Read Online Mad About the Earl by Christina Brooke - Free Book Online

now. Try her any further, Lord Tregarth, and you will push her into the arms of another .”
    The last word was uttered in a thrilling whisper and with the dart of a glance around them. So, the girl thought that was a secret, did she? More fool her. Griffin had no doubt exactly to whose arms Cecily referred.
    Lauderdale. Something twisted in his gut whenever he thought of that damned paragon dancing attendance on Rosamund.
    He burned to ask Lady Cecily for more information, but pride stopped him from doing so.
    Instead, he fixed the saucy chit with a hard stare. “Let me get this straight: Even though we are already betrothed, even though I’m—” He gestured down at himself, powerless to put into words what he was. “—she wants me to court her?” He nearly choked on the last words.
    “Yes,” said Cecily. “And she won’t marry you until you do. Oh, Rosamund might look like an angel, but she can be excessively stubborn. Besides, she has her pride, just as you do.”
    For the first time, Cecily looked him over, with a horror that almost matched her sartorially magnificent cousin’s. “What in Heaven’s name are you wearing?”
    Not that again. “Look here, Lady Cecily, I don’t have time to waste on fripperies, so if you’re quite finished…”
    But she wasn’t listening to him. Cecily tapped a fingertip to her pointed chin. “We must do something about your wardrobe.”
    We? “No!” said Griffin. “I don’t need to do anything with my wardrobe. I am here to take Lady Rosamund to wife, and that’s an end to it.”
    She frowned. “Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
    It occurred to him that this little thing was the second lady, besides his sister, who had ever faced him down, unafraid. An interesting breed, these Westruther women.
    Then he collected himself. “There is no way I am going to court Lady Rosamund. Not a chance in Hell.”
    He stomped past the girl and made for the door.
    She called after him, “Then you might as well go back to your pigs and your cows, Lord Tregarth, for you will not win her consent to the marriage otherwise.”
    He swung back to face her, his teeth bared in a snarl, and finally, finally, she looked scared. With a gasp, Lady Cecily shrank back from him, her dark eyes wide, hands reflexively raised to protect herself.
    Unreasonably angered by her reaction, he hissed a breath through his teeth. “We’ll see about that.”
    Then he turned and slammed out of the room.
    *   *   *
     
    Why, oh, why do I let Mama talk me into these things?
    Rosamund stood on a low plinth in the front drawing room of Steyne House, one arm curved around a pottery urn and one hand raised above her head in a graceful arc.
    She was uncomfortably aware that the layers of filmy material her mother had insisted on draping about her did little to conceal the contours of her body. Particularly when the marchioness had not allowed her a corset, but only a gossamer-fine shift beneath.
    “It is a pity you are so tall,” mused Lady Steyne, narrowing her darkly lashed blue eyes. “Quite Amazonian, in fact.” A frown flickered for an instant. “My dear, do I detect a little extra padding at your waist? A suspicion of fleshiness beneath the arms? François, do see if you can eliminate my daughter’s wobbles .” Her beautiful mouth turned down at the corners. “I am sure I never had them when I was her age.”
    Rosamund flushed and stared at the wall. Ignore her. It doesn’t matter what she thinks.
    The old mantra was stale, worn with use. She told herself there was nothing wrong with her body, that her mother’s diet of air and champagne would keep anyone’s figure fashionably waiflike.
    She longed to demand of the marchioness why she wanted her daughter to pose for this painting if she found her form so unsatisfactory.
    But that imaginary piece of defiance didn’t help. The old, sick sense of self-loathing rose up within her like a murky tide.
    Her sole comfort was that no one but