Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Eight hours later, Rosalie was laced into the cornflower blue silk gown her mother had commissioned for the occasion of her betrothal ball.
Her maid sculpted Rosalie’s pale red hair into a crown of braids atop her head, held in place by a ribbon of white silk.
Her mother, who had still not spoken to Rosalie since breakfast, sent over a piece of jewelry from her personal collection, an oval moonstone pendant.
It was two inches long and set in gold with a trio of small diamonds at its base.
The duchess also sent a matching pair of earbobs.
Finally, it was time. Rosalie’s heart fluttered as she made her way toward the ballroom.
Nobody had deigned to tell her what would transpire tonight, but she had spent the better part of the afternoon thinking of cryptic phrases she could employ in response to the questions she was bound to receive.
My betrothal? Now, now, I mustn’t spoil the surprise!
Never fear. My father has things well in hand.
How I wish I could tell you, but my mother has sworn me to secrecy!
Fortunately, the family butler, Stephens, waylaid her at the top of the stairs. “Lady Rosalie, if you would be so kind as to follow me.”
He led her away from the grand central staircase toward a less prominent one in the east wing. “Have you seen my father, Stephens?” Rosalie asked as she trotted after him.
“Only very briefly, my lady.”
“Did he say anything?” She hated the desperation in her own voice but was powerless to suppress it. “About what is to become of me?”
Stephens paused at the top of the stairs.
His eyes were full of sympathy. “I gather that your father is planning to make some sort of announcement to start the ball. I have been instructed to bring you to the side entrance adjacent to the dais, so I presume he will call for you to join him. Although I am not privy to the nature of this announcement, I do not believe you will be forced to endure this suspense much longer.”
Rosalie swallowed. “Thank you, Stephens.”
He led her down the stairs and through a long corridor, then left her at the pair of doors he had mentioned.
Rosalie bounced on the balls of her feet, full of pent-up anxiety.
She could hear eager chatter from inside the ballroom.
It was strange, knowing that there were five hundred people standing on the other side of that door, yet feeling so utterly alone.
Suddenly, new voices—deep voices—emerged from the far end of the corridor.
Rosalie turned and saw that the door to her father’s study had opened.
Two men emerged. One was unquestionably her father, but the other she could not make out between the distance and the candlelight.
The only things she could say for sure were that the man had dark hair and was shorter and less burly than her father, which narrowed it down not at all.
She squinted, struggling to see. She couldn’t explain why, but something about this man had every hair on the back of her neck standing on end.
Her father had his back to her now, blocking her view.
She couldn’t make out any of his words, but the tone of his voice was jovial.
She watched her father clasp the man’s hand, pump it three times, then slap him on the shoulder for good measure.
She heard laughter as the two men broke apart, her father striding down the corridor toward her, and the dark-haired mystery man disappearing through the door from which he had come.
She lifted her skirts and hurried down the corridor to meet him. “Papa, what is going on? Who was that man? What are we—”
He leaned down and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “Calm down, Rosie-Roo. Everything is fine.”
“Everything is not fine.” Her voice broke on the last word. “I lost my betrothed on the eve of my betrothal ball. I’m about to become the biggest laughingstock London has ever seen. I’ve been wracked with anxiety all day!”
His expression turned somber. “I am sorry for that. I’ve been busy ironing out the particulars. I thought your mother would have told you.”
Rosalie scrubbed angrily at a tear that was threatening to spill. “Well, she didn’t.”
He pressed her hand with his giant one. “My poor dear.” Abruptly, his giddy grin returned. “But wait until you see what has happened! I couldn’t have planned things better if I’d arranged them myself.”
“Arranged what?” she asked, exasperated. “What is going on?”
“You’ll see!” He took her arm and started toward the ballroom door. “Come. We can’t keep everyone waiting.”
Rosalie stumbled after him. Any efforts to resist her bear of a father were utterly futile, so she gave in and fell into step beside him, opting to preserve a modicum of dignity rather than be dragged into the ballroom.
Much as she loved her father, she could not have been more exasperated with him than she was at this moment.
