THE BOND
Prologue
1802, England
The click of a cocked shotgun, and fear shot down Rosamund’s spine.
Holding Tessa’s lead in a fierce grip, she froze. The person holding the gun stood by the copse, a youth, for he was smaller than Papa. At eight, Rose was tall for her age, but he looked a lot bigger.
Any minute, he might point the barrel in her direction. He wore a huge, wide-brimmed leather hat, so she couldn’t see his face. Maybe he was a stable hand with those thick boots and that rough barn jacket that came to his knees. He uncocked and broke the gun, then hefted it onto his shoulder, walking toward her with confident strides.
Rosamund had come to Ravenscroft to give them Tessa. Papa once said with scorn they "cosset their animals," so this would be a good home for Tessa and her pups.
The youth was almost upon her when he spoke in a husky voice. "Who might you be, and what are you doing on our land?"
Rose knew she would have to speak to the Ravenscroft people, and she had dressed appropriately and practiced lowering her voice, so they would think she was a boy. "I am here to see your stable master."
"What are you doing with that dog?"
"She is my dog, Tessa."
"Where are you from?" he said.
Tessa’s belly moved in and out, and the young man tilted his head as if not understanding.
Hadn’t he ever seen animals having babies? Rose pointed in the vague direction of their estate.
"Fielding. I see," he said. "How did you get here?"
Boys could be so dumb. "We walked." Obviously.
He said nothing for a long time. What was wrong with him? She should just start down the hill towards the stables. He wouldn’t shoot her. Probably.
“I will give you a ride home in our gig,” he said.
No. Rose would not turn back now. “I need to see your stable master.”
The rain had eased, but a chill breeze started her shivering again from the earlier downpour’s soaking. Oh, how she wanted to be in her bed, nestled beside Tessa who would lick her face.
“I won’t go home until I see the stable master.” She crossed her arms like Papa did when he was angry.
The villain chuckled. “Come with me, then.”
Rhys could not believe that the scrawny girl with her pregnant dog had walked from the Fielding estate to theirs on a miserable rainy day like this one. Her thinking was not sound, not at all. The odds she would be injured were high. Or the dog could have gone into labor. Or crossing the log bridge, the girl might have fallen into the river below. Ridiculous child.
He’d been in the woods on one of his survey missions, for he must be canny and sharp when he joined the cavalry in a few years. Surveying the estate was one of his self-appointed tasks, which was where he’d found the girl and her pregnant dog, her disguise as a boy not fooling him in the least.
He would get the pair to the barn and drive them home in the trap.
When they neared the stables, Fergus stepped from beneath an archway, skepticism writ large on his face. Ravenscroft’s stable master was a canny one and shot Rhys a look that said the girl’s disguise also failed to fool him.
She ran up to Fergus and stretched out her fisted hand holding the rope. “Please take Tessa. Please.”
Fergus’ gray eyes bored down onto her. “And why would I do that, young sir?”
For some reason, Fergus was going along with her playacting at being a boy. Odd. Rhys shrugged. It didn’t matter.
Leading Tessa, the child inched closer to Fergus and petted her dog’s head. “She is a purebred English setter. She got herself in the family way.” A flush brushed the child’s cheeks, but she didn’t seem to care. “You must take her. You must.” The girl notched her chin as she stared at the six-foot-tall, grizzled stable master who brooked no nonsense. Many a time that steel gaze had sliced Rhys to ribbons. The girl did not flinch, determination taut in every fiber of her being.
“And what am I to do with the pups?” Fergus said. “We would have to feed and house the litter. That costs quite a few farthings.”
The chit smiled. “I can help with that. I get a monthly gift of pence from my papa, and I will give it all to you if you will take Tessa and raise her puppies. You could give some away if you wanted. Only to good homes, though.”
Rhys bit back the laugh about to explode. “You have a lot of demands, child.”
“My Lord,” Fergus interrupted. “I would suggest returning to the house before your father notices you are in possession of the shotgun and prowling the home wood on your own. You may be tall for your age, but you are only half-grown.”
Rhys puffed up. At twelve, he was nearly a man. Boys of fourteen went off to war and that was but two years away. But Fergus had cut him down like a hatchet to a sapling.
The girl twirled to stare at him. “You are only a boy, too. Look at you acting like a grown-up, like someone in charge.”
