"Good heavens! Is she dead?" The Dowager Barlowe fanned herself vigorously as she motioned for help. Several people began whispering behind their fans as they watched the scandal worsen. Lady Rosalind moaned in his arms. The girl looked slightly foxed, though he knew she was nothing of the sort. Merely sleeping.
Just what he needed. More attention. By all means, gather 'round! Seems I've single-handedly killed the woman I'm supposed to marry. Please, feast your eyes.
"Have you a place I can bring her?" Without waiting for the affirmative he scooped the tall girl into his arms and strode through the crush to the nearest room he could find. Not wanting to ruin her reputation, but unable to think of any other option, he pushed into the first room the dowager pointed to and promptly dropped the girl onto the leather settee.
"Well, we cannot just leave her in here alone. It isn't to be done!" The dowager continued her incessant fanning, just as the object of their discussion let out a very unladylike snore.
"Is she…" He looked down at the beautiful face. Impossible. He didn't trust his own ears. And then her bow shaped mouth opened, just slightly, and let out a puff of air. "Snoring?" he finished, completely astonished.
Stefan felt around him for a chair, because he dare not take his eyes off the sleeping beauty before him. He finally managed to grab at something and sat.
Directly onto his grandmother.
"Do you mind?" the dowager hissed.
"Apologies," he said, leaping away from his grandmother's' lap. He raked his hands through his long unfashionable hair.
Make that three impossibilities in one night — the last and final blow to his pride being that he was so focused on Lady Rosalind, and consequently unable to think straight, that he landed in his grandmother's lap. Something that hadn't happened to him since he was a lad of eight.
"Well, I'm off then, have a brilliant time, Stefan. It is so good to see you back. I'll be expecting you in the morning, and sorry about all that hoopla out there. After all, I had to play my part. Couldn't let on that I knew you were back before everyone else. Think of what your father would say!"
"You did admirably."
The dowager smiled. "Yes, well, I once tried for the theatre, many years ago, but did you know they don't take to women with opinions?"
"I'm sure they don't."
"It is of no consequence. I shall leave you with—" She pointed, but words ceased. Instead, she shook her head and tsked out loud before closing the door behind her.
Stefan's eyes were glued to the door his grandmother had exited, waiting for the inevitable.
The door jerked open once more. "Oh my heavens! I nearly forgot myself. You cannot be alone with her!"
Wonder of all wonders, he's gone for six years and his grandmother, bless her soul, is ever so much the same as before. Why, even birds flying about drove her to distraction.
And he loved her to a fault. "Well, Grandmother, I can promise you that I'll be the perfect gentleman. Now, why don't you scurry off and have some sherry, hmm?"
"Yes, yes, only if you think it best, Stefan. After all, you are betrothed." What she didn't know wouldn't kill her. With a satisfied huff, she patted his head — quite a feat considering the little woman had to nearly jump up to reach it — and closed the door for a second time.
Alone, completely alone with a woman.
Not that she was a relative stranger, but then again he had managed to shock her into sleep. How exactly he had managed to accomplish such a feat was beyond his comprehension.
Without much to do other than watch her, he took a seat on the sofa across from her and waited.
Time passed so slowly when there was nothing to do but wait. Looking away from her peaceful face, he did the only thing he could think of doing.
First he hummed.
Then he tired of his own voice, so he began counting.
But he was never one for mathematics.
So he braved another glance at the beauty before him.
And cursed.
How was it possible that he was betrothed? And to such a woman as this? Rosalind Hartwell! Was his father daft?
Stefan was unable to comprehend the turn of events since his so-called death. It pained him to think that his family hadn't even tried to search for him! They simply took a sailor's word for it that the ship their son was on had wrecked, taking the cargo and all its passengers, save one measly sailor and himself, to the bottom of the cold blue sea.
And to return months later only to see that his brother had gone quite mad, and his father had lost complete control of the family. The only semblance of control it seemed he had was to pawn off the Marquess to the Hartwell family in hopes of an alliance.
The Hartwells and Hudsons went back over a hundred years. It was said that an heir must always marry into the Hartwell family, or some dreadful sort of curse would befall them.
Stefan hadn't been a good listener when his father spouted off about the odd family traditions.
After all, he had been too busy falling in love with his brother's wife.
He cursed again and shook his head. Maybe he should have stayed on the little island he shipwrecked on. Surely that would have been a more welcome environment. He had food, if one could call fish every day food. He had clothing, at least a ripped shirt and useless cravat. Oh, and he had companionship — that of a tiny squirrel who often fought with him over nuts and wild berries.
Woodland creatures. Yes, that's what he had when he was shipwrecked. Could it be that he was actually jealous of the woodland creatures and their easy life now that he was stuck in that blasted room with Rosalind Hartwell?
And why in the blazes did he continue to use her full name in his mind?
"Rosalind Hartwell," he tried it on his lips. Well dash it if it didn't feel good. But of course it would.
One more tiny glance, his brain told him. After all, for some cursed reason, she was still sleeping.
He obliged himself.
Soft red hair crowned her head. Pale milky skin and a body that would make Isis green with envy. One thing was for certain, Rosalind Hartwell was a sight. And as much as it irked him, even when she snored, her lips looked beautiful, untouched, and begging to be bitten.
Bitten?
Perhaps he had malaria. Yes, that was it. He was ill. This was why he was thinking about biting, nay, attacking a sleeping woman.
Or maybe it was just because he hadn't been with a woman in…
Well, as previously noted, mathematics were not his strong suit.
"Mmmm." The beauty stirred. As did his blood.
Exactly what he needed at that point. Another reason to follow his more primal instincts.