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)
“Love doesn’t always find a way,” said August. “But I’m happy for both of you. As for wolves, you may prefer them to the ton’s judgment.”
“The ton can bugger itself,” Marlow muttered. “Pardon my language,” he added, glancing down at her.
“What does ‘bugger’ mean?” Rosalind asked.
August let out a bark of laughter, quickly silenced by Marlow’s glare. “She reads Byron, but she doesn’t know,” said August.
“Because she’s a genteel woman.” He turned to her. “Bugger is a sort of curse word, darling. Bugger this, bugger that. It’s vulgar. Don’t ever say it.”
“This is what I mean when I say it’s difficult to imagine you together,” said August.
“Even so, we’re together now.”
His terse words silenced August, who turned to the window. She did not think Marlow meant to be cross to his cousin. He was only tired, like her, and arriving in Florence would not be the respite they needed, not with her family there waiting to demand explanations. If she could go back in time, would she have done things differently?
She leaned her head against Marlow again. No, she would still have followed him. Three days later, as they rolled up the stately drive to Prince Carlo’s Tuscany palace, she knew it was worth the uproar they were about to endure.
She could tell Marlow was consumed by nerves, though he tried to hide it. He had taken extra care with his appearance before they left the inn that morning, sitting for a long shave and asking August’s valet to polish his boots. His coat and trousers had been starched and pressed to perfection, and his cravat tied in a neat, high knot with one of August’s borrowed pins stuck through it.
Rosalind had taken great care too, donning the most beautiful of her new traveling dresses, a deep burgundy gown with tiny silk flowers at the waist and neckline, along with a set of pearls August had paid for, calling it a wedding gift. Her hair had been swept into a passable chignon by one of the inn’s housemaids who’d had experience as a lady’s stylist, and her kid gloves were brand new, without a speck of dust upon them.
It felt cramped in the coach for the first time, though it hadn’t felt so before, even with the two big men sharing it with her. Perhaps it was the fear of expectation that made her feel suffocated. Marlow had assured her last night for the dozenth time that all would be well, but still, he only kissed her and held her when they retired to bed together, like she was not all his anymore, and he dared not do more.
She did not like that feeling.
But she could not ask the question she wanted to ask, for she was too afraid of the answer. Can they dissolve our marriage? Does a marriage by a priest in Santa Maria di Leuca even count?
Lord Augustine was known at the palace, having only just been there, so the guards waved them right through the gates. But when they presented themselves to the butler at the palace entrance, the man visibly blanched and asked in bewilderment, “Lady Rosalind? Are you sure?”
“Of course she’s sure,” said Marlow. “If you could request an audience of her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge, we would appreciate it. They will wish to see her.”
“Of—of course, my lord. You must come this way.”
The man led them into the palace’s great foyer, gleaming with white marble and shining glass. The chandelier above them tinkled from the wind outside as two footmen shut the door. It wasn’t until he led them into the parlor that she noticed signs of mourning, dark flowers and a black cloth draped over each of the mirrors.
“Who has died?” Rosalind asked, feeling panic rise in her stomach. “What has happened? Not one of the children?”
“They were well enough when I left,” said August. “Perhaps someone from Carlo’s family?”
“What if my parents—or Townsend or Jane—”
“Don’t get into a panic,” Marlow said soothingly, drawing her into his arms.
“But the house is in mourning.”
They turned at a cry from the door. Rosalind’s mother stood with her hand against her heart, pale as a sheet of paper, while her father stared intensely.
“Rosalind? Marlow?” His voice was tight with shock.
She felt a thousand feelings at once, the main one being that she must go to her parents immediately and embrace them, for she’d missed them so much.
“Mama! Papa!” She extricated herself from Marlow’s embrace and started toward her parents, praying they wouldn’t upbraid her or push her away.
But no, her mother was practically running across the long parlor, arms outstretched. When she reached her, she clasped her against her chest. Rosalind realized she’d looked so very pale because she was dressed in black mourning clothes. Her mama’s eyes were swollen from tears.
“Mama, who has died?” she asked, pulling away from her.