Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke

down most of my friends at one time or another.”
    Cecily shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”
    Andrew narrowed his eyes, as if to bring Griffin’s image into perspective. “He’s determined to have you, Rosamund. If you mean to give him the go-by, you ought to do it cleanly and do it now and not string the fellow along, making a fool of him.”
    Rosamund lifted her chin. “When I want your advice on my affairs, I’ll ask for it, Andy. Besides, the duke approves my strategy.”
    “Don’t look down your nose at me,” he retorted, unimpressed. “Just take care you don’t send him running in the other direction with all these conditions of yours.”
    Rosamund’s heart thumped in her chest. Her gaze flew to Andrew’s. “H-he told you of our bargain?”
    Intimacies, Griffin had said. She repressed a reminiscent shiver.
    “Ha!” said Andrew. “Call that a bargain? Don’t see what he gets out of it, dragged along to picnics and parties when it’s clear the fellow’s no more up to snuff than old Ophelia here.”
    At the mention of her name, the Dane’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry and her eyes opened a fraction. Then she gave a cross between a moan and a sigh and went back to sleep, her looping jowls whiffling with each breath.
    Thankful that Griffin had been discreet enough to keep the extremely improper aspect of their agreement to himself, Rosamund said, “I trust I can rely on you, Andy, to see that Lord Tregarth is up to snuff.”
    “Oh, I can rig him out in style. In fact, I mean to do so. But I can’t change the man, can I? And why the Devil should he take direction from me? Damned impertinent thing to tell a fellow how to behave.”
    “And yet, I am positive you will find a way to do so without putting up his back,” said Rosamund. She softened, gazing down at him imploringly. “For me, Andy.”
    “Don’t try to gammon me with that look,” said her cousin. “You might have the male half of London at your feet, but you don’t have me.”
    She laughed. “As if I’d want you at my feet, Andy. You have a heart of stone, for all your charming ways.”
    A frown creased his brows before he smiled. “Oh, not of stone, m’dear,” he said softly. “I’m reliably informed that I don’t have a heart at all.”
    How comfortable that must be, she thought.
    Rosamund blinked, surprised at herself. “Nonsense! Of course you have a heart, my dear. But sentiment aside, you will admit you owe me a favor after what happened last year.”
    “That’s quite true,” said Cecily. “Rosamund saved you from accidentally compromising that odious Lady Emma Howling. That puts you greatly in her debt, I should say.”
    Andy blanched at the memory. He never could resist damsels in distress. Even shrill, unprepossessing damsels who’d been on the shelf for ten years. If it weren’t for Rosamund’s quick thinking last season, Andrew would be married to the lady now.
    “There, you have me,” he said, holding up a hand in defeat. “Very well. I shall do my poor best, dear Rosamund.”
    A complicated tattoo sounded on the door. The secret knock, known only to the Westruther cousins and certain other trusted individuals.
    Cecily jumped up to unlock the door, and Andrew rose from his chair as Tibby walked in, pulling on her gloves.
    “It is time to leave for the rout party, my dears,” said their companion.
    Rosamund smiled at her. “Thank you, Tibby.”
    She kissed Cecily and bade her farewell, taking Andrew’s arm as they left the room. “I wish I could stay home with Cecily,” she said. “I do not feel like going out tonight.”
    He cocked a brow and glanced down at her. “Mooning over your giant?”
    She gave a self-conscious laugh. “ Mooning? Good God, no! What nonsense you talk, Andrew, dear.”
    *   *   *
     
    The rout party was a dreadful crush, as they might have expected from a gathering of Lady Bigglesworth’s. The flounce of Tibby’s gown tore as someone trod on it in the