Chapter Five

Snow slammed into the window of the sitting room. She’d opted to sit here as that tended to be the warmest room in the house—in case anyone stopped by, the illusion of still being well off wasn’t hard to accomplish when this room was toasty.

Rosamunde wasn’t the only one in her family sitting in this room. Only her father was missing, and she knew it was because his office had the honor of being the other room in the house that remained well heated.

She sat on the lounge by the window, a blanket over her lap as she scribbled in her diary. Her sisters embroidered while her brother glowered at her. The window rattled and she was grateful to be inside and not out there, even if she were the farthest from the heat. Considering how crisp her room was, this was heaven.

“He wouldn’t help me and it’s your fault.”

Inching back on the lounge, she continued writing in her book, barely looking up from the quill point other than to make sure she wasn’t smearing her hand on the ink. Hard not to at times given she wrote with her left hand. Something else her parents were embarrassed about. She also wanted to make sure her siblings weren’t trying to read over her shoulder.

“What are you talking about, Lovell?” Her mother questioned as she too embroidered.

“Rosamunde. He didn’t even speak with me, just walked away like he was better than me.”

He is. She wrote about her dreams of exploring the world—something she wouldn’t be able to do. Then again, depending on where this arranged husband for hers may want to travel, she may actually get to see someplace other than London.

Nope. I’m not marrying him. I will find a way to get out of that.

“Did you not help your brother?”

She could hear her sisters mocking her about getting into trouble once again but she simply couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Rosamunde Evelina, do not ignore me.”

With a stage worthy sigh, she closed her book and lifted her gaze to discover everyone staring at her. “Yes, Mother?”

“Impertinent.” She set her wooden embroidery ring to the left of her leg. “Why are you not helping your brother?”

“Aside from the fact you forbade me to be seen with the man he now wants me to speak with? I don’t see why I should seek him out if you feel the earl is so beneath you.”

Did she feel bad for using his title? Absolutely not.

“Your brother will be the viscount to this family one day, you would do well to remember that.”

Hating the fact she was going to have to leave the warmth of the house, but unwilling to stay trapped inside with them, she got to her feet and swiftly folded up the blanket.

“And that man is already higher up on the societal ladder than Lovell will ever be.” All four of them drew back like she’d punched them physically. “And given your opinion of me is so low, with my weight, how could I even begin to sway a man who could have his pick of any London miss?”

Book firmly in hand, she walked out of the room and went to the front, where she didn’t wait for anyone, not like there was anyone other than herself, to get her coat then stepped out into the miserable weather. She buttoned it up as she stood at the top of the steps.

Not my most brilliant plan.

Tucking her head, she made her way carefully down the street and eventually found herself in front of a bookstore. Desperate to remove herself from the cold, she looked around then pushed inside.

Immediately the heat had her swallowing back a moan. One that contained a bit of relief and some pain as feeling tingled its way back into her limbs.

An older gentleman lifted his head from where he sat at the front counter. “Good day, milady.” He glanced behind her, and she had no doubt he was scouring for her maid.

“Hello.” She swallowed and gazed around, taking in the stacks of tomes she itched to get her hands on. “I was looking for something with a lot of maps in it.”

He narrowed his eyes and rubbed a hand over the stringy white hair on his chin. “Shopping for your father, Lord…?”

“Lord Fletcher, but no, actually. For my brother.”

He nodded, pushing thin-rimmed glasses up his patrician nose. Moving around the counter, he gestured for her to follow and led her down one of the aisles. At the back, the shop opened to a lovely area with a table.

“There are quite a few here, if you’d like to look at them and pick one for your brother.”

“Thank you.”

He walked off, leaving her alone. Placing her own book on the small table, she made her way to the nearest shelf and began scanning the spines, searching for something to catch her eye. Pulling down three, she carried them to the waiting table and made herself quite comfortable.

After staying for about an hour, she made a purchase and waited while he wrapped it up.

“You have good taste, milady. Your brother will be most appreciative.”

It wasn’t for him, but for her. Even so, she nodded and smiled all the while, glancing outside at the storm, which had only increased in strength.

It was going to be a cold walk home.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your assistance today.”

