When She Loved Me (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 1)

by Rebecca Ruger

  And finally, she understood, her eyes fixated upon him with her sudden and sure knowledge of what he intended. “You’re leaving me here,” she said, not as a question, but rather as a pained realization. She bit her bottom lip in consternation, apparently willing herself not to cry again.

  “You’ve made your bed, so to speak, now you may lie in it,” was all he said, and he turned and left the house.

  He had not expected her to follow, being as she proven so meek and distressed today. He’d hoped to leave without a scene, but she raced after him, catching up with him on the stone steps outside the house, just as the sun began to set before him.

  She grabbed at his sleeve and held, despite his efforts to shake her off. “Trevor, you must listen to me,” she begged through her tears. “I love you. I have for so long. I can make you happy.”

  He did finally stop, which made her release his arm. With hard eyes, he told her, “That will not be an option.”

  “Oh, Trevor, don’t do this to us—"

  He rounded angrily on her, pushing a finger in her face. “You did this, Nicki. You conspired with your sister to trap me into a marriage with you, knowing full well that my circumstances required her inheritance. You brought this sorry situation upon yourself.”

  “I conspired...? Trevor, whatever are you talking about?”

  “Do you take me for a fool, Nicki? I specifically heard Sabrina say that your efforts to assist her went above and beyond what she’d expected of you!” He was into a full rage now, at long last emptying himself of his reasons for his hostility, as if she hadn’t known. He moved again, toward the waiting coach, ignoring her stricken expression. As an afterthought, his fury making him edgy, he tossed over his shoulder, “You whored yourself for the sake of your sister, Nicki! And I fell for it.”

  “Trevor, wait!” She called hysterically, clinging to the door of the coach as he’d already settled himself inside. She wouldn’t allow him to close the door. “It’s true, Sabrina did ask me to help her. But only to talk to you—"

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, pulling at the door, but unsuccessfully, unless he wished to harm her.

  “You will listen, Trevor!” Nicki shouted at him. “Listen to me! I promised her I would at least ask you to consider—"

  Trevor refused to listen to her hollow explanations. Through gritted teeth, he proclaimed, “I know only this. Every word, every utterance out of your mouth has been a lie. Your very person is likely a façade. All those false protestations of guilt over how you could not possibly betray your sister were meant only to entice me to crave something I thought I could not have. And I was besotted and dimwitted enough to fall for it. We are done, Nicki. Leave off.” He’d obviously caught her unawares with so vehement a statement for he was then able to yank the coach door out of her startled grasp and pull it closed. He rapped sharply on the roof and it began to move. He did not turn in his seat to watch her, to have one last glimpse of her.

  He could hear her calling him, sobbing, “Trevor, no! Please, Trevor!” But he put this quickly from his mind. Absently, he rubbed at his temples, willing the pain to recede. But it did not. After almost twenty miles, in which time his head began to pound with a viciousness that only liquor might quell, he finally unclenched his teeth, and barred the vision of her tortured emerald eyes from his mind.

  Nicole fell to her knees, still calling his name, watching as the coach moved far enough away to be out of sight. Nightmares had not ever been so agonizing as this, she vaguely thought. If he’d hit her upside the head with a club, he could not have shocked her more. Whatever am I to do? She wondered, sobs still racking her slim shoulders, her breath still unable to come evenly.

  After a while, she was dimly aware of the door opening at the house, while she huddled still on the ground of the drive, where she had fallen to her knees. Pulling herself visibly together—mentally, she feared she might never recover from this blow—Nicole picked herself up and turned toward the house, where Franklin waited, one sad eye watching her from his bent head. There was no dignity she could project, having been the recipient of this travesty, and so she walked up the steps without bothering to hide her dejection and despair.

  ‘You’ll come back to me, Trevor,” she predicted silently, so very sure of this. “I know you will. You’ll come back one day when you’ve forgiven me for what it is you think I’ve done.’

  “Come on then, miss,” Franklin said kindly, “we’ll take good care of you anyhow.”

  Nicki tried to smile at the old man but failed miserably as he closed the door behind her when she was through. Wearily, she glanced around at her new home, her eyes too tired to truly appreciate the stark beauty of the abbey right at this moment.

  Chapter Eight

  Spring 1818

  The sumptuous carriage pulled into the circular drive of the great house of Leven, Wentworth Manor, in South Yorkshire, the enormous gray stone hall surrounded by hundreds of acres of deer park and lakes and parkland. The lady within the carriage passed nary a glance over the imposing façade nor the stunning grounds but rapped her cane anxiously upon the ceiling of the vehicle even as her longtime driver, Summerton, was already pulling open the door.

