Chapter Eleven

“A moment of your time, daughter.”

Rosamunde looked at her father and marveled how she still didn’t feel anything toward him. Not a single thing. Not anger, hatred, betrayal or the slightest hint of loyalty. When it came to him, she could only say she was empty.

“Of course.” She walked toward him and followed him into his study. Her mind was on the invitation she’d gotten for a weekend with the Heartstones.

As usual, it was well-heated, and she took the time to enjoy not shivering and trying to burrow beneath every blanket she could get a hold of. Waiting for his instruction, she took the chair he indicated. Back straight, legs back, hooked at the ankles. Sitting how she’d been trained to do since she was little.

Even though since then I’ve been nothing but a disappointment.

“Your new husband is on his way.”

She blinked.

“Nothing to say about it?”

“What good would it be to argue? You are selling me. Your decision has been made.”

The slightest bit of pain flashed but it didn’t last long, nor did it make her waver from her stance.

He flattened his lips. “How much longer does your brother have to train with the earl?”

“You would have to ask him. I go there and read by the fire while they train. I’m not involved in any of their discussions.”

Her father frowned. “I thought that was one of his stipulations. The earl said you were to be there.”

“I am there, but I’m not participating in the training.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you would like me to do so.”

Honestly, she’d enjoyed sparring with Bryn. There had been a sense of worth and accomplishment when Bryn’d allowed her that time.

“It’s not for women.”

Rosamunde shrugged. “Fine then. Is there something else? I am supposed to meet Lady Heartstone.”

A sneer on his face this time. “You shouldn’t hang around the sister. She’s no better than he is.”

Fury rose within her but she tamped it down. “I was referring to the marchioness but I can send along my refusal and your words as to why.”

He blanched.

“No. You’ll not speak of this to anyone. I didn’t say anything to insult her. Remember that.”

She had no desire to be in his presence any longer. Rising from the chair, she gave him a nod and walked out, for the first time in her life not waiting for his permission to do so.

“Rosamunde!” he called out behind her.

“Yes, Father?”

“You’d better not be lying to me.”

“Are you ready to go, Miss Fletcher?” Lady Heartstone stood in her entryway, looking every bit the regal royal she was.

A gasp behind her from her father was all she got before he brushed by her, hand outstretched.

“What an honor to have you in my home, Lady Heartstone.”

“Is it?” Her tone was cold and haughty. “I was under the impression you had an issue with my children and me.” A small shoulder lift. “At least that’s how one could take the words you said in your study.”

Sure her face was red as a rose, Rosamunde edged by her father to stand before the marchioness. “Would you rather cancel, my lady?”

Lady Heartstone pulled her into a hug. “Of course not. I have such wonderful plans for us today. Shopping, dining, and tonight, the opera. You will of course be spending the weekend with us in the country. We leave tonight after the opera.” She cocked an eyebrow as she looked at Rosamunde’s father.

The man cleared his throat but didn’t dare dispute a woman above his station. “Take care of my daughter, my lady.”

A smile that would best be described as bordering on feral graced her lips. “She’ll be treated like she’s one of my own. Children are precious. Come, my dear, let us take our leave.”

Side by side they walked down to the waiting carriage. Rosamunde breathed deep inside the warm carriage, picking up on hints of lavender. Lady Heartstone sat beside her and never said a word to the driver. The well-sprung carriage moved out and she leaned back in the seat.

“Are you okay, my dear?”

“Fine, my lady. Thank you, but I don’t have the clothing for the opera.”

She patted her on the leg. “Not yet, you don’t.” Lady Heartstone stretched out her legs and Rosamunde blinked in shock as she noticed her footwear. Something she’d only seen in books. Moccasins.

Noticing her focus, Lady Heartstone lifted the hem of her dress, letting her see them more easily.

“I’ll be sure to get you a pair. I believe you and Keely have similar size feet. These are so much more practical than anything the Englishwomen wear. Plus the kind of footwear you wear here in England hurt my feet where these don’t.” She gave a small chuckle. “Years and I can’t bring myself to wear them like others.”

Too in awe to be embarrassed or realize she shouldn’t be discussing such things, Rosamunde bent closer.

“They’re incredible. Does someone in London make them?”

Releasing her hem, Lady Heartstone leaned back and Rosamunde followed her example.

“I’m sure someone here would. I made these however. I’ve made all the ones I have, and my family’s.” She gave her a kind smile. “We’ll have a pair of Keely’s for you for the trip and we’ll make you a pair at Heartstone.”

“Not to sound ungrateful, my lady, but why would you want me there? Why me?”

Lady Heartstone’s expression grew serious. “Why not you? You’re a friend of my children. We are having a gathering of family and friends.” She took a deep breath and patted Rosamunde on the leg. “Plus, I feel you could do with some pampering. And that’s what I do to people in my circle.”

