Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,96

room in her heart.

Love isn’t a weapon. But what the hell was it? Garth stared into his burgundy, hoping the answer might emerge from its ruby depths. It didn’t.

He pushed his untouched dinner aside with an impatient hand and took his glass to the window, looking down into the street. It was like one of those childhood riddles where the answer, once known, was obvious, but took ages to tease out. A half-smile touched his lips. Kit had been good at those riddles. Garth had preferred action.

Action hadn’t worked so well with Rosabella. Now he was floundering around in quicksand with no handy branch in sight to pull him out of the mire. He’d been so sure she’d relent once he said the words. Once he’d kissed her, reminded her of the pleasure they had together.

The love she wanted was beyond him.

Love. Such a stupid word.

For some reason his facial muscles refused to form their customary expression of scorn. They wanted to do something stupid like form a smile as he pictured her face, her courage in her convictions as she faced him, her perseverance in seeking what she knew should be found. The soppy sort of smile that went along with baskets of puppies or sunrise over the ocean. Or the sight of a baby.

He would never have a baby. He’d sworn it to himself when Kit left for America. It seemed like a way of making up for being born. What an idiot to be disappointed when she said it hadn’t come to pass.

He should have guessed she wouldn’t have him. He’d been unwanted since the day he was born.

He downed the wine.

She was right. She was better off without him. He was broken. Missing an important part everyone else took for granted. Or at least the good people.

Kit had it. Mark had it, though it didn’t seem to be making him happy.

Perhaps he was better off without it.

He just wished he felt better off.

Love isn’t a weapon. She’d looked so sad when she said that. Every time he thought about the hurt in her eyes, he couldn’t breathe for the pain in his chest.

If this was love, he’d prefer a quick death. He slammed his fist on the nearest piece of furniture. A spindly-legged table. A vase toppled to the floor with a satisfying crash. Shards of china scattered. He crunched through the debris, intending to ring for a maid. A habit. Make a mess, have it cleaned up.

His hand stilled on the cord.

He’d certainly made a mess of things with Rosabella. No one could clean that up.

Love isn’t a weapon. Was she right about that? It damned well felt as if she’d pierced him with a sword and twisted it.

Was that love?

A groan rose in his throat. If it was, then it was only one-sided.

Alone in the house for the afternoon, Penelope having gone off to make her calls, Rosabella reviewed the advertisements in The Times, carefully looking on the map to ensure each address fell within the circle drawn by Mark. Outside of that circle the ton would turn up its nose.

‘Lady Stanford,’ the butler announced.

Garth’s mother? Her heart stopped beating. She drew a quick painful breath and felt it falter to life louder than before.

She rose and dipped a curtsy as the lady swept in. Once more she was startled by the widow’s fair beauty. If she was this lovely now, she must have been a diamond of the first water as a young woman. ‘Lady Stanford.’

‘Lady Rosabella.’

Rosa forced a stiff smile. ‘The butler should have informed you of Lady Smythe’s absence.’

The lacy handkerchief appeared as if by magic in her gloved hand. Drooping from her fingertips, it looked a bit sad. ‘I’m glad we are alone. I just had to see you before the wedding.’

‘There is no wedding. I’m sorry Garth didn’t tell you and you have had a wasted journey.’

Lady Stanford’s blue eyes widened with childish innocence no doubt many men found appealing. ‘No wedding.’ Her expression brightened. ‘Well, let me offer you my congratulations. It seems you have had a lucky escape. I am sorry I was a little concerned about your…er…profession, but you really are better off without him.’

Rosa’s scalp tightened. Prickles ran across her shoulders. Wasn’t that what she’d been telling herself? Then why did she feel so annoyed to hear it from this woman’s lips? Shouldn’t a mother defend her son? She eyed the widow’s innocent blue eyes and saw a hardness she hadn’t noticed before. ‘Perhaps you