  Her slippered foot touched the steps at almost the exact moment the driver had set the stool in place. She ignored his proffered hand and alighted without assistance, her usual wobbliness forgotten, or rather overtaken by the anger that spurred her on. She marched across the gravel and lifted her cane to bang upon the door just as it was opened from within. Ignoring the splendor of the impossibly huge foyer, she demanded impatiently, “Put me in the drawing room, and bring me tea and Leven at once.”

  The butler barely blinked, bestowing great dignity upon a long family history of service to the Wentworths. “Yes, my lady. Follow me.”

  She was shown into the drawing room as requested and the butler disappeared with a deferential bow. She spared not a glance around the finely appointed room, just sat upon a chair that faced the door and pressed her cane to the floor in front of her, plopping both hands upon the top. And she waited, just daring him to make her sit here unattended overlong.

  He did not. The Earl of Leven showed his face after only a moment, as if he’d been only a room or two removed from this one. He stopped just inside the door, giving no impression of being surprised by this visit.

  “Lady Audley,” he greeted with a brief bow.

  Evelyn Audley narrowed her eyes and spent quite a moment simply staring at him, sizing him up. Of course, she’d met him at the wedding and while she’d been impressed with the bold and handsome figure he cut, she’d been unable to make any determination in regard to his person. They hadn’t spoken long enough for her to have formed an opinion of him or to get any sense of what fired this man up, aside from the obvious and shameful lusting after her granddaughter.

  But just now he allowed her to read nothing. He met her gaze for a moment before coming fully into the room and taking the chair opposite her. His visage, posture and his silence told her only that he accepted this as his due, her harsh scrutiny while she took his measure.

  “I’ve a mind to clap this cane upon your head,” she said in a stern voice. “Many times, until at least I felt better.”

  He chuckled, but it was restrained, only a politeness, she thought. Evelyn suspected quickly that his wit hadn’t been what had seduced her granddaughter. And yet, even at her age, Evelyn could well understand how a young girl might be so easily ensnared—Leven would be handsome even if he weren’t breathing. Yet he was. He was the epitome of the charming rogue, possessing the prerequisite good looks and an air of righteousness, but more than that, the man was absolutely smothered by an air of sensuality that likely few could resist, certainly not the very untried and unsophisticated Nicki.

  “Leven, I demand that you fix this appalling marriage right now.” She thumped her cane for emphasis. “It’s now been almost a year and I have it on good authority that you’ve not once set foot insi
de that monstrosity of a house out in Sussex since you so unceremoniously dumped her out there—and,” she continued with a stern glare when he looked as if he might interrupt her, “that Nicki herself hasn’t stepped one foot off that same damn property.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am—”

  Evelyn rolled her shrewd and impatient eyes. “Oh, bother! Any time a person begins a sentence with those nauseating words, I know full well my bidding will not be done.”

  He only shrugged, and stared back at her, willing to give her nothing.

  The butler entered then, depositing a tray of tea beside the countess. She spent a moment preparing a cup for herself, seeing no need to offer one to Leven, while she gathered her thoughts and enjoyed the sustenance and calming effects of the brew.

  “I’ve met your cousin—Simon, I believe it is,” she said when she’d sipped several times from the dainty cup, using a different tactic, having come prepared with plenty. “Charming young man.” Simon Wentworth was about as far from charming as Evelyn was from youthful. A more dough-faced, incompetent and flawed person, she’d thought she’d never encountered. “He’ll make a fine earl one day when you fail to produce the obligatory offspring.”

  “Ma’am, I would have to care greatly about the Leven title for this to in any way prove an impetus of any sort.”

  “Ah, but you do, my good man. You must,” Evelyn insisted, “Or you’d not have pranced about on Sabrina’s string for so long before being forced to wed Nicki. There isn’t a person alive who might encounter both Sabrina and Nicole and then choose the former over the latter, unless it was absolutely and only about the money.”

  The earl acknowledged the truth of this only with a slight inclination of his head, though he managed to appear—purposefully, Evelyn knew, damn him— utterly dispassionate about the subject matter just now.

  “I would spare you further attempts, ma’am, at whatever it is you hope to accomplish here,” he said then, having clearly exhausted his good will and respect. “My marriage to Nicole, such as it is, is not any of your business. I bid you good day.” He stood, dismissing her and strode to the door.

  Evelyn might have fumed—how dare he dismiss her!—but she wasn’t done yet. She’d just realized what this was about. Oh, not the specifics, she might never be privy to them, but just now under the cool façade of tolerance, she spied what lie at the crux of the matter. Though he let his dark eyes give a certain illusion, playing the callous rake to perfection, Evelyn suddenly understood that Wentworth was not merely angry or insensible or coldblooded.

  This man was heartbroken.

  “What was it?” She asked. He turned at the door, his hand on the knob. “Of what crime do you accuse her that gives merit to your dishonorable handling of her?”

  “Of course, you must know that I am not about to condemn your granddaughter to your face.” He raised a brow, daring her to defy this.