With a slow breath of the last warm air she would have for a while, she stepped back outside into what had to be one of the coldest winters she could ever remember. Holding tight to her purchase and her own bag, she hastened along as best she could with her shoes that did not give good traction on the slick ground.

Not to mention she could feel the wet and cold beginning to seep inside the footwear. Collar up as high as it could go, she kept her chin tucked as she struggled against the battering wind. Thankfully the distance wasn’t that far, but as she reached the walkway to her house there was no ignoring the cold that ruled her body.

Not bothering to knock, she pushed into the building, grateful that the walls at least protected her from the wind. And while the interior wasn’t as warm as where she’d been, compared to what she had been walking through, it was heaven.

Teeth chattering as she moved, she headed straight upstairs and to her room, in desperate need of dry clothing.

“Miss Fletcher.”

Pausing halfway up the stairs, she glanced over her wet shoulder to find a servant down on the ground floor.

“Yes, Devon?”

“Your family has been looking for you. They request you in the sitting room.”

“Thank you.” Skin and bones screaming in discomfort, she continued making her way.

“Your father meant now, Miss Fletcher.”

She reached the landing and gripped the railing, unsure her legs would keep supporting her. “I am soaking wet, Devon. I will be down as soon as I get some warm clothing on, something I am sure isn’t proper for a miss to discuss with you.”

“Let Miss Fletcher set herself to rights,” Richards, the butler, said as he shuffled into view. “She will be along momentarily.”

Not bothering with a response, Rosamunde simply walked, or stumbled, on to her room. It was cold and didn’t stop the noise her teeth made, but she made short work of stripping off her soaked clothing and pulling on some which was at least dry. With a few layers on, she stored her book and saved the paper wrapping to burn at night later. It wouldn’t do much, but something was better than nothing.

She toweled off her hair and did a swift braid of her chestnut locks before taking a breath as she made sure the clothing was hanging over some pieces of furniture to dry.

A snort escaped.

Or freeze .

God, her bed looked so inviting, all the blankets where she could make a cocoon and simply get warm.

Downstairs would be warm though and so, after pulling on thick socks and shoving her feet into a pair of house slippers, she hurried down to the sitting room. Devon hadn’t been lying. Even her father waited there.

The warmth enveloped her like a blanket and she struggled not to moan with appreciation as it began to penetrate the coldness surrounding her.

“You wished to see me.”

“Where have you been?” Her father narrowed his eyes at her.

“Out.”

“In this weather?” He lifted his drink and sipped. “It’s freezing out there.”

Much like my room.

“I’m aware.” Rosamunde made her way to the fire and stood close. “For what reason did you summon me?” She didn’t have it in her to be nice. Not today.

“Mind your tongue, little girl.” He rose and walked toward her.

At one time she would have felt protected by her father. He had made her feel safe, then one day that had changed and security had changed into fear. Now it wasn’t even fear. It was indifference.

He wouldn’t hit her, he needed her unmarked as he sold her off. Her mother… She knew that woman would strike her without hesitation. But waiting was what she did so well, and she continued to do so now. By the fire, enjoying the warmth.

Her father shook his head as he neared. She faced him, the flames at her back, and was saddened by how she didn’t recognize him anymore. The man who had used to make her laugh and smile had long vanished. The gambling had done that to him, taken away the man she’d been devoted to and given her this impersonator. To be fair, the changes had begun before the money issues, the older she got, the worse it became.

“We need to talk about your brother.”

“As you and Mother constantly remind me, I’m worthless, fat and a waste of space. I fail to see how I can be of help to your son who can do no wrong.”

“See, Bradford? I told you, impertinent.” Her mother pointed at her with narrowed eyes.

“You will help your brother get what he wants. Go talk to the earl’s sister and get close to him. He wants to learn to box from a man who studied under Richardson.” A slight hesitation. “Even with his skin color, the man was impressive. Anyone who was at a coronation can’t be all bad.”

She thought about arguing but held her tongue because…really? This was what she wanted as well. Another chance to be around Bryn and put her own plan into action. Rosamunde shrugged and again faced the flickering flames, holding her hands out as she hid her glee. Her parents were pushing her to do the one thing she wanted.