Rhys gave her teeth, but Fergus’s eyes warned him not to overstep. He had almost blurted he was a courtesy earl. Patrick, his sarcastic younger brother, wouldn’t hesitate with a set-down. But Rhys admired her pluck. Hard not to.
Which was when it struck him that she was Earl Fielding’s daughter. How strange he had not met her before this. The girl was something special, and nothing like he imagined an earl’s daughter to be.
She thrust the dog’s rope toward Rhys. “Take her. Please, take her. If you do not, she will die.”
The desperation in those big green eyes gave him pause. She was terrified, that was plain. Rumors filtered through his mind, ones about Earl Fielding. Nasty ones.
He held out his hand for the rope, and the girl’s eyes morphed into a mixture of joy and sorrow.
With tight lips she handed it to him, got down on her knees, and hugged the soggy setter, burying her face in the dog’s wet fur. She inhaled deeply, then whispered in the pup’s ear. He could imagine her words, for he knew well the loss of parting from a beloved animal.
The girl rose, her expressive face calm. She did not weep. But those eyes, those damned eyes drew him in with a look of tragedy he’d long remember.
“Thank you.” She turned and thanked Fergus, as well, then strode back toward the hill.
“Wait!” Rhys handed Fergus the dog’s rope and ran after her. “Hold up.” She patiently waited with her soggy clothes and sad eyes. “I will give you a ride home.”
She shook her head. “No thank you, my lord.”
Stubborn, too. “I will take you in the cart and pretend I’m delivering an order to the kitchens. No one at the house need ever know you were gone.”
She assessed him as if determining whether he was worthy or not. The girl must have seen something acceptable because she nodded. “All right. Thank you.”
Rhys readied the trap and began harnessing the pony.
“What a beautiful Welsh Mountain Pony,” the chit said.
He grinned as he slung on the saddle and put the breeching around the pony’s body, fastening the crupper about his tail. Few adults in this locale knew the breed. Impressive for a little squirt. “He is that.”
She scratched the pony’s head. “Did you know they were here before the Romans came?”
“I did.” That she knew came as another surprise. He finished harnessing the pony and climbed onto the seat. “Come on up. What is your name? And I already know you’re a girl, so don’t bother giving me something fake.”
She scrambled up to the seat. “Rosamund.”
“Lady Rosamund. Rose. But you’re not exactly a Rose, though you are prickly enough for one. No, with that shade of hair—”
She scrunched her little face and wagged a finger. “Do not say carrot. Don’t you dare.”
He grinned. “I was about to say Rosie.”
“Rosie? No one calls me that!”
Such a fierce child, determined and curious. “That is why I shall. Get on the floor in front of my legs.”
Rosamund climbed into the small space before him. “What is your name?”
“Lansdowne.”
“Your full name?” she said, lying down. “I need to know, my lord.”
He placed a basket of vegetables beside her head and flung a blanket atop the pile of girl and produce. He had already learned people saw what they expected or wished to see.
Rhys inwardly groaned. “Griffin George Rhys Alistair Lansdowne. My tutor calls me Talbot, as I am currently Earl Talbot.”
“Talbot? But you’re a Ravenscroft, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m a Ravenscroft. Someday, I will be marquess. But my father, along with being a marquess, is also Earl Talbot, and that became my courtesy title at birth.”
“Oh. Well, as I see it, if you are giving me the nickname Rosie, then I can call you Rhys, which is my favorite of your names.”
It was his favorite, too, what his mother had called him. He laughed. “Understood. I expect we will become friends after this.”
Rosie grinned. “Friends.”
Rhys flicked the reins, and off they went.
Chapter 1
1816, 14 years later
The soirée was intimate by haute ton standards, though exclusive was more apt when describing Almack’s assembly rooms. But Rosamund, with her dislike of crowds, found it a crush. To dodge the raptor gaze of Almack’s patronesses, she’d positioned herself behind a palm frond and indulged in reading her book.
Though off-season, Almack’s patronesses were hosting several assemblies to celebrate the war’s end. Lady Fielding wished her girls, Charlotte and Claire, to attend them, so the entire family had made the journey to town from Fielding Manor.
Rose sighed and turned the page in Emma, the newest book “By a Lady.” At times, she wished for Emma’s petite frame, pale complexion, and blonde hair. But only sometimes, for Rose’s tall, spare frame worked well atop a horse, though she didn’t love the multiplicity of freckles she gained from her hours spent outdoors. And while her eyes were a startling green, rather than the popular limpid blue, the color complemented her auburn hair, even if blonde locks were the fashion.