Tears burned but Rosamunde ferociously blinked them back. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to call me by my first name, are you?”

Rosamunde shook her head.

“Didn’t think so. You’ll be among family and friends, so have fun.”

The carriage stopped and the marchioness winked at her seconds before the door opened and they were helped down into the cold once more. This time they were in front of a modiste. Lady Heartstone lifted her skirts, climbed the steps to the door and walked in, tossing a quick glance over her shoulder. Rosamunde paused behind her and waited, ignoring the desire in her gut to become invisible as most treated her. The brief smile informed her she’d done the right thing.

“My lady,” a slender woman gushed with honest pleasure as she hurried over. Vibrant red and blonde hair had been piled up in an intricate knot on the top of her head. While simple, her gown fit splendidly and accentuated every dip and swell.

She could not get a sense of an accent like her sisters had always mentioned when they’d returned home from trips with their mother to places like this.

“Lola, it’s a pleasure.”

“Always, my lady. What can I do for you?”

“We need a few dresses and outfits. Most importantly, we are attending the opera tonight and she will need something for that outing.”

Lola gave Lady Heartstone a nod and swung her gaze to Rosamunde. She held her breath and waited for the usual barrage of unkind words about her weight and plain looks.

Nothing like that came. Instead Lola held out a hand and took her with a gentle yet firm grasp to the back. “Let’s see what we are working with. Coat off, if you please.”

Rosamunde noticed that Lady Heartstone hadn’t joined them.

The modiste tsk ed much like her past governesses had done with one exception—there was no malice in the sound. “Come, child. We have much work to do, she will be out there when you are finished. Take off the coat.”

She obeyed and Lola clucked her tongue. “Whomever makes your dresses are not doing so to flatter your curves, my dear. We will fix that.”

Curves were to be flattered? All her life she’d been taught to hide them.

Stripped down to her underthings, she gratefully slid on a warm robe after measurements had been taken. For a few moments, to tweak the dress she’d come in with was what Lola had said.

“How’s it going?” Lady Heartstone came in the back holding two mugs and handed her one.

“I’m not sure, if I’m honest.”

The heat pushed into her skin and Rosamunde smiled, curving her hand around the tea mug. The drink wasn’t as dark as she was used to drinking but the scent was incredible, a bit minty.

“She’s unique, but she is absolutely amazing at what she does. I come to her for all my dresses now. So do Mrs. Morgan and Lady Edais.”

Names Rosamunde knew because they were women with skin similar to the marchioness’. Dark skinned, and not any of them were of English blood. By far some of the nicest women she’d heard about in London.

“They will be joining us at Heartstone.” Lady Heartstone sipped some tea. “It’s a green tea with some mint in it. I’m partial to this over black tea.”

Rosamunde’s heart thundered and she took a sip of tea to try to allay her fears of standing here in a robe with a marchioness. With her right there in front of her, it was harder to ignore than when she was in a different room.

“It’s delicious, my lady.”

Lola returned and had her dress draped over one arm.

“I did some work here to make it better. Not one of mine, but better.” She laid it over the footstool by Rosamunde. “I will get to work on the others and have them done as soon as possible. The one for the opera will be first and I’ll have someone deliver it to your home.”

Lady Heartstone smiled and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Lola.”

A curtsey. “It’s always my honor to serve, my lady.”

“Get dressed, Rose, we should be going.” A pause. “May I call you Rose?”

“You, my lady, may call me anything you want.”

A small laugh. “Good to know.” Back to Lola. “Additional funds for finishing so promptly.”

A smile graced Lola’s face. “Thank you.”

While the women spoke, Rosamunde stood, finished her tea and shucked the robe before reaching for the dress. As she pulled it over her head, she found Lola there, pins in her mouth along with a needle and thread.

Without a word, the seamstress moved her to face the other way and buttoned her up. She went to her knees and made sure the length worked then assisted her back into the shoes she would be perfectly happy never wearing again. Lola never once said anything about the thinness of her socks or the small holes in them.

Popping up in front of her, Lola grinned. “There.” Then she spun her to the mirror. Lola stood beside her and held her gaze in the mirror. “Much better, yes?”

Rosamunde lost her breath. It was her, but it wasn’t.

She stared at her reflection, trying to process that this was the same dress she’d walked out of the house in. The sage green dress had fit her like a sack. Now she had curves. She looked, dare she say it, pretty.

Maybe now Bryn would look at her instead of through her.

* * * *

Rosamunde is going to be within reach all weekend? I’m in some form of hell.

His mother meddled.

Bryn knew this. His father knew it, his sister and Falcon knew it. What he didn’t know was why she did this.

His mother had grown up the same place he had, in the wilds of America, learning life was hard and how to appreciate nature and all she offered. Also, to respect her. Being over here, in England, she’d not lost that edge. Sure it had softened, slightly, but she still viewed a good number of things as a threat to her and her family.