“Not that it matters to you two, but this feels like you are whoring me out. I’ll do it, but under protest.”

* * * *

Bryn slumped in his chair as he stared at the tumbler he held, the amber liquid inside sloshing around as he rotated his wrist.

“You are quiet, my son.”

“Hello, Mama.” He set the glass down on the table nearby as he stood to kiss her cheek and help her to a sofa. “Everything okay?”

“I merely wish to spend time with my son, is that so wrong?”

He grinned at her and shook his head. “Not to me. But I also know you, Mama. You can’t hide things from me.”

And she couldn’t, no matter how she may try. The first seven years of his life it had been only the two of them. Survival had depended on them communicating without fail.

“You’re leaving.”

He retook his seat, nodding. “I don’t belong here, Mama.” Reaching for his drink, he swirled it again before sipping. “I’m not needed.”

“You, my son, are always needed.”

Giving her an indulgent smile, he rested his ankle on the opposite knee. “I miss America. Even the country isn’t the same.”

When she nodded, he knew she understood. His mother had been known as “the Heart of the Mountains” and had grown up in the wilds of the American west.

Here he had begun to feel hemmed in.

“Are you coming back?”

Fear had seeped into her tone, and while he knew she longed to keep her children close, he also knew she wouldn’t ever stop him from leaving if that’s what his soul called for him to do.

“Of course. You’re here.” He tipped his head to the side. “Besides, I need to be here for Falcon and Keely’s wedding.”

Her laugh warmed his heart. “Those two have far to go before they are ready for that.”

“You see it though, don’t you?”

“Everyone but your sister sees it.” She crossed her legs and readjusted her seat on the sofa.

And Falcon won’t admit it. He sees it but is in denial.

Even now, having been a marchioness for over twenty years, his mother favored dressing in buckskins. Sure, she would dress differently when out of the house, but inside she preferred to keep her comfort.

“Are you stopping to see family?”

A difficult question, really. He had family in Ireland and Africa as well as America.

“Conar and his family on the way.”

She nodded. “Finding a wife while you are on your adventure?”

A flash hit him and he bit back a groan as all he could see was Rosamunde. In his bed. Flushed from his touch. Pregnant with his child.

“Excuse me, milady, milord. There is a visitor for young Lord Wetherstoft.”

“Show them in,” he said, needing to get his mother off the track of his finding a wife.

“Very good, sir.”

The man vanished and he drained the remainder of his drink. In the middle of setting the empty glass on the smooth table, he looked up when the butler stepped back in the room. On his heels, Rosamunde Fletcher.

“Hmm,” his mother commented as she rose. “Perhaps she has already been found.”

“Miss Fletcher to see you, my lord.” The man bowed and walked away.

Five days. It had been five long, agonizing days since she’d blown into his life. Since he’d gotten a damn decent night’s sleep. Since he’d been able to go more than a few hours without masturbating and wishing it was her smaller hand on him, or her pussy around his cock as he came hard, seeing stars.

Her eyes moved from him to his mother and back again. “I apologize, I had no intention of interrupting. I can come back.”

Fuck no!

He shot up from his seat and moved toward her. “You’re not an interruption. My mama and I were simply talking about travel.” Bryn gestured for her to come closer.

His mother brushed by him and held her hand out to Rosamunde. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Fletcher. Or do you prefer we address you in a different manner?”

“Rosamunde is fine,” she replied, a delightful flush skimming up her cheeks.

“Lovely name. I’ll get some drinks coming. Have a seat.”

Bryn watched as she perched on the edge of a chair cushion near the fire. His mother walked out of the room, leaving the door open. Picking up his empty glass, Bryn strode to the sidebar and took the stopper off his father’s decanter of whiskey.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you, my lord. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”

He prowled around the seat she occupied, drink in hand. Stopping in front of her, he stared at her as he took a slow sip. The firelight danced over her skin and a low growl rose from his throat as his gaze landed on something darker, more sinister, on her face.

“Hold this.” He shoved his glass into her hand. “Who the fuck hit you?”

Without waiting for her permission to touch her, he gripped her chin and tipped her head up and back, allowing him to see the mark far more clearly.

