Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,85

around the room. ‘Making changes already, I see,’ she said, pointing at the writing desk. ‘The cabinet that was there contained very valuable pieces of china all bought by my dear late husband.’

She forced a conciliatory smile. ‘And they now hold pride of place in the downstairs drawing room used for guests, instead of up here where they are rarely viewed. Nothing else has changed.’

The frantic waving of the handkerchief ceased as the butler entered with the tea tray. He shot Rosa a wary glance.

What now?

‘His lordship is on his way up, ma’am.’

Why look so worried? This was a rescue.

‘Thank you.’

Garth sauntered in a moment later, still dressed for riding. ‘Mother. That was indeed your broomstick I saw outside the door. What brings you to my den of iniquity?’

Rosa almost choked on her mouthful of tea. Never had she heard such rudeness.

‘Riding dress in the drawing room, Garth. I thought I taught you better.’ His mother sniffed into her handkerchief as if she could smell dung on his boots.

They were immaculate. He’d cleaned them before coming inside. Or changed into a different pair.

Garth flung himself down on the sofa beside Rosa and propped one heel on the table. ‘What does bring you here, Mother dear?’

‘I heard ridiculous gossip.’ She cast an eye at Rosa. ‘About a possible wedding.’

Garth’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You heard correctly. It’s on Wednesday.’

‘Am I not invited?’

‘Tea, Stanford?’ Rosa said, hoping to calm what looked like a coming storm.

‘I prefer brandy.’ He dropped his heels with a loud thud, lounged to his feet and strolled to the cabinet beside the door.

‘Brandy at this hour of the day!’ his mother said. The handkerchief danced at the end of her languid fingers. ‘It isn’t good for you.’

‘At this hour or any other hour, should I choose,’ he drawled, pouring a drink. ‘Would you like some in your tea, darling?’ He looked at Rosa.

Was he trying to make his mother think she was some sort of doxy? ‘No, thank you.’

What on earth was going on? Hatred writhed through the room like a noxious gas. Rosa wanted to fling open the widow and take a deep breath of smoky London air. Or, better yet, run far away.

They were family. They acted like enemies.

Garth brought his drink back to the sofa with him and sprawled beside her, his legs stretched out, at perfect ease, one arm along the sofa back behind her. He looked rakish and dangerous. Like a wild animal poked with a stick daring someone to put a finger in its mouth.

‘Get to the point, Mother dear.’ The chill in his voice sent a shiver down Rosa’s spine.

Lady Stanford shifted in her seat. Her eyes misted. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Nevertheless, I am happy to offer my assistance to your bride. There are things she needs to know about our proud family history. About what it means to be an Evernden.’

‘Ah,’ Garth murmured. ‘The proud family name.’ He turned towards Rosa. ‘My younger brother married the Duke of Hastings’s daughter. I, on the other hand, am the black sheep of the family.’ He laughed bitterly.

‘Your brother made a brilliant match. I always hoped the same for you.’

‘Did you?’ Garth said with a feral smile.

The dowager probably didn’t put Rosa in her category of a brilliant match. Rosa couldn’t blame her. As she handed the cup to the widow, it rattled in the saucer.

He turned his dark gaze on her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, darling. This is an old conversation, isn’t it, Mother?’

The handkerchief waved like a flag in a stiff breeze. ‘Please, Garth, don’t be…so cruel. I simply came to find out if the rumours were true. That you were marrying an—’

‘Opera singer,’ he said in a purr.

Rosa had had enough. ‘Really, Garth. I must protest. I have no idea why you are taunting your mother this way. Yes, I have performed in an opera, but I am Lord Pelham’s legitimate granddaughter.’

‘Bravo,’ Garth murmured in her ear. His fingers stroked her nape and played with the tendrils of hair that had escaped her pins. Another shiver ripped across her skin. Not cold this time. Desire. Lust flooded her body with heat. As angry as she felt, her body responded instantly to his wicked breath and seductive touch. She fought the urge to snuggle closer.

The handkerchief collapsed on the widow’s lap. ‘Pelham?’ Her reproachful gaze turned on her son. ‘The daughter of a man cast out by society? Did you give no thought to Christopher’s position?’ His mother’s voice