Which again doesn’t explain to me why she is meddling and what her reason is to do so.

He’d gotten home from his daily beating of Rosamunde’s brother. Or boxing lesson, whichever. Meant the same thing to him. People could call it what they wanted to because it made no never mind to him.

Bryn lowered himself into the tub of hot water that had been brought to his room upon his return. Reaching for a rag, he began to wash off the sweat and grime from the day. It wouldn’t do to try to head to the opera looking like he’d just finished a fight.

Personally, he couldn’t imagine being so apathetic toward one of his siblings. And the ones he’d grown up around were not siblings by blood, but because he considered them family. And he was the eldest in their group so it was his personal job, in his mind, to look out for all of them. Hard to do when some lived here and some far away from him in the islands.

He smiled as he thought of Uncle Phillip and Aunt Fyre. He’d not seen them for a while and perhaps it would do him some good to go there on his way to America. He’d also not seen their children, the three she’d adopted when her brother had been killed and the three she’d had with Phillip.

Phillip was one of his father’s best friends so he’d seen a lot of the man while he was growing up. Now, not so much since the man lived on an island with Aunt Frye. When he’d been younger their interactions, well, not all of it good, but his father hadn’t ever given up on him. These men were close and had taught him, Falcon and the others about long-lasting, true friendships.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t still suspicious. Not of his uncle. His mother and her aspirations. Because his mother was crafty and sneaky. And she’d suddenly stopped talking about him needing to find a wife. Which made him all the more suspicious.

Dunking his head, he wet his head and set to cleaning his hair.

Normally there were some subtle, and some not-so-subtle, hints about how she wanted him to settle down and stop carousing around town with Falcon. But that had stopped. Not gradually, but all of a sudden.

Bryn rinsed off his hair and leaned back, allowing the hot water to soothe his aching muscles. Rosamunde’s brother had gotten a good punch in today, and his side was sore from it, tender even.

His cock stiffened at the thought of Rosamunde. She’d not been with Lovell today and that had made Bryn surly. He wanted her there, where he could keep an eye on her. Where he knew she was safe. And warm.

Nothing he’d found out about this man her father was selling her to made him happy. At some point he needed to talk about all of it with Falcon, the calm head between them. Especially when it came to Rosamunde. Bryn scrubbed his hand over his chest and sighed. He may be the son of a marquess and an earl in his own right, but he still had connections with people in London’s underworld.

Ones his father wouldn’t be pleased with but ones who cared far more about the color of money over the hue of one’s skin. And that, he was more comfortable working with and around. There was no pretense, no saying one thing before his face and something different behind it. So long as he had the scratch, he could get the information he desired.

And there was a bit of a truce between him and Seamus “Jimmy Mac” MacGuire now as they respected each other for what they did and who they were at their core. He was sure it didn’t hurt that Jimmy had won a lot of money betting on Bryn.

When he’d asked his friend to do some digging, the man had. Without question. An older man, far older than a young woman should be married to.

Knees popping free of the water, he kept his shoulders under best he could, needing the heat to help resolve the issue of impeding stiffness. He did his best to ignore his cock, long and thick, right there, demanding attention.

And not attention from simply anyone. The one person it reared to life for was Miss Fletcher.

“Damn,” he muttered dipping his hand below the water and curving it around his shaft. Eyes drifting closed, he pulled up her image—it wasn’t hard, he did it multiple times a day—and stared at her full lips.

What he wouldn’t give to have those plump lips shiny with his kisses, parted as she resided on her knees, open to accept his cock as he fed it to her. Those incredible shamrock-colored eyes watching him with the same amount of lust he had for her. He pumped slowly, gripping hard as he pictured feeding his length to her, inch by inch until the swollen head knocked against the back of her throat.

To see the tears welling up in her eyes but knowing she was his good girl and wanted to please him. To watch her struggle but eventually take it all and refuse to let him pull out.

His balls tightened and lifted as he pumped faster, rotating his wrist, doing all he could to last. Would he release down her throat? Or would she allow him to pull free and mark her with his seed? He’d love to be able to see his mark on her creamy skin, sliding over the large breasts she had that he didn’t doubt would spill from her camisole.

Then again, perhaps they would be bare.

Hips driving his length deep into his hand, he came with a low growl, a curse of her name, barely getting his release into the rag he had in his other hand. Water had splashed over the side of the tub, but he didn’t care as he climbed out, adding more moisture to the floor.

His body still burned with a need to sink his length deep between her full thighs, to have those heels digging into his back as she accepted all of him.

Standing before the fire, he swore a stream of curses that he knew his mother wouldn’t be pleased if she heard. This was her fault. Inviting his unwanted temptation to the opera with them and bringing her to the country for the weekend.

How the hell was he going to survive?