Ah, well. The more she imagined looking like Emma Woodhouse, the more she was content. For Emma could not permit the sun to splash across her face as Rose did. Nor could she leap atop a horse without the aid of a mounting block. And of course, were she a perfectly beautiful woman, annoying suitors would plague her even more, hungry for her dowry.
Rose turned the page. She had loved the writer’s earlier works, and Emma was becoming a favorite, as perfect Emma was deliciously un-self-aware and quite amusing.
A burst of laughter, the chatter of the cotillion intruding. The voices, the sounds, the smells—all familiar. And tiresome. Clinking glasses, tittering laughs, and swooshing gowns were accompanied by the occasional shriek when a celebrated person entered the room.
Rose used her finger as a placeholder, her mind growing chaotic. She swallowed, the insipid ratafia punch taste lingering on her tongue. He might come.
Cedric, her cousin, said it was a possibility. Ceddie might be a terrible gossip, the ton chatter his meat and drink, but another acquaintance had echoed his words. Her stepsisters were giddy with the possibility of “our neighbor, the famous war hero’s, return.” They were young, twenty and twenty-two, and in their first and second seasons. Rose smiled. She adored them and their sweet enthusiasm.
He never used to enjoy Town, but still… He might appear.
To all of England’s great relief, the war with Napoleon had finally ended, with the Little General now ensconced on Saint Helena. Rose hoped he stayed put this time. British troops had flooded home, and Lord Griffin George Rhys Alistair Lansdowne, Marquess of Ravenscroft was one of them, laden with honors and medals, and the youngest major general on Wellington’s staff. Knowing Rhys, he would disdain the gilt and kudos.
Rhys was safe now, which was all that mattered, but the prospect of seeing him made Rose waver between elation and terror, for she had not seen her best friend in eight long years.
Ahhhs and sighs rippled through the room. Every fiber of Rose’s being stood on high alert.
Rose craned her neck and sighed. The newest arrival was the Prince Regent. The prince wasn’t a bad fellow, but he wasn’t a particularly good one, either.
Nearby, her sire, Lord Fielding shoved his way toward the prince, her stepsisters and Lady Beatrice in tow, determined to introduce them. His lordship always found the lures of prestige and royalty irresistible.
Rose sat back, repositioning the palm leaf. Each wallflower beside her was high born, enough so that the patronesses offered them vouchers. Each was lovely in her own fashion, which happened to be out of fashion with most of the ton. Consideration of character sat on a much lower rung than beauty or money. Rose’s bluestocking tendencies were anathema, as well, and her broaching of intellectual topics put off many a gentleman, as intended.
Oh, dear. She set her book aside and stood as the earl and her stepmother approached. Rose’s anxiety, unusually high, made her reflexively pat her leather-lined pocket where her knife always rested.
“Your Lordship, Lady Fielding.” She smiled and curtsied. “Are you enjoying the evening?”
His lordship wore a concerned frown. “Why aren’t you dancing, sweeting?”
Revulsion shivered through Rose as she stared at the handsome man who had sired her, at his artfully styled auburn hair, with its wings of white. His imperious nose stared down at her, his mean eyes calculating.
She held his gaze, fighting the terrible dread that always accompanied his presence. “But I have danced, sir, with Lord Atherton and Sir Kingsley. As you know, I prefer to read.”
His eyes laughed, but his tone remained smooth and earnest. “Lovely Rosamund, reading is a waste of good—”
“Now, Cornelius,” Lady Bea said. The tall, curvaceous woman whom Rose adored patted her husband’s arm. “Your daughter is where she wishes to be.”
The earl’s mouth thinned, but the orchestra struck up a waltz, a dance newly permitted at the assembly rooms. Bea took his arm, eyes sparkling, and suggested they take a turn.
The earl relented and off they went, though Rose caught his spark of fury directed at her.
Rose gave a relieved sigh and leaned back in her chair. Encounters with that maggot pie were exhausting. Some days, she felt as a will-o’-the-wisp, tossed this way and that by the earl’s edicts and demands.
Renewed murmurs, more titters, and a shriek. Ah, a handsome male had entered. Rose couldn’t quite see the entrance, but she would not stand up. That wasn’t at all the thing.