The ballroom was packed, and as they entered, a hush fell over the richly dressed crowd.
Hundreds of pairs of eyes were fixed upon Rosalie and her father as they mounted the steps to the dais that would house the orchestra in a few short minutes.
Her father was grinning broadly. Rosalie tried to look nonchalant, but she doubted she managed it very well.
Her father bowed over her hand, positioning her on the near side of the dais, then took center stage. His booming voice carried easily over the crowd. “Has anyone else had an eventful day?”
A ripple of laughter swept across the crowd. Rosalie tried her best to smile along, but she felt positively ill.
Her father looked unconcerned. “We had a bit of news ourselves this morning. It was quite the surprise, learning that the viscount who had asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage wasn’t a viscount after all, and on the eve of her betrothal ball!
I’m sure all the fathers out there will understand my feelings upon learning the news.
There’s nothing worse than disappointing your little girl, now is there? ”
There was a murmur of masculine agreement. Rosalie’s smile tightened. Although her father could justifiably be described as doting, the majority of men of the ton did not give a whit about their daughters. What a bunch of hypocrites!
Her father continued, “No one is going to disappoint my little girl on the day of her betrothal ball. No one, I say! What my Rosalie wants, my Rosalie is going to get. And so, without further ado, I am pleased to present my daughter’s betrothed, Lord Valentine!”
Rosalie’s first thought was, But that’s not possible—Lysander is no longer Viscount Valentine!
Followed by, Wait.
Surely not.
Even my luck isn’t that bad.
But it turned out that her luck was, indeed, that bad, because the man who came striding through the doors to the ballroom was the very man she had spent the past two years struggling to forget—Lysander’s cousin, Lucian Deverell, the new Viscount Valentine.
A delighted gasp went up from the crowd, reminding Rosalie that everyone she knew and several hundred people she didn’t had their eyes fixed on her in this, the worst moment of her life.
She tried to smile, to feign pleasure at the thought of marrying the man who had not merely broken her heart, but had stomped it into shards, ground those shards beneath his boot heel, and kicked the remains into the gutter for good measure.
Lucian did not seem to be having the same difficulty. A soft smile graced his lips as he graciously inclined his head toward the crowd that was jubilant at the prospect of seeing the latest on dit playing out before their very eyes.
Her father came over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Lord Valentine—the real one—returned just in time. And he was most accommodating when I suggested that he fill the role of bridegroom.” He turned to beam at Rosalie. “So never fear, darling. You’re still going to be Lady Valentine!”
Rosalie tried to smile. She was fairly certain it looked more like a snarl, but she did the best she could.
Her father was beaming at her, clearly expecting her to be delighted, as if her heart’s desire had been to marry whatever man bore the title Viscount Valentine, no matter how repulsive he might be. As for Lucian…
She peered around her father and caught his eye. His expression could best be described as a smirk, but there was real delight in his eyes, delight at her expense.
Why, that blackguard! He was laughing at her!
Rosalie’s eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. She fervently hoped the assembled guests weren’t close enough to notice. Her father clearly didn’t, because he grabbed Rosalie’s elbow, pulled her across the dais, and placed her hand in Lucian’s.
“And now,” the duke announced, oblivious to the vitriol bouncing back and forth between the bride and groom, “the happy couple will open the ball by leading us in the first dance!”
Hoping against hope that this might be an extremely realistic nightmare from which she would presently wake, Rosalie allowed Lucian to lead her down the steps.
She felt his warm breath against her ear.
“Did you miss me?” She was overwhelmed with his signature scent—spicy and sweet, with a mix of pepper, sage, orange blossom, and a splash of rum.
She was instantly transported back to that garden, drenched in moonlight, and that fleeting moment when she had honestly believed…
Rosalie shook herself. Why was she reminiscing about that night? Lucian had made it abundantly clear that it had meant nothing to him. That it had all been part of a cruel wager.
That he had kissed her as a joke.
The only problem was that even after the passage of years, even after learning that he had never meant the pretty words he had whispered in her gullible little ear, when she thought back on that night, it still didn’t feel like a joke. It still felt… real.