“Don’t be absurd, Rosa. You, of all people, know what he is. The rumors alone?—”
“And since when,” she cut in, “have you put stock in rumors?”
His jaw hardened.
“Since my sister chose to wager her reputation on a man widely considered to be dangerous, on a man whose sanity is openly questioned.”
“He isnotdangerous.”
“You are in no position to determine that.”
“You’re wrong.” The words came sharp. “I am in a far better position than most. I actuallyknowhim.” Her voice trembled with the force of it. “You do not.”
“I saw the wall he struck.” Charles met her stare with the deepest of scowls. “I saw the condition of… your gown.”
While Rosamund searched in vain for some innocent explanation for what he’d stumbled on last night, silence settled between them.
“The best course now,” Charles said at last, “is to proceed as though none of this occurred. No one but a handful of people know where you have been this past week, and they can be convinced to keep silent.”
When had her brother turned into such a… duke?
“Either way,” he continued, “you will not see the Duke of Bexley again.”
Her head snapped up.
She knew this was the likely outcome. She’d known it all along.
So why did it feel as though something inside her had only just now broken?
Charles went on, arrogantly rearranging her future.
“You will leave for London tomorrow where you will stay with Mother, and if no one is the wiser, you will complete a proper Season next spring.”
A Season. With…Mother?
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You cannot—Mother does not want me there.” Rosamund’s fists clutched the edges of her chair. “You know she does not.”
Charles was not looking at her now. “Mother will do what I deem necessary to protect this family’s reputation.”
“That makes it even worse!”
“Perhaps you should have considered this possibility before.”
Rosamund forced herself to breathe—to think.
Live beneath the same roof as her mother again? Submit to the scrutiny, the disapproval, the endless corrections?
The quiet, cutting reminders that she was simply too much?
“I cannot,” she said, the words thin now. “Charles… I cannot live with her.”
“You can. And you will.” His tone left no room for argument. “And as for your articles, your little hobby,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “The family funds will no longer be available to finance the literary exploits of… who was it?Robert Belle? An industrious fellow, I’m told.”
Her stomach dropped.