More oohs and ahhs as the important someone approached the marble landing to be announced. She half-rose, pretending to straighten her skirts, gasped, and thumped back on the seat.
Rhys was here. Her heart nearly stopped, her joy so full.
He had led his share of cavalry charges on the Peninsula, but his acumen at strategy had gained him his position with Wellington’s staff. Rhys saw far beyond what others perceived. He had always been brilliant, Rose knew that, of course. But he was also funny and wise and kind, traits not mentioned in the dispatches from the front.
Rose began to tremble. Drat! Though she’d seen him a few times while he’d attended the Royal Military Academy, more than a decade had passed since they’d spent much time together. Nonetheless, she knew him—she always would—and his and his sister Susannah’s letters enabled Rosamund to keep him close during the wars.
But war changed a man. She had seen it herself in Fielding’s returning staff, most of whom the earl had turned away due to their injuries, much to Rose’s sorrow and horror.
Her breath stuttered out. Terror at seeing Rhys was winning over elation.
Was she perspiring? Dear heavens, don’t let her be perspiring.
Should she reopen Emma and pretend to read? Perhaps leave it closed and chatter with a lady seated nearby. Maybe she should stand? No. No.
She wanted Rhys to seek her out, needed him to want to see her. Their letters during the war indicated he did. And yet…
Perhaps he had moved beyond their old friendship, after all, progressed so far from her reach that he no longer felt as she did.
Rosamund reopened her book and sank into the narrative. Or at least pretended to do so.
A presence approached.
She wasn’t a coward. Yet she could not look up. With her nose buried in Emma, all she saw were white dress breeches, stockings, and black slippers.
Rosamund raised her face, and breath ceased to exist.
He wore his smart red dress uniform jacket, complete with medals and gold braiding, a sash wrapped around his waist. His ravens-wing hair, now clipped short, had turned white as snow.
Susannah had written about Rhys’ hair changing color and how he often removed his hat so the enemy could spot him first. Idiotic, high-minded man.
The color change nonetheless startled her, though she knew of it. But those eyes, the color of a bluebird’s wing, had not changed. Rose stared into them, shocked by their unfathomable sorrow mingled with an incandescent joy, the coupled emotions seemingly impossible.
He loomed larger than she remembered, but leaner, too, and it hurt that war had worn him down.
Rosamund dipped her head, her cheeks on fire, while her blood seemed to rush to her toes.
A white-gloved hand appeared, palm up, and he leaned forward. He was warm, his breath a balm on her cheek.
“Come dance with me, Rosie?” he said, his voice a rough whisper.
Tears threatened, eyes aching to spill. No one but he called her Rosie.
“Lady Rosamund?” he said.
Without raising her face, she placed her gloved hand in his, his grip confident.
He was here. The man she had loved forever. Also the man forbidden to her by her own sense of fairness and justice.
“Lord Ravenscroft.” She stood, tipping her head to peer up at his great height. His face was stark and drawn and weathered, with fresh lines absent from the boy who had left for military college when he was sixteen and she twelve. And yet, the humor and delight in those eyes shined bright, too.
He leaned forward again, his breath brushing her ear. “You look quite lovely, Rosie mine.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Why had her voice trembled like a chit just out of the schoolroom? “I am no fashion plate. Nor do I aspire to be one. Rather, I am a mature woman long on the shelf.”
He laughed as he walked her toward the dance floor. “Absurd. You are but six-and-twenty.”
Rosamund pursed her lips.
“Then am I an old codger at thirty?”
Rose’s lips twitched, but she somehow managed to keep her solemn air. “I often assist Lady Fielding as a chaperone, Lord Ravenscroft.” She nodded toward her stepmother and sisters.
Grinning, he glanced their way, then fastened his gaze on her. “If they knew the real you and all your misdeeds, they would not let you chaperone a pony.”
She sniffed. “I am a different person now than when you left.”
“I should hope so, considering the last occasion we spent any time together, you were but twelve. But your letters tell the tale.”
True, they had written many letters to each other via her friend Lucy, though their frequency had diminished after the Peninsula campaign.
“In fact,” he said. “I would bet Ravenscroft Manor that you tumbled into as many scrapes as you did when we were children.”
She laughed. “I believe you would lose your estate, sir.”
“And I believe you are bamming me. Come, Lady Rosamund. Let us dance.”
Rhys was back, and Rose had never been so happy. Or so sad.