Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke Page B

and mine coincide.”
    “Do sit down,” Montford repeated. He waved a languid hand toward an array of decanters close by. “Let me pour you a drink. There is much to discuss.”
    “I don’t want to sit. I don’t want a drink,” said Griffin in a soft, dangerous tone. “I want my betrothed.”
    Hell, but his jaw ached. That pretty-boy cousin of Rosamund’s packed a powerful right hook. Nothing Griffin hadn’t taken in the ring many times, but still.
    Montford took his own chair and spread his hands. “Regrettably, Lady Rosamund is not here—,” Montford began.
    “She’s at my house in Berkeley Square,” interrupted Steyne with a quick, sidelong glance at the duke. “Calling on our mother.”
    The gesture was ostensibly helpful, but the malice in Steyne’s mocking gaze did not escape Griffin. From years of living with his grandsire, he’d learned to judge when someone laid a trap for him.
    But whatever deep game her brother played, Griffin needed to see Rosamund. Steyne had just handed him the means to do so.
    Favoring Steyne with a curt nod, Griffin said, “Thank you. I’ll see myself out.”
    Horror made Lydgate’s jaw drop. “You can’t call on the marchioness looking like that! My dear fellow, it simply isn’t done!”
    “I’m not paying a social call,” snapped Griffin. “I’m going to claim my bride.”
    With a nod in farewell, he swung around on his heel and left the room.
    On the way to the marbled entrance hall, he heard a penetrating whisper. “Lord Tregarth! Over here!”
    He turned to see Lady Cecily Westruther beckon from a room to his right. Tempted though he was to ignore her and keep going, he recalled the fondness his prospective bride had for her incorrigible young cousin. Perhaps Cecily could give him information that would help his cause.
    As he hesitated, her expressive face went through a series of contortions. She gestured again, more emphatically. “Come on !”
    With a quick glance around the empty hall, he complied.
    She caught his hand and drew him inside. The casual contact disconcerted him, but he followed her into the small cloakroom and waited as she shut the door behind her.
    “You took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Lady Cecily’s hands were planted on her hips, her gamine features arranged into a scowl.
    He scowled back at her, with interest. “That’s no business of yours.”
    “Anything that affects Rosamund’s happiness is my business,” said the girl. “You have a lot of work to do.”
    “Work? What work?”
    “To atone for your past boorishness, of course!” She threw up her hands. “Rosamund is the greatest catch on the Marriage Mart. She is exquisitely beautiful, for one thing. But far better than that—not that any of you idiotic men would notice—you would not find a more good-hearted, gentle girl in all of England.”
    She poked him in the chest. “And yet you have treated her abominably. Demanding she trot down to Cornwall to wed you! Why, would you respect her at all if she fell into your arms after you’ve left her on the shelf for three years ?”
    Griffin blinked, a trifle stunned at this tirade. All along, he’d assumed Rosamund would have been thanking Heaven for the reprieve. He’d certainly dismissed her recent correspondence as stalling tactics. Obviously, she wished to retain her freedom for as long as possible.
    But this begged the question: Why hadn’t Rosamund thrown him over by now?
    Cecily shook her head, her dark, brilliant eyes fixed on him. “You must prove to her that you’re worthy. You must court Rosamund in form and show the world you don’t scorn her.”
    “ Scorn her?” The girl had rocks in her head.
    “It’s what all of London thinks!” said Cecily. “Everyone has badgered her to cry off from your engagement. Rosamund refused because she is too good, too honorable to serve you a trick like that. She would never go back on her word. But if you are wise, you’ll play your cards carefully