Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke Page A

press of bodies flowing up the staircase to the drawing room. While Tibby retired to mend it, Rosamund made a beeline for the card room.
    She found Andy, who had just sat down to whist with another gentleman and two ladies. She stood silently behind him, watching the play and wishing the night would end.
    “Ah, you are in fine beauty tonight, my dear. As always.” The murmur filled her ear before she’d fully registered the presence of a man beside her.
    “Oh!” She jumped and put a hand to her breast, turning to see who had accosted her. “You startled me, Captain.”
    Philip, Captain Lauderdale, appeared so vividly gorgeous in his scarlet regimentals that it hurt the eye to look at him. Indeed, he was the most dazzling creature she’d ever seen, with his golden hair, soulful dark eyes, and a classical profile that would put any Greek statue to shame.
    Not for the first time, Rosamund wondered what was wrong with her that she could remain unmoved by all this masculine glory, yet yearn for …
    No. She did not yearn for Griffin deVere. She wanted him to marry her; that was all. She was tired of waiting for her life to begin.
    Lauderdale drew her apart from the card tables, leading her to sit on a bergère couch against the wall. He was adept at finding appropriate places for an intimate conversation among a crowd of people.
    She gave him an impersonal smile. “How do you do, sir?”
    He looked beyond her with a faint, mocking smile curving his lips. “Not well, I confess. Not since I heard the most disturbing news this afternoon.”
    “News?”
    “Your dreaded betrothed has arrived in Town. They tell me he has come for you, Rosamund.” He hit her with a full blast of those melting brown eyes. “My dear, how could you? And not a word to me.”
    She glanced away from him, nodding to an acquaintance who had been trying to catch her eye.
    “How could I not?” she said quietly, turning back. “I agreed to this betrothal, Captain. Indeed, I have no wish to repudiate it. And please refrain from addressing me so familiarly. I never gave you leave to do so.”
    His head tilted in an ironic bow. “Of course, Lady Rosamund. I apologize if my … feelings for you led me to be overly familiar.”
    He sent her a sidelong glance. She raised her eyebrows in haughty inquiry.
    “It is not a surprise to you,” he said. “You knew Tregarth was in Town.”
    “I … Yes.”
    She wanted to protest at his questioning her thus, but guilt trickled through her. Had she encouraged him to believe she might welcome his suit? She had not meant to do so, but with some men, it did not take much to convince them the object of their attentions reciprocated their regard.
    He registered her answer with a tightened jaw. “But Lord Tregarth is not here with you tonight?”
    “He is not.”
    He laughed softly. “What a trusting fellow he is. If I were the earl, I would not let you out of my sight.”
    “His trust is certainly not misplaced,” said Rosamund coolly. To steer the conversation to less personal waters, she added, “Tell me how you go on, sir. How is your wound?”
    “Healed very nicely, or that’s what the sawbones says, anyway,” said Lauderdale. “I’m to return to active service immediately.”
    Fear for him clutched her. With Napoleon on the loose again and amassing forces at an alarming rate, war was inevitable. Oh, she didn’t care for Lauderdale as a sweetheart might, but as a friend, she couldn’t help a craven regret that his wound wasn’t serious enough to keep him from duty. He, of course, would never see it that way.
    “You will leave soon?” she said.
    “Next week.” Bitterness laced his voice. “Tregarth has come for you, hasn’t he? After all this time. He ought to be horsewhipped for treating you so.” He met her gaze and said softly, “And you, a diamond of the first water.”
    Her throat seemed to close over. “Forgive me, but that is not your concern. I do not wish to discuss—”
    “But