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Westruther, he was damned if he’d be cuckolded, too.
    He looked up at deVere. “I’ll send for her today.”
    DeVere scoffed. “You’re a fool not to have snapped her up when you had the chance. Who knows whether she’ll have you now?” He shook his head. “I might not know much about women, but if you take my advice, you’ll go to her . She’s in London, you know.”
    Griffin would rather be boiled in oil than grovel to Lady Rosamund Westruther, particularly if that meant dancing attendance on her in fashionable London. He ground his teeth at the mere notion.
    Besides, it was as well that Lady Rosamund knew from the start who would be master in their household.
    He tapped a broad fingertip on the special license. “No. I’ll send for her. We might as well get married here. Pendon Place will be her home, after all. I’ll send for Jacks, too. We ought to begin preparing her for the season as soon as we can.”
    A creeping feeling of unease stole over him. How could he bring Rosamund here? The house was a shambles. Those servants he hadn’t dismissed after his grandfather died had deserted him upon the music master’s untimely demise, leaving one family to do the necessary labor in the house. The gloomy old pile was airless, dank, and full of dust. As unappealing as its master, in fact.
    “That’s settled, then,” said deVere. “You’ll marry Lady Rosamund. She’ll give Jacks a season, and we’ll get the chit riveted all right and tight.”
    “Send me that list of eligibles, will you?” said Griffin. “I want to know all about them in advance.”
    “Odd filly, your sister,” remarked deVere. “Think she’s up to the task?”
    “Of course she is.”
    DeVere grunted. “You’d best win Lady Rosamund to your side as soon as may be.” He regarded Griffin with a sapient eye. “You’ve got your work cut out for you there.”
    As his relative took his leave, Griffin wondered whether he referred to Jacqueline or to Griffin’s beautiful betrothed.
    Either way, deVere would be right.
    *   *   *
     
Madam,
It is high time we were wed. I shall expect you at Pendon Place next week.
Yours, etc.,
Tregarth
P.S. Bring your riding habit. The blue one.
     
Sir,
I confess I find myself Bewildered at this Summons, arriving as it does Out of the Blue. You must forgive me if I say that at first I was at a Loss to recall who you were.
I have obligations in Town which I cannot break. Even were that not so, I should never answer such a Peremptory Command, and certainly not from You.
You may, if you choose, call on me at Montford House.
Yours, etc.,
Lady Rosamund Westruther
P.S. I do not know to which riding habit you refer.
     
    “Another year, another collection of broken hearts.”
    Lady Cecily Westruther inspected the bower of floral arrangements that typically arrived for her cousin each day she spent in London. Though the season had not yet begun, enough of the ton had returned to the metropolis to fill Rosamund’s calendar with social engagements. “Rosamund, I vow you single-handedly keep London florists in business.”
    “Mmm?” Rosamund had been listening with half an ear while perusing an elegantly worded card attached to a posy of violets.
    “How very kind,” she murmured.
    She handed the posy to a maid and took up the next offering. She must endeavor to keep who gave her what straight in her head so that she could thank them properly when next she met them.
    Men, she’d discovered, were surprisingly sensitive souls underneath all that muscle and swagger. She took great care not to wound them, and a tricky time she had of it, too. Sometimes she longed to tuck herself away in the country during the season, but that would be poor-spirited. She’d rather die than wear the willow for Griffin deVere.
    The Earl of Tregarth, he was now. But she was not his countess.
    Yet.
    Rosamund buried her face in a creamy, ruffled bouquet, breathing in the musk-sweet scent of roses. She repressed a sigh. How