Page 8 of Sinfully Daring

Hargreaves shrugged. “Well, one day he will inherit Mitcham Priory. Think of all those ghosts wandering about. Mad monks and the like. That’s got to be an incentive, surely?”

Rosamund rolled her eyes at him. “I grew up with Larkin Weston. He’s like one of my brothers, and he once put a frog down my back,” she added with a scowl. “Certainly not.”

“Not even with a mad monk thrown in? He’s said to be a clever fellow. He’s wealthy too, and very handsome,” Hargreaves added, studying the man with a critical expression.

“Well, you marry him, then!” she retorted, pretending to be affronted, but thoroughly enjoying herself.

“I don’t think so,” Hargreaves replied seriously.

Rosamund, who knew they were being silly now and did not care a bit, demanded, “Why not?”

“I’m scared of ghosts,” he said with a heavy sigh.

Rosamund gave a most unladylike bark of laughter, causing many of the ladies and gentlemen around them to turn their heads and murmur with disapproval.

Hargreaves’ eyes glittered with mirth, the devil, and Rosamund bit her lip, trying to contain herself before she got hysterical.

“You are a bit of hoyden, my lady. I’m not sure who we’ll find to marry you if you keep behaving so badly.” He gave her a tut of disapproval.

“That was entirely your fault,” she complained, glaring at him and turning her attention back to the assembled company. “What about him?” she asked, gesturing with her fan to a hulking Scotsman in full regalia. Her gaze quite naturally drifted to his legs, visible beneath the hem of his kilt, his powerful calves encased in white hose.

Hargreaves cleared his throat, and Rosamund jumped, blushing as she realised she’d been staring.

“Well, his appeal is obvious enough,” he said dryly.

Rosamund shot him a warning look. “Who is he?”

“Viscount Balmore, I believe. Though I am afraid I cannot offer an introduction, for I don’t know him at all.”

“Do you know of him?”

Hargreaves shook his head. “Apologies, my lady. If I hear anything, I shall let you know.”

“He’s rather intimidating,” Rosamund mused, though she could only see his back from where they stood, but he was built upon mountainous proportions and towered over the ladies he was speaking with who were craning their necks to look up at him.

“Well, that’s nice, I must say,” Hargreaves grumbled.

“What?” Rosamund tore her eyes from the impressive Scott to look back at him.

“You threaten me with bodily harm if I dare get between you and a bit of a breeze, and him you find intimidating. I’m crushed.”

Rosamund bit back a grin and reached out, patting his arm soothingly. “There, there, Hargreaves. You’re just not cut out to be a Highlander.”

Finally, seeing her mama waving at her to come along, Rosamund turned back to him with a grin. “We’re leaving, but thank you for keeping me company. It would have been very dull without you.”

“Without me to mock and insult, you mean?” he replied, smiling at her.

“Precisely,” she said with a snooty little sniff, before curtseying to him and taking her leave, hearing his soft chuckle follow her across the room.

24th June 1842, The Royal Academy Exhibition, Trafalgar Square, London

Sebastian could not help the smile that curved his lips as he admired the portrait of Lady Rosamund on display in the Academy exhibition. There were many such paintings of fashionable young women and noble ladies of the ton. To him, though, this one outshone everything else in the room. He did not think this was only because she had become such a dear friend. Though they seemed to trip over each other daily, which perhaps was not surprising, as they knew many of the same people and moved in the same circles, but seeing her had become the highlight of his day. She never failed to make him laugh and lighten his spirits. They had the most fascinating conversations, for she was interested in everyone and everything, and his only complaint was that the time passed too quickly. He did not dare spend too long with her, or monopolise her time, aware of how the gossips would view his friendship with an unmarried lady. So, by tacit agreement, they were scrupulously careful, limiting their conversations and ensuring they were always in full view of the room, or better yet in company with friends.

Sebastian studied the painting with a keen eye. It was the promise of a smile at her lips, almost but not quite curving her lovely mouth, that kept you staring, almost certain you would see it blossom into life. The artist had captured her well, her beauty, her innate grace, and that little sparkle of something mischievous in her eyes that suggested she’d surprise you. She surprised him constantly, with her humour above all things, but her humility too.

Young women in her position were rarely as down to earth as she was, as he knew to his cost. A young woman blessed with a fine face and figure, wealth, and title had little chance to gain the depth of character and understanding of humanity that Rosamund had. How could they, when they were sheltered from reality and cosseted and spoiled at every turn? But the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin were unlike many of their ilk, though Sebastian suspected the duchess was most to thank for this. She had a ready wit, as proven by her many published novels, but was not shy about confronting the darker side of life either. Indeed, she had courted scandal herself with her refusal to bow to society's whims and her dedication to her own agenda: most of all, what she considered the proper education of her daughters. The family were becoming rather notorious. The second eldest daughter was rumoured to have stolen her sister Eliza’s husband, and Lady Eliza had married an illegitimate Frenchman. Then there was the young marquess who was fast on his way to gaining a reputation as a rake. Under the watchful eye of the powerful Duke of Bedwin, however, no one dared to criticise them.

“She’s certainly a beauty,” murmured a cultured voice from beside him.