Free A Dangerous Beauty by Sophia Nash

She twirled a flower that had dropped from Sylvia’s hands. “Has His Grace said anything to you?”
    “No.” Sylvia paused. “He’s very strange, don’t you think? Several ladies have warned me to stay away from him. They said he’s called Lord Fire and Ice because he’s a notorious rake with an unpredictable temper. Auggie’s friend keeps flirting with him on the sly.”
    “And does he flirt back?” she asked, not really sure she wanted to hear the answer.
    “I think it’s gone beyond that, by the way he looks at her.”
    Rosamunde didn’t know if she was more annoyed learning this or more irritated at herself for being annoyed.
    “He’s even rumored to have killed someone,” Sylvia said in a hushed tone.
    “That’s ridiculous. You know how gossip grows. The man was in the Royal Navy. He probably did kill while fighting the French, but I highly doubt he killed anyone here in England. Lord Fire and Ice indeed,” she snorted.
    “Well, I’m afraid of him. He’s nothing at all like…”
    Rosamunde swallowed. “You’re right, he isn’t anything like his brother.”
    Sylvia fiddled with a flower. “It isn’t fair, you know. You’re forcing me to face everyone alone again tonight when coming here was your idea.”
    “Has it been that bad?”
    “Worse than you can imagine. The ladies stare at me and whisper. And the gentlemen just gape and sometimes smile ever so slightly”—her gaze dropped—“knowingly.”
    “I’m so sorry, Sylvia. I had hoped my past wouldn’t taint you here. At least the wedding is next week and then they will all leave. In the meantime, we can stay to ourselves and try to figure out our future. You don’t have to go down for dinner either, you know.”
    Rosamunde turned on her stool and took her beloved sister in her arms, not sure who was comforting whom. The balm of sisterly love had been the only thing that had sustained her spirits for so long.
    Sylvia’s muffled voice floated to her ear. “I’m so glad. I just can’t face Auggie Phelps and her circle of friends again.”
    Rosamunde brushed a limp, ebony lock from hersister’s face. Neither of them had ever been able to force a curl to stay long in their thick straight hair.
    “But, Rosa, Her Grace asked me to play her harp as entertainment after dinner. And—”
    “And what?”
    “And you know how hard it is to disappoint her. I told her I would, but only if you accompanied me with your voice.”
    “You didn’t. You would never—”
    A loud rap at the door interrupted her and their gazes flew to it.
    “Yes?” Rosamunde called out.
    The last person she wanted to see entered first. Then Ata pushed passed His Grace, elbowing him viciously.
    “Those should be certified as weapons,” he said under his breath.
    “Well, if you’d stop gawking, I wouldn’t have to use them now, would I?” she said sweetly.
    His Grace glanced at the ceiling for help.
    This time it appeared the dowager was undecided in her dress. She wore a conservative dark aubergine gown, but a petticoat rustled underneath and Rosamunde was sure she had seen a hint of dark rose lace at the edge.
    “My dear, Luc and I thought we must look in on you. I do hope the infusions helped. They must have, since the gardener reports you’ve been strolling the gardens this afternoon. Shall we all go down for dinner, then?”
    She had such an innocent goodness in her expression Rosamunde didn’t have the heart to offer an excuse. Funny how Rosamunde’s old governess had used the same trick and she’d succumbed every time.
    “Well, of course, Your Grace. I would—”
    “Ata, please.” She’d said it with so much sadness Rosamunde knew she would never err again.
    “Ata…Sylvia and I are almost ready. We’ll descend in an instant.”
     
    Luc had decided he wasn’t going to let her hide anymore. It hadn’t taken his grandmother’s incessant questions to make him act.
    Standing there in the doorway made him wish he had proceeded sooner.