Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(45)

As they twirled around the floor, Rosalind could not help but reflect on her first impression of the man. Dark, dangerous, and a rake at heart. His countenance was now different, happier, and more comfortable in his own skin than she had ever seen him. It also helped that women didn’t throw reticules at his head anymore, but that was an entirely different story.

“Are you well, Lady Rosalind?” Rawlings turned, and joined hands with her again.

“As well as I can be. I’m to be married.”

Rawlings smile vanished. “To whom?”

Suddenly shy and not at all confident she should be sharing her tale of woe, she shrugged. “The Duke of Montmouth.”

“Ah, the barbarian lost at sea. Tell me, does he use utensils at the table or merely growl and chew his meat like a brute?”

“Both.” Rosalind laughed. “But to be fair, he has been very good to me.”

Lord Rawlings squinted, looking into her eyes with such seriousness that she felt the need to turn away. “And the state of your heart, Rosalind? Let us talk of that matter. Do you love him?”

Leave it to Rawlings, once the most notorious rake in all of London, to pose such a question. “I cannot seem to help my heart from doing so, yes.”

“And does he reciprocate your affection?”

The dance was coming to an end, and Rosalind was suddenly feeling tired, as if lead was pouring into her slippers.

“I can only hope that one day he will.”

Satisfied, Rawlings turned her once more and bowed over her gloved hand. “Then I won’t kill him.”

“Rawlings!” she scolded, but noticed he wasn’t at all joking. With a smile she curtsied. “There is no need for you to kill him.”

“Yes, please don’t kill him,” a deep and sensual voice interrupted.

“Ah, the barbarian approaches.” Rawlings flashed a grin and pumped Stefan’s hand. “A very wise woman once told me that women rarely play fair. I hope you understand what you are getting yourself into.”

“I believe I can handle myself.”

“It wasn’t your emotional state I was referring to.” Rawlings flashed another serious glance at Rosalind and bowed. “Do come visit us during your stay. Abby would be very pleased.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Stefan cursed under his breath and pulled Rosalind from the edge of the dance floor, doing nothing to hide his jealous sneer. “Just what was the man getting at? Was he rude to you? Why are you smiling? Devil take it, Rose!”

“Why, are you jealous?”

“That’s preposterous.” Stefan swore than patted his head. “I’m merely trying to protect you. I know Lord Rawlings to be a good fellow, but I may not trust him as easily as you though. He was quite the notorious rake.”

“He offered to kill you.” Rosalind added cheerfully, thinking it would be quite interesting to see Stefan’s color change to a purplish hue of rage.

“He what!” Stefan bellowed.

“Rose!” Isabelle approached in a hurry. “Rose, he’s here.”

“He?” Rosalind asked.

“Whom?” Stefan looked at Isabelle his curiosity obviously piqued as well as his color, perhaps she should be kinder to the man.

Isabelle flushed, “Domi—”

“—Dominique Makyslov, Earl of Hariss.” A deep cultured voice interrupted them, and Rosalind found herself wanting to kick Isabelle for not giving more warning that the man in question had followed her.

Turning, she looked into icy blue eyes and suddenly felt the need to hide behind Stefan. Though the man matched Stefan in height as well as build, a cold bitter cynicism lay behind his eyes. Unruly black hair fell below his ears and when he smiled it reminded her of a gothic horror story where the man was really a werewolf.

“To what do we owe the honor, my lord?” Stefan asked in smooth tones.

“Why, Your Grace, you of all people should be privy to the reasons of my visit, that is unless—”

The man stopped with a cold gleam in his eye, flashing his teeth in a wickedly handsome smile and held up his hands. “My apologies, by the look on your face I can see you were not made aware of my visit. Very peculiar.”

His voice was smooth with only a slight accent giving way to his foreign heritage. The new earl looked at Isabelle longer than Rosalind thought appropriate, his eyes intense and methodical, as they seemed to stroke across her ever curve, until Stefan cleared his throat.

“Apologies again, Your Grace. I do believe we will be seeing each other soon. Enjoy your evening, ladies.” With a fluid bow he left. Rosalind gave an involuntary shiver before standing closer to Stefan.

“Well, he wasn’t so bad.” Isabelle finally broke the silence.

“Not so bad?” Rosalind wanted to shake her sister as she watched the man's disappearing form with more than curiosity. “Isabelle, listen to me. You are never to allow that man near you, do you understand?”

“Of course, Rose.” Isabelle smiled and walked in the opposite direction away from her and Stefan.

“I feel a headache coming on.” Rosalind said once alone with Stefan near the dancing.

He offered his arm and escorted her out of the crush. “Well, sweetheart, we only have to stay long enough to give the gossips something to talk about for tea during afternoon calls.”