Page 42

Juliet squared her shoulders. Rosalind in a temper was no easy matter. “It’s not Griff; it’s me,” she called through the door. “Open up before the servants come running.”

“I don’t care if God Himself comes running,” Rosalind burst out. “Just go away. Tell Griff I don’t want to speak to him or his emissary.”

Dear me, what to do now? She couldn’t stand out here discussing matters, for goodness sake. Lowering her voice, she said, “Listen, dearest, I need to speak to you about…er…about…Lord Templemore.”

Silence. Then a terse, doubting “What about him?” came from nearer than before.

Glancing up and down the hall, Juliet prayed no one was in hearing distance. “He kissed me.” That was the truth, wasn’t it?

With relief, she heard a key turn in the lock, and then the door cracked open. Juliet pushed her way in. “Thank you. I urgently need your advice.” Fortunately, Rosalind could never resist interfering in Juliet’s affairs.

As Rosalind stuck her head out the door and looked both ways along the hall, Juliet surveyed the room. It was neat. Tidy. Not a good sign at all. If Rosalind had stooped to straightening her room, she must be extremely upset.

Rosalind shut the door and locked it again, then faced Juliet with a frown. “All right, what’s this about Lord Templemore kissing you?”

Not to mention that Rosalind’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and her nose looked rouged.

“You’ve been crying,” Juliet stated as she settled onto Rosalind’s bed.

“No, I haven’t.” With a sniff that belied her words, Rosalind stalked off to the dressing table. She plopped down on the stool in front of it and scowled at her face in the mirror. “Curse it all, why must it show? I don’t want him to see it.”

“I suppose you mean Griff. And I think you should know that your husband is prowling downstairs, utterly beside himself over this.”

“Aha!” Rosalind swung around on the stool. “I knew you had come as his emissary!” She pointed at the door. “This is none of your affair, Juliet. Get out!”

“I’m not here about your argument with Griff. I’m here because Lord Templemore has offered his help.”

Rosalind stared hard at her. “Help with what?”

Now came the difficult part. “Well…er…you see, his lordship figured out what’s going on between you and Griff.”

Averting her gaze, Rosalind picked up a tambour, of all things, and actually took up the needle. Worse and worse. Rosalind doing embroidery without being prodded—now Juliet felt genuine alarm.

Rosalind pierced the cloth. “I can’t imagine what you mean. Griff and I had a spat, that’s all.”

“Yes, over a concoction used to help a woman conceive children.”

The tambour clattered to the floor. “H-how…I mean, that’s nonsense.”

Feeling her heart catch in her throat, Juliet rose from the bed to go to her sister’s side. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of women take time to conceive.”

She laid her hand on Rosalind’s shoulder, but her sister leaped to her feet as if branded. “Two years? When all we do is…when we are so diligent in our…oh, bother, you know what I mean.”

Juliet blushed. “In theory, yes.”

“So there’s no reason for it except that…” She trailed off with a curse.

“Yes?”

Rosalind faced her, eyes desolate. “That something awful is wrong with me.”

“Don’t be silly.” Juliet picked up the tambour and set it on the dressing table. Then, looping her arm about her sister’s waist, she led her to the bed. “It just takes time, is all.”

“A lot you know about it,” Rosalind muttered, but she let Juliet sit her down, then tolerated Juliet’s taking a seat beside her. “You don’t understand—it’s been forever. And I want a child so badly, Griff’s child…” The anguish in her face tugged at Juliet’s heart.

Then Rosalind’s tone hardened. “But my stubborn husband doesn’t even care.”

“Of course he cares,” Juliet said, rubbing Rosalind’s back with soothing strokes. “I’m sure he wants a child as much as you.”