Upon A Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(4)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Goodness. She could feel… him.

They stopped. And how she hated to admit that the thought of getting into her carriage without the warmth of his body next to her made her a trifle sad and irritated that within their short knowledge of one another, he could make her feel such ridiculous emotions.

Well, he had released her from the contract, and now she was free to go to her estate in Sussex to suffer the fall and winter months without the city air threatening to burn her lungs.

"Rose?" He put her gently onto her feet, and only then did she notice that her skirts were billowed and wrinkled, giving him quite a scandalous view of her ankles.

Curse her body for experiencing a small thrill when his eyes lingered longer than was appropriate. Take your fill — for this is the last you will see.

"And here, I bid you goodnight." He steadied her on her feet, then bowed gallantly in front of her before turning on his heel and leaving.

"Good night," Rosalind clenched her teeth as her eyes followed his disappearing form. The man was going back to the ball? Surely, he wanted to see to her safety? And make sure she made it home?

Was he whistling?

The shrill melody pierced the night sky. Apparently, he had much to be thrilled about. His betrothed hadn’t held him to his contract, and he was back from the dead, ready to claim his throne and every other swooning woman in the London vicinity.

Gathering up her skirts, she launched herself into the carriage. Really, he was doing her a favor. Now she was free to seek out a man of her own choosing. A man who was tall, muscular, with beautiful eyes and—

"Drat!" Just because she had successfully described his every characteristic did not mean she wanted him. He was simply fresh in her memory. That was all! It had nothing to do with her desire, or anything else for that matter. What she needed, she thought as the carriage jolted, starting its short journey towards Mayfair, was to get away from London. Her best friend’s marriage had done something to her; surely that was it. And the shock of not having to marry. And, well, her disease didn’t help matters.

She had forgotten about that. How was she to explain that away to anyone who asked? For she was hardly the type of woman to swoon into a man’s arms. Quite the opposite, in fact. Part of her brain, the sane and logical part, told her she should call on the doctor to see if it was worsening. The girlish fantastical side of her brain said everything was fine, and it was just a one-time incident.

As the carriage pulled up to her parents’ home, she let out a sigh. Now that sleep was impossible for the next few hours, she might as well notify her father of the broken contract.

Rosalind steadied herself on the edge of the carriage and slowly put weight on one foot, and then the other. Careful not to take a misstep, she made her way to the front door and opened it, utterly exhausted by such effort for something so simple.

It seemed after every episode she was sluggish, her limbs unable to work properly.

With a sigh she looked up at the large mansion. Correction, the second largest mansion on Mayfair, for the first had always belonged to the Whitmore dynasty.

Taking a much needed calming breath, she opened the door and walked in. Her father, recluse that he was, was most likely in his study drinking tea — he had long since sworn off brandy — watching the flames dance in the fireplace for no other reason than he was slowly going mad with age. Or so he claimed whenever he was nagged by his wife, the current countess.

"Father?" She pushed the large oak door open. As expected he was sitting in his favorite chair facing the fireplace, but it was brandy swirling in his glass, not tea. Odd, she hadn’t seen him drink in ages. He simply found it unnecessary in favor of a warm cup of tea.

"Ah, Rose," he said without turning around. "What brings you in to my study this time of night?"

"Boredom?" she offered, taking her favorite spot on the sofa across from him.

Her father, the Earl of Hariss, laughed. "You think me old enough not to notice the tone of your voice when you’re jesting my girl? Now, tell me what has you returning so early from the Season’s final ball?"

Truly, she didn’t want to worry him, so she lied. "I swooned. It was quite hot after all."

"Swooned, you say? Rose, let us speak plainly, for I know better than anyone that you do not swoon, heat or no heat. That is rubbish, and you know it. I’m more likely to swoon than you!"

He had a point. Fumbling with her gloves she sighed. "I had an episode."

Her father darted up from his chair, brandy sloshing out of his glass onto the Persian rug. "An episode? At the ball? But I thought you were finally getting well — it’s been weeks since the last one! The doctor said—"

"I know what the doctor said." Rosalind tensed. She hated doctors, for they could never figure out what was wrong with her. Instead they looked at her as some test subject to be pricked and prodded until she bled to death. "But it appears that the disease has not yet left my body."

"He assured me you were healed," her father stated. As if the mere pronouncement by the doctor that she was healed made it truth. In her opinion the doctor was a lunatic. For goodness sake, he used an incantation over her! Not that she would ever reveal that particular piece of information to her father. But the doctor, although he graduated at the top of his class and was known as the best in London, was quite odd. And at times he would stare at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.

His last visit consisted of him speaking a spellbinding phrase over her body while she lay still on her bed. He then proceeded to scatter different herbs about her person and without warning announced she was healed.

"Just like that?" she had asked, skeptical.

"Of course! Am I not your doctor? Do you not trust me to see to your needs?"

Arrogant man that he was, she had merely nodded her head and mumbled under her breath the word "mad" while he went and announced the good news to her father.

The odd thing was she hadn’t experienced an episode until tonight, when she saw… him.

"There is something else." She cleared her throat, waiting for her father to stop his fretting long enough to look her in the eyes.

"What is it, m’dear?"

Rosalind bit her lip in thought. Just how was she to announce the breach of contract? "It seems the Marquess of Whitmore is not dead."

The earl said nothing. Instead he stared for quite a long time into the fire before answering, "Are you certain?"

"Quite. Why he even spoke to me, and I can assure you he was no ghost." No, he was more firm and masculine than a mere ghost, with large muscles and a huge form, large enough to scare a man or woman.