  Evelyn only shrugged, flexing the hands upon her cane. “You couldn’t. She’s an innocent and whatever it is you think she’s done, you are wrong. You know it, of course—it wasn’t duplicity or any other nefarious trait that drew you to her. It was her complete disregard for artifice.” The countess sighed, feigning a weariness. “I’m ashamed to say I had thought she at least was possessed of greater intellect. Obviously, I was mistaken—no intelligent person would take up with someone so incapable of seeing the truth before his own eyes.”

  His dark gaze had grown hard, but his tone indicated still that detachment. “You’ve given me much to think upon—”

  “I did no such thing! You will not think! You will act!” She was shouting as she never had. Not once, in all her years, had she ever reduced herself to such a vile inclination. “Do not make me use powers greater than yours! Do not make me—” she stopped herself abruptly, pinching her lips painfully, hardly believing she’d just threatened her granddaughter’s husband in so obscene a fashion. She closed her eyes momentarily, gathering herself. She had one more approach ready, though debated using it, hoping it wouldn’t actually cause more harm than good. But, as she’d reasoned with herself in the carriage ride here, their marriage, as it stood now, couldn’t possibly sink any lower into dreadfulness than it already had.

  She smiled pleasantly at the earl, who’d remained in the doorway, though he needn’t have. “I thank you for the time you’ve allowed this old woman, Leven. You must understand she is my dearest love, and I only look to make things right for her. I see now that will be impossible and I will trouble you no more.”

  The earl accepted this, nodding at her with some sense of pity, she thought.

  Evelyn continued, putting on a show of trying to convince herself and not him, that, “It’s not so bad for her, you know. She’s actually quite happy out there in Sussex, ‘twas likely I’m the only one who thought something should be done to correct what apparently is a fine arrangement for all parties.” She managed to keep her tone conversational still, as she said, “That’s a nice young man you’ve hired out there as your bailiff. He and Nicki seem to do very well together, with her taking such a sudden interest in the affairs of the estate and the two of them learning so many new things together.”

  True, it was transparent, but she reasoned she was too old to be subtle.

  And she didn’t even blink, the serene smile upon her face never wavered, not one bit, as the earls’ jaw and fists seemed to clench in synchrony before he finally left the room.

  She stood atop the hill, overlooking the tiny sleeping village below. The brisk spring wind whipped up her skirts, raising them above her ankles, pushing them off to her left, silhouetting her legs. The kerchief tied around her head flagged its bright green edges, threatening to release the long hair it bound. She held a basket of newly blossomed and freshly picked daffodils in one hand. Occasionally, a gust would take hold of the basket and wave it at her side, the motion giving a slight sway to her body.

  She stood there for quite some time, appreciating the quietness of everything around her and the striking views offered to her. She stared appreciatively at the sun just rising over the far ridge, beyond the village, realizing that this life suited her just fine. While it was not the life she’d imagined might be hers when she said vows with Trevor, she quite enjoyed the little family she’d accumulated over the past year at Lesser House, as she’d come to call the abbey. True, she hadn’t a husband and clearly would never have a child, but she did have people who loved her, and who depended on her, she liked to think.

  She’d tried to make her grandmother understand this, when she’d visited at Christmas. The countess had demanded answers to the true state of her marriage and Nicole had informed her sadly that there really was no marriage, but had given her only spare details, intimating that it was her fault that she’d been disposed of. The countess had railed against this, insisting that Nicole pursue an annulment. Occasionally, she did count all the months Trevor had thus far allowed her to remain at the abbey all alone, without even so much as a letter to inquire of her condition, but she saw no need of an annulment, or any end to their sham of a marriage. She was afraid that if she did pursue this, she’d be forced out of Lesser House, and then what would become of her? It hadn’t only been Trevor that had abandoned her—her own father had yet to answer any of her letters to him, despite Nicole having been relegated to begging in the most recently sent. And Sabrina? She’d married Marcus Trent after all, and had, according to her grandmother, “given birth with such vulgar haste the earl should be expressing gratitude to you, seeing him saved from raising another man’s child as his own heir!” Nicole had not been invited to the wedding. Or, maybe she had, mayhap the invitation had been sent to the earl’s townhome in the city. She knew nothing of it and was bothered by it not at all.

  She turned back toward Lesser House, always admiring the picture it presented at her morning walk, the beige stone set against the line of trees beyond, the dozens of windows reflecting the rising sun, prisms of light and colors visible even
at this distance.

  As she walked, she heard—before she saw—the rickety old cart that her steward favored. It was coming from somewhere behind her. Nicole turned and waved Mr. Wendall to her as he came up the hill from the village. He sped up the cart to reach her, the lone horse pulling the wagon exerting great energy, as the mare was quite old by now.

  “Good morning, miss,” