"Your Grace, dinner is served at eight o'clock sharp. If you are tardy, you will not eat, is that understood?"
When he didn't answer, the short elderly lady banged her cane dangerously close to his boot. "Well, are you mute? Or do you understand, young man? And for goodness sake, stand straight. You'll have a hump the size of London if you keep slouching." She continued muttering nonsense about dukes not knowing their place in the world as she shuffled off down the hallway.
And for the second time since meeting Lady Rosalind, Stefan was stunned into silence. Was nothing about this woman normal?
The silence was stifling, and he hated to admit that his breathing was anything but normal. But the woman had accosted him! With a cane! What man would be breathing normally?
"You're all mad!" he said, finally breaking the silence. "It's worse than I thought. The curse has reached the lot of you!"
"The curse? Oh no, Your Grace. That wasn't that dreadful spell. Just my godmother Mary, though I wouldn't take the chance of calling her cursed, lest she try to whoop on you again, and considering your horse is safely put away in our stables, You won't have anyone to call out to but me."
Irritated, he let out a bark of cynical laughter and gave her one his most rakish grins. "Are you saying you would not come to my rescue?"
Lady Rosalind mindlessly teased a piece of her hair that had fallen across her cheek. "Curious, and I thought I was the one in need of rescuing? Porter, please show his grace to his rooms. Apparently, he is to be staying with us a while." Lady Rosalind smiled and again left him alone.
Nostrils flaring, Stefan called after her, "Does this mean you accept my proposal?"
That stopped her dead in her tracks. He watched as her entire body stiffened. Stefan waited for her to yell or at least respond in anger. Instead he noticed her body instantly relax as she called back to him without as much as a glance, "If that was a proposal, my heart bleeds for your idea of romance."
CHAPTER FOUR
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
~ A Midsummer Night's Dream — William Shakespeare ~
Rosalind kept her posture perfectly straight as she swept from the room into the kitchen. Clenching her teeth, she managed to hold in her scream until she calmly closed the kitchen door, turned to face the cook and stomped her boot into the ground, by then only letting out a tiny squeal.
Cook ignored her little episode as servants were taught to ignore all oddities of the gentry.
The absolute nerve of the man! To think that he could swoop in and propose to her without a care for her feelings! Curse or no curse, it would be a cold day in Hades before she made this little visit easy on him.
What was he thinking? That all he needed to do was smile and wink? Was that all ladies in London needed before they launched themselves into his very muscular arms?
She was no longer a debutante, and things had never been that easy. She would not stand idly by and pretend that all she needed was fake and pretty words from him in order to swoon as she did before. Not that she had actually swooned, rather she had fallen asleep in his presence, but he probably still thought it was the sudden sight of his beauty that set her off. When instead, it was her dreadful disease.
Her stomach grumbled. It was three hours until dinner, and her dancing and singing had her half-starved. Well, that and the kiss she had wantonly received in the heat of the moment.
A mistake she would not repeat. Ever. At least not today — tomorrow perhaps.
"Rosalind! Get a hold of yourself!" She chanted as she hit her fist against the wooden table in front of her. "You are a grown woman. You can handle a flirtation."
"But you don't have to make it easy on him — curse or no curse, my lady." Mary had entered the room, still carrying her cane. Not that she needed it, for she was a spry old thing.
"No." Rosalind smirked, gathering her strength for the onslaught of male beauty in the rooms above her. "I do not."
"We shall marry at once," the duke announced over dinner. It seemed he was not only lacking in romance but manners as well. They had sat in relative silence over the serving of the first course. Until, the unfortunate object of her disdain opened his mouth and announced their impending nuptials, in what had to be the second worst proposal ever to be heard. The first worst proposal had occurred only three hours prior, when the man had haughtily announced that exact same thing.
"Must women teach men everything?" She sent him a scalding look then lifted her napkin as if to instruct him how to use it. His barbaric face was clean-shaven, but covered in such a smug looking grin that she wanted to smack him.
Scowling, he wiped his face with his sleeve and continued to eat ravenously, much to Rosalind's dismay.
"Pardon my lack of etiquette, but before riding out to your estates, there was business I had to take care of. I took the liberty of obtaining a special license. As I said, we can be married at once. Forgive my haste in eating, it seems I was so overtaken with the thought of marrying you that I forwent my afternoon meal." He smirked, and with a wink, lifted more soup to his lips.
Closing her eyes, Rosalind tried to calm herself. She heard the barbarian curse as something hit the floor — her calming technique was not working. What type of women in London swooned over this man? Tales of his escapades had been the stuff of legends! The scandal sheets positively adored him! Even the most scandalous sheet of all, Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers, regaled him as a Nordic god come to save the women of London from pale and sickly English lords.
On cue, the barbarian dropped his spoon and let out another ear splitting curse, before looking up at her and winking. Yes, because apparently winking would cover a multitude of sins.
"Thirty seconds," she said, folding her hands into her lap.
"Pardon?"
Smiling, she answered ever so sweetly. "The time it takes to pick a flower for the woman you are courting."
"You assume too much! I know exactly how to court a wo—"
"Two minutes!" she interrupted. "The amount of time it should take for you to come up with a logical and romantic thought, beautiful enough to be made into a poem you can write for me."
He grimaced.
"My apologies," she added, cutting her meat. "It seems a brute like you may need far more time. Make that three minutes."
"Now see here—"
"Fifteen minutes!" Could she help that her voice was carrying from one end of the large dining hall to the other?