Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Mrs. Lintel.”
The petite, black-garbed woman froze with her back to him. Her spine straightened. She did not turn.
“I know we have not been introduced, but in such odd conditions, we needn’t cleave to proprieties. I’m George Spencer Bernard, Viscount Marlow. Mrs. Lintel?”
She seemed on the brink of flight, poised to run away from him. She answered in a low, unsteady voice.
“I am going above for some air, Lord Marlow. Please excuse me.”
“I could use some air myself. I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need.”
Was she afraid of him? He approached her, meaning to reassure. She turned her face away sharply, but within the movement he saw elements he recognized: the curve of a cheek, a particularly delicate, pointed chin. He recognized enough to suck in a breath, to question his sanity. She could not be Rosalind but looked eerily like her.
He took the widow’s arm, carried away by the depth of his confusion, then dropped it when she turned to face him. He stared at her lower lip, noted how it trembled. His mind could not process what his eyes saw. She was so like Rosalind as to be her, but Rosalind was in England. She was not a widow. Rosalind’s surname was Lionel, not Lintel.
Lionel.
Lintel.
It slowly dawned on him. Widow Lintel was Rosalind, his faraway love. His nightmare and grace. His thoughts snapped to clarity if not acceptance. It was truly Rosalind standing beside him dressed in mourning, lips trembling, her gaze both rueful and frightened.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Lord Marlow,” she said in her normal voice, not the low one she’d used to hide her identity. “I suppose you are surprised.”
“I am speechless.” He opened his mouth and closed it. “I don’t… I can’t… How are you here?”
“That is a long and complicated story. I suppose the shortest way to explain is that I couldn’t bear to let you go away, and so I conspired to come too.”
“To come to India?” Realization gave way to horror. “You ‘conspired?’ Tell me you have not stolen away from England without your parents’ permission?”
She gazed at him, tears building. “I did what I believed I must. But it was probably a scandalous thing to do.”
“Rosalind, my dear.” He could not breathe. He was aghast. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You have run away from home.”
“To be with you,” she said, her voice an injured warble. She began to cry in earnest. “Are you angry? I thought you would be pleased and excited to see me.”
He took her arm, looking up and down the hall to be sure they were unobserved. “Come with me.” He led her into the nearest room, her own, and shut the door. He could not stop feeling astonished, but he must get past the shock and plan what to do now. His mind spun through their terribly limited possibilities, finding no answers. He could not convince the captain to turn the ship around and return to England. They were past Gibraltar, so he could not carry her off the Providence and put her on some other ship to get her home.
She was here with him, in a room adjoining his, and she wasn’t going anywhere. He’d wondered if the Widow Lintel was naughty. Yes, she was very naughty indeed.
“Are you angry or only surprised?” Rosalind asked in a small voice, her cheeks streaked with tears.
“I’m beside myself,” he answered.
“I thought you loved me.”
How young she was, how sheltered from the world. Love had nothing to do with their current situation. “Of course I love you.” He said it because it was honest and true. He stepped closer and took both her arms. “But what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to go to India together and get married.” She wiped her tears with a limp handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. How much had she been crying already, secreted away in her room beside his?
“You waited until we were past the ports at Gibraltar,” he said, shaking his head. “You hid from me so you wouldn’t be sent home.”
“Do you want me to return home?” She blinked at him, her blue-gray eyes dark and stormy. “Why are you scolding me?”
He threw up his hands. “Because you’ve done an incredibly reckless thing. Rosalind, do you even understand—”
He wanted to lecture her. He wanted to embrace her. He wanted to spank her until she cried. He would, he vowed, but not now, while he still grasped for sanity.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was the only way I knew to make a life together. I didn’t want to marry that awful Lord Brittingham.”
“Lord Brittingham would have been good for you.” In his high temper, he had trouble holding his tongue. “He’s not awful. He’s a fine man with better prospects than I have, a man who would have suited you in time. Would your parents have chosen a husband who wasn’t the apex of perfection? The perfect match for you?”