“Who?” he rumbled. “Did you head back to the docks and someone there did this? Give me a name.”

Her hand curved around his wrist and his heartbeat tripled in speed. She couldn’t even close her fingers around his wrist fully and her touch was hesitant.

Baby, you need to get used to touching me.

“I’ve not been back to the docks.” She guided his touch away from her face, the move quiet but telling. She didn’t want him touching her.

Rosamunde gave him the drink back and folded her hands in her lap once more.

Something cracked in his chest and he wasn’t a fan of the feeling. Maybe she did have the same feelings as her family.

“My apologies,” he said, not meaning it in the slightest. “Didn’t mean to touch you.”

She tipped her head and blinked at him, a small furrow in her brow. “Why would you apologize for treating me nicely and showing concern for a mark that I should have taken better care to cover up?”

No coquettishness about her, just straight bluntness.

His belly tightened at the knowledge she didn’t have any aversion to him touching her. A damn good thing as he had begun to form some plans to do more.

“You shouldn’t have to hide anything because no one should be putting a hand on you like that. But I meant because you probably don’t want my soiled hands touching you. After all, I am The Mutt.”

She gasped and shot up from the chair, her skin flushing a deeper shade, but this time he would have bet anything it was from anger.

“Don’t call yourself that. The ones who call you that are foolish and don’t deserve to be given the time of day. You’re more man than any one of them and the women are just jealous.”

That unpleasant feeling swiftly became replaced by pleasure. Pure and simple. Her defense of him rolled through him, making him long even more to pull her close.

“Your family even thinks so.”

Her jaw set but she didn’t drop her gaze. “My family is disrespectful and misinformed. Don’t take anything they say as worthwhile.”

He moved back into her space. “What about you, Miss Fletcher? This bruise on your face is a few days old. Is this because I brought you home?” Anger grew.

“My mother wasn’t happy with my answer as to why I had been out.” A shrug. “So after yelling at me, they sent me here to ask you for a favor for my brother.”

“Has to do with boxing, doesn’t it?” He remembered the kid.

“Yes.”

“And out of the goodness of your heart, you came here to seek me out to help a family member who stood by and did nothing while another member in that household physically put their hands on you?”

A bark of laughter he wanted desperately to hear again. “Heavens, no. I have my own agenda.”

Of course she does .

He drank the rest of his whiskey and bent close to her as he placed the glass beside her. “And what is it you think I can do for you, little girl?”

Why does her saying she has an agenda piss me off? She’s at least being honest.

He wasn’t sure these feelings she stirred up in him were good, so it would be for the best if he got rid of her.

Right?

“I’m not a little girl, I’m a woman.”

He locked onto her lips, dipped his gaze to skim over the tops of her full breasts and back up to meet her heated stare. “I’m fully aware. What do you get out of this? Hoping for a ride on The Mutt?”

Her eyes widened before she smacked him. “Don’t you call yourself that again in front of me. Ever. Are we clear?” She gave a single nod like he’d agreed with her. “Good. I should apologize for smacking you, but I won’t for it would be a lie. You shouldn’t speak of yourself in such a manner.” Rosamunde glanced down, took a deep breath and looked at him once more.

He narrowed his gaze even as his lips twitched with a need to smile. What a spitfire. “What is it you think I can do for you, Miss Fletcher?”

“I know I’m not your type of woman, but I’m hoping you would know someone who would…”—she flushed but didn’t lower her gaze—“sleep with me.”

Those last three words were so low, at first he thought he’d misunderstood. However, the tomato flush of her cheeks told him otherwise.

“Say that again?” Surely he’d misheard.

“I need you to help me get a man. I need to lose my virginity so I can stop my father from selling me to some old man from Italy. Or, at the very least, have relations with someone who isn’t bound to be two to three times my senior.”

A virgin. And a virgin who wanted him to help her lose it.

God help him, all he could envision was doing it himself. Stripping her naked, being allowed to touch all of her soft skin, learn and memorize her curves. Addicting himself to her taste.

“And you want me to assist you in this?” His words were garbled and part of him wondered if he was choking and this was all part of the dying process.

“Yes. I think you may know someone who wouldn’t make it horrible.”

He’d not expected this at all.