The Dark One (10 page)

Casting another nervous glance toward Franklin, who was bearing down upon them, Rosalind asked, “And what do you say?”

The young woman frowned. “I probably will marry him. I'm like you, a duke's daughter. I must marry well.”

The two were nothing alike. Lady Amelia had a mother to watch over her. A father to make wise decisions on her behalf. Rosalind knew that if her father were alive, he'd never approve of Penmore for a husband. He would have at least tried to find someone closer to her age, and he wouldn't have condoned a man who turned a blind eye to another man abusing her.

“Excuse my stepsister; her escort for the evening was called away on an urgent matter and I am ordered to make certain that Rosalind enjoys the dancing.” Franklin was suddenly there, taking her arm in his cruel grip.

Lady Amelia turned away and hurried toward her
mother, like a brave chick who'd wandered too far from the nest and now sought cover from a fox.

“Penmore pointed out to me that I am lax in my position as chaperone again,” Franklin explained. “Since he was called away, we will have a dance before I escort you home.”

Rosalind wasn't disappointed that Penmore would not escort her home, but she was upset that her conversation with Lady Amelia Sinclair had been cut short. “I was fine,” Rosalind assured him. “In fact, I made a friend.”

“You have no need for friends,” Franklin said in a clipped voice. “If you do, Penmore will choose them for you once you are married.”

Feeling brave in the company of so many, Rosalind said, “I have not agreed to marry him, Franklin. What if I chose someone else? Someone who is willing to settle your debts and willing to accept me without a dowry?”

They had reached the edge of the dance floor and Franklin swept her into the sea of ladies and gentlemen. He crushed her hand in his. “You count too much upon your pretty face and your pedigree, Rosalind. Besides, you do not have that option. I thought you did until Penmore caught sight of you, but now that he has, your future is decided. He made that quite clear to me earlier this evening.”

Again Rosalind was surprised that any man could hold Franklin under his thumb. But then, if he owed the man a great deal in gambling debts, debts that could be called in at a moment's notice, debts that could land Franklin in prison, she supposed even Franklin wouldn't thwart the man. Her spirits sank with the realization.

“I can't say that I'm sad he was called away,” she bravely admitted. “He's disgusting to me. If he were at least kind—”

“Stop your complaining,” Franklin interrupted. He
squeezed her hand painfully again. “Your wishes, as I've told you time and time again, do not matter to me. If it will give you a measure of comfort, I know a little secret about our viscount.”

She glanced up at Franklin, who was taller than her but not as dashingly tall as Armond Wulf. “A secret?”

He smiled down at her, and for any who might be watching, it was the doting smile of a stepbrother, only, as always, his eyes remained flat and dead. “Our viscount has problems with his manly parts. I doubt that he can get it up long enough to consummate your marriage. Although he talks a good game, likes to pretend that he's as randy as a young stud still full of lead.”

Rosalind wasn't innocent enough to misunderstand what Franklin told her. While it made marriage to the man only a little less intolerable, he still sickened her with his lewd grins and fondling hands. She did wonder then why her reputation was so important to a man who couldn't do his husbandly duty anyway.

“I know what you're thinking,” Franklin drawled. “Penmore has been a bachelor for so long that it is for some reason important to marry a young lady of good reputation, and good bloodlines, although I'll warn you that any children you may have with him will no doubt be fathered by a man of his choosing.”

Her stomach rolled at the thought, and for a moment she feared she might become ill on the dance floor, which would be ironic, since that was the ruse Armond had made up to spare her reputation the first night they met.

As if merely thinking of Armond Wulf summoned him, she caught sight of a tall blond figure moving along the outer edges of the dance floor. Her eyes were drawn to him, as she suspected were everyone's present. He commanded attention, though he did not demand it.

He wore black as usual, which contrasted sharply to
his blond hair and tawny skin. His long hair was tied back, drawing attention to the chiseled lines of his face. His eyes were centered directly on her as he moved—but no, he didn't move; he stalked her, like an animal that had caught sight of his prey. That she was the object of Armond's regard would be impossible to miss if anyone was paying attention. And everyone was.

“Don't look at him,” Franklin hissed down at her. “The two of you are making a spectacle.”

How she could possibly be making a spectacle when a good ten paces separated her and Armond? But Rosalind supposed she had managed, since the very air around her seemed suddenly charged with speculation. She didn't care, she realized. And she couldn't seem to look away, as if she were indeed a rabbit mesmerized by the steady gaze of an animal about to gobble her up.

Her blood started to tingle, her face to flush. She forgot everything. Her good upbringing, the fact that she was dancing with a man who had made her life a living hell and would continue to do so for as long as she was at his mercy. Franklin brought her back to reality. He squeezed her hand so hard she almost cried out.

“Time to make our excuses and leave,” he growled down at her. “That man makes you lose your head. I won't have him ruining everything! Do you hear me, Rosalind? He will learn that I am not a man to be taken lightly. And neither is Penmore.”

He nearly dragged her from the dance floor. “Franklin,” she breathed, suddenly regaining her wits and hurrying to keep up with him. “If you whisk me away from the soiree right now, it will be you who is making a spectacle. Everyone will be talking about how you ran from Lord Wulf. Please, allow me to have a little dignity and rethink your decision on the matter.”

Rosalind was afraid to leave with Franklin. Better for
her if he had time to cool his temper and she had time to appease him by pretending she had no interest in Armond Wulf whatsoever. If she could pretend, that was. Recalling the way he'd avoided Penmore's taunt in the stable helped in that regard.

Franklin slowed his steps. “I do think you have a brain in that pretty little head of yours, after all,” he said. “Wulf is no doubt using you to anger me. The man enjoys taunting me, but he will soon learn that is a mistake. We will rejoin the guests and pretend we are having a conversation until a suitable amount of time has passed; then we will make our excuses and leave.”

Although she would rather allow herself to be swallowed by the crowd and avoid Franklin, better to be in his company, where he wouldn't dare strike her, than alone with him. No matter how tempted Rosalind was to look in Armond's direction, she would control the impulse. Or so she hoped.

“You are a wicked man, Armond Wulf,” the dowager duchess scolded. “Here I thought you were innocent and wrongly accused of the gossip that constantly floats around your angelic head like a tarnished halo, and you are proving everyone right.”

Armond forced his eyes from Rosalind to meet the dowager's frown. He lifted a brow in inquiry over his sins. She nodded in the direction he'd been staring since he first arrived at Lady LeGrande's soiree.

“You're causing the worst kind of speculation with the heated looks you constantly throw across the room at Lady Rosalind.”

He frowned. “Have I been staring at her?” He knew he had been but seemed helpless to stop. She looked beautiful in a rose silk gown that set off her pale skin and dark hair. He couldn't take his eyes from her.

“My, my,” the dowager clucked. “Armond Wulf has finally lost his heart. And about time, too. I told you the young woman would make a good match for you.”

Her speculations snapped his head in the woman's direction. “My heart isn't what's speaking to me when I look at Lady Rosalind; I can assure you of that.”

The dowager gave him a good swat with her fan. “Naughty boy. Love very often begins with a strong attraction to the physical. You should try to control your lust in public, though. The way you're staring at the young woman you might as well strip her bare and have your way with her in front of the whole social set. Do you do everything so . . . intensely?”

He thought about the question for a moment. “Yes,” he finally answered.

The dowager laughed. “Her stepbrother is growing more livid by the moment. You should tone it down at bit, Armond. You know she arrived on the rather pudgy arm of the disgusting Lord Penmore? I do hope the young heiress can do better than him. It would be a pity to see her wasted on such a scoundrel.”

Rosalind had allowed the foul man to escort her to the soiree? She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes on. Why would she settle for Penmore? She could have any man in London. Any man but Armond.

He forced his gaze from her. “Do not think to bait me into behaving foolishly where the young woman is concerned,” he warned the dowager. “You know that I have vowed to never marry.”

“You're behaving foolishly enough on your own,” the woman said smoothly. “Why are you here, Armond? To see me? I hardly think so. You came to see her; admit that much.”

He would not admit it to the dowager, even if it was the truth. Armond had suspected Rosalind would attend
the soiree. He had no business being here. He hadn't been invited, though that usually proved no problem for him. People were afraid to turn him away. But he'd come anyway, again as if he couldn't resist his pull toward her.

“I did come to see you.” He turned his charm and his attention on the woman who had been a friend to his parents and hadn't forsaken their children when the curse had come upon his family. “I adore you, and if there is a woman in all of London who could tempt me to break my vow to remain a bachelor for life, it would be you.”

The dowager, long past her prime, blushed like a young girl. She quickly swatted him with her fan again. “Naught boy.”

Rosalind's resolve had weakened by the time she realized Armond had left the soiree. Obviously, the same as every other woman present, she found it nearly impossible not to glance in his direction. He was sinfully handsome, and as he spoke with the old dowager, his face relaxed and his smile, when he flashed it upon the woman, was enough to take Rosalind's breath away.

Franklin had insisted they leave shortly after Armond had disappeared. Now they rode home in silence, though her stepbrother still brooded across from her. Rosalind closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, reliving the night's events.

Armond had ignored her once he'd joined the dowager. Although Rosalind should have been grateful his attention didn't further enrage Franklin, she admitted to feeling a bit stung by Armond's indifference toward her. Perhaps because she found it impossible to remain indifferent toward him.

They did her no good, these feelings that leaped to life every time she was in close proximity to Armond Wulf. Franklin had made up his mind about her future, and even
if he hadn't, Armond Wulf would be the last man he'd allow her to court seriously. And obviously, Armond had no desire to court her properly. He instead had chosen to pursue her very improperly.

The clip-clop of the horses lulled Rosalind. She remembered another night, another carriage ride. Another man. There in the darkness behind her eyelids, Armond came to her again. She felt his lips against hers, soft but commanding. Her breasts swelled, ached with the remembered feel of his hands . . . his tongue . . . his mouth. She remembered exactly how she had felt in his arms, how he had felt pressed against her. The heat that had sprung up between them, the hunger. The sound of her own soft moan startled her, and she abruptly opened her eyes.

Franklin stared at her, his expression much like that of a cat watching a sleeping mouse. “What were you dreaming about just now?” he asked softly. “Or maybe I should ask who?”

Rosalind straightened. “I must have dozed off. Are we home?” She made a great show of pulling back the carriage drapes to peek out into the dark night. Only a few lights burned in the townhouse. “Oh, I see that we are. Well, good. I'm exhausted.”

“Don't think that you'll simply scamper up to your room and avoid punishment for your behavior this evening,” Franklin said. “I've been thinking about what would be appropriate.”

Rosalind had never suspected that mere words could make her blood freeze in her veins, make her heart rise in her throat, but she was wrong. In spite of her sudden terror, she would make a stand.

“I'm a grown woman, Franklin,” she said. “I won't be punished like a child. Not by you, not by any man.”

He lifted a brow over her daring, and his calm expression was more frightening than if he'd flown into a rage.
“We will see,” he said. He leaned forward and opened the coach door, then bounded outside. When he extended his hand to help Rosalind alight, she refused to take it.

“You will not beat me,” she said sternly. “I will no longer stand for your abuse.”

His calm facade cracked, and for a moment his eyes flared with barely suppressed rage. “You dare tell me what you will or will not tolerate beneath my roof?”

The coachman appeared to help them alight, saw that Franklin had already done so, and went around in front of the horses to take their reins and lead them to the carriage house. Franklin reached forward, grabbed Rosalind's arm, and nearly wrenched it from the socket when he pulled her outside. She gasped with the pain.

As the coach moved from their path, she wanted to call out to the driver, beg him for help, but the rattle and sway of the carriage would have drowned her out, and Franklin would have only become more enraged.