marry, never imagined he’d feel such a pull to a woman, certainly not silly, young, pixie-shy Rosalind.
How dare she develop into this ravishing diamond when it was too late for him to redeem himself in time to marry her? His punishment was to watch her be given to someone else.
“I know Brittingham fairly well,” he said. “He will make a worthy husband. Ladies find him handsome. He seems steady and kind.”
“He seems boring.” Rosalind frowned. “You forget I know him as well. I can’t believe they’re considering him for my marriage when they know I love you. They let my sisters marry for love.”
“Yes, because they fell in love with reasonable prospects.”
“You must ask them.” She was near to tears again. “Have you ever asked for my hand in marriage?”
“No, sweeting.” And do not ask me to. Please.
“Can’t you call upon them and talk to them, and explain how much we care for one another? I will tell them too. Please, at least try. Don’t you regard me that much?”
“You know I do.” But I will be rejected.
“Please say you will call upon them tomorrow. Please. If you esteem me so, it makes no sense that you would not at least try—”
He put a finger upon her lips. “Enough. Fine. No more begging. I’ll do as you ask because I esteem you beyond words, but I warn you it will probably come to nothing. You mustn’t raise your hopes.”
“Nonsense. I will hope and pray and beg them. I believe love is the most important thing in the world. There is nothing I won’t do in pursuit of it.”
She was beautiful all the time, but he thought she was at her most beautiful then, when she was alive with intent. Pure, gorgeous Rosalind, her own species of flower, so showy but soft and lovely at the same time. He would go to her parents and press his suit then, prepared for mortification and defeat. He would do it for her.
Even after she married that lucky clod Brittingham, he would do anything for her.
Chapter Two
Born of Caring
Rosalind sat before her mirror, willing herself not to cry. Her audience with her parents had not gone to plan.
You are Lady Rosalind Lionel, she told herself, descended from ducal bloodlines. You have been good and kind and well-behaved all these many years. Why should you not ask to have your way?
Oh, they had listened to her and been generous in their affection, but at the end of it they had rejected her idea of marriage to Lord Marlow. Worse, they had made her feel silly for suggesting it, and jokingly threatened to take her poetic novels away. Without so many words, they had made it seem a childish whim when she was not a child. She was to come out in society this very season.
Although, why make her go through the motions of debuting and courtships when, according to Marlow, they’d already chosen her husband? The Marquess of Brittingham. Her friend Henrietta would be bereft, for she worshipped the man in all his boring glory. When Brittingham spoke to Rosalind in company at dinner, he was so earnest and proper. He didn’t have Marlow’s vitality or sparks of humor, or dashing stride. His dark eyes held none of the magic of Marlow’s pale blue gaze, none of the challenge or intensity that captured her each time their eyes met.
Now it would be up to Marlow to convince them. She stood from her mirror and began to pace, and tried to pray, though it seemed inapt to turn to God for something so worldly and romantic. She left off in her heightened state and went to the window instead, watching until she saw the carriage with Lord Marlow’s crest enter Lockridge Hall’s circular courtyard.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He had come. She’d feared he wouldn’t since he didn’t imagine he had a right to her.
No, she’d known he would come. He seemed to believe he had no honor, no prospects, but he was a viscount and a gentleman and had always been the most respectful friend to her.
She touched her lips, remembering the kiss they’d shared the day before. Well, mostly respectful. She was the one who’d thrown herself into his arms and lifted her face, needing and wanting, and when his lips had touched hers, she felt she was the one who’d lost control. Only his embrace had kept her grounded to the earth. She could still feel his arm around her, his hair against her face, the tension in his fingers, the insistent tutoring of his lips. She’d never imagined kissing could feel like you were dying and soaring at once.
The house was quiet. From her chamber’s open door, she could hear Marlow admitted to the parlor below, and hear him greeting her parents. She felt mad with anxiety and hope. Please, please…
She waited anxiously but was not summoned to join them in the parlor. It wasn’t polite to listen at doors, but she couldn’t stay away while such a monumental discussion was embarked upon. She crept down the main stairs, silent on her slippers, ignored by the servants though they surely noted her.
She did not care. She went into the smaller withdrawing room adjoining the main parlor, to the place she knew one might listen in on amusing calls and adult conversations. A trick of acoustics amplified the voices so an eavesdropper might almost be in the room. She stood leaning against the wall, listening.
Hoping.
They were still exchanging niceties, news of Marlow’s sisters, Ella, who lived in France, and Amelia, who’d just had a child. His brother Dennis was still at university, yes, still enjoying his studies. He politely asked her parents about her many siblings too, her gadabout brothers, her sisters Felicity and Belinda, while Rosalind dug her fingers into her palms to control her impatience. Please get to it. Please ask.
Finally, he cleared his throat and asked about Rosalind. He sounded nervous. Her heart seemed to beat triple fast. She placed her hand over it and listened to their conversation about her. He said what a pleasure it was to see her at Bouncer’s memorial gathering the previous afternoon. Behind her wall, Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut, hoping, praying again. Please, God. Please, of all things…
“I must tell you, Your Graces, that my affections for Rosalind have deepened to such a degree that I felt I must call upon you and express how strongly I feel.”
Oh, that was well said, thought Rosalind.
“We do love her very much.” That was her mother’s voice. “She is our youngest, you know.”
“You have been a friend to Rosalind for a long time.” Her father now. “It’s only natural that you would hold her in such high regard.”
There was a pause. Rosalind pressed her hand over her heart.
“Indeed, I—I do hold her in high regard. More than that, I have—I have given some consideration to whether we might make a match. Our families are so close.”
“Perhaps too close,” her mother murmured.
“I don’t pretend that I would be the most worthy or elevated candidate for her hand, but I can say in all certainty that I love Rosalind, and I believe those feelings are returned on her part.”
“Come now. Love?” Her father forced a laugh. She did not like the sound of it. “Rosalind is so young. She has not yet made her debut. Her mother and I are aware she’s fancied herself ‘in love’ with you for some time now, but it’s our view she’s too young to really know her heart.”
“She’s barely been out in society,” her mother echoed. “As for these feelings of love, she’s never been courted by you or any other. Dear Marlow, I must concur with my husband. She’s not ready yet to receive a proposal of marriage.”
“Might I ask to court her this season, then? To prove myself worthy of her hand?”
Another wretched silence. Her father cleared his throat.
“We esteem you greatly, Lord Marlow,” said her father. “You’re a fine fellow and Townsend’s closest friend, but I can’t grant you permission to court my daughter at this time. Perhaps in the future.”
“Yes, dear Marlow.” Her mother’s bright, kind voice couldn’t compensate for how poorly they were treating him. The future? Her parents had already practically written her marriage contract to Lord Brittingham. They’d recommended him as an excellent prospect during her earlier audience, as if the thought of some bland, lofty peer might erase all she felt for Lord Marlow.
“I understand your perspective,” he said, his voice sounding tighter than usual.
“We perceive you do not like it,” said her mother, still kind. “But you must understand—”
“My lady, I do, in fact, understand. I thank you nonetheless for receiving me today.”
Rosalind stood, incredulous, listening to her parents’ quiet words, nice words, bidding Lord Marlow to enjoy the remainder of his day as if they hadn’t just cut him to nothing. He’d said it would happen, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. She was moving, striding, sailing through the door into the parlor before she thought how shocking it would seem for her to burst from the adjoining room.
“Please don’t go,” she said to Lord Marlow, who’d nearly reached the door leading to the hallway.
“Rosalind, dear,” her mother began.
“Tell them,” she entreated him. “Tell them you must marry me.”
“Lady Rosalind.” His gaze was hurt and angry. “You must listen to your parents. They know better than me who you ought to marry.”
“But I’m the one who must be in the marriage. Am I to have no say?”
“You will have a say, but you’re also duty-bound to listen to your parents in such matters.” There was warning in his patient tone. His use of the word “duty” was not by chance.
“You’re in very high spirits,” her mother said, coming to take her hands. “Let Lord Marlow go, and we’ll speak more together when you’ve calmed.”
“Speak of what? Lord Brittingham?” Her voice grew thick with tears. “I want to marry Lord Marlow, don’t you see? We are in love, truly. We have kissed.”
Her mama went still beside her. She realized as her father turned toward Marlow that she had said a very wrong thing. She had never seen Marlow look terrified before. Careless, reckless, even sad a few moments ago, but never terrified.
“Well, I kissed him,” she said quickly. “When he was consoling me after Bouncer’s funeral.”
“Consoling you, eh?” Her father scowled at Marlow. “Did he take advantage?”
“It was my doing,” she said, wary of her father’s glower. “I—I was upset.”
“I hold myself entirely to blame for the incident,” said Marlow. “Though it was hardly a kiss, Your Graces. More a comfort in her sorrow. I would not have trespassed further for the world.” Marlow had gone pale, staring from her father back to her. “We spoke in Townsend’s greenhouse of wishing to court, to marry,” he admitted. “I told her it would not be possible, that you would not find me worthy. She became morose and… There was an embrace, a small kiss, to comfort her only. It lasted a second or two at most.”
“A second or two too long, wouldn’t you say?”
“Your Grace, it was born of caring, not disrespect. I value her above all others even if I am not deemed deserving of her hand.”
Rosalind opened her mouth to speak but her mother squeezed her fingers, a wordless order to silence. She bit her tongue instead and blinked. She’d hoped confessing the kiss might make a marriage more possible between them. Foolish of her. It had only served to enrage her father and make Marlow seem an even less appropriate match.
“Papa.” She forced the word out, her voice trembling. “Please, may I explain? I mean to say… I have spoken so carelessly, and I would—”
“We’ll speak later,” he said in a tone that made her tremble worse. “Leave us now. Go to your bedroom and wait there.”
She ducked her head and obeyed, not even daring to look at Lord Marlow, to see the damage she’d wrought upon his character with her impulsive outburst. Her heart ached too at the way he’d dismissed the kiss they’d shared. It had meant so much to her. He’d said it was “hardly a kiss.” He’d called it an “incident.” She was sobbing before she reached the stairs, and fully weeping by the time she reached her chambers and threw herself down on her bed.
*
Marlow mounted the steps to his carriage and threw himself inside. Damned pompous thing. He only owned it for times like this when he had to pretend to be a gentleman. As soon as they left the environs of Lockridge Hall, he pounded on the roof to make his groom stop so he could escape the gilded interior. He felt too dirty for the silken cushions. Filthy. Incandescent with rage.
He didn’t know who the rage was aimed at. Rather, there was too much rage to parcel out who had earned what. The lion’s share was directed at himself for behaving like an utter buffoon before Rosalind’s parents. The duke and duchess had also earned his wrath for pretending to care about him while they shamed him until he felt like the lowliest insect scurrying upon the ground. The final weight of rage fell upon Rosalind, who’d burst in at the end and nearly gotten him murdered by her father.
He walked faster, his boots pounding the ground. Not literally murdered, of course. Their families were too close to murder one another’s offspring. No, he had been figuratively murdered, receiving such a tongue-lashing from the Duke of Lockridge that his ears still rang with the tersely delivered syllables. I warn you, do not find yourself alone with Rosalind again. Should my daughter’s reputation become entwined with yours, I will make you regret it. He was sent out the door with instructions not to call again at the Lockridge home unless he should be summoned.
Which he most certainly would not.
He could not relax his clenched fists. He could not slow his furious breathing. He felt as if he’d been kicked hard in the balls, so damaged was his manhood and pride. This was Rosalind’s fault, this emasculation. She had enticed him to kiss her, then to call upon her parents even though he’d known it was for naught.
Then to burst into the room and tell her parents he’d kissed her? Had the outburst, the confession, been her aim all along? A stolen kiss was enough to force a marriage if the parents were so inclined and regarded the gentleman as an even remotely appropriate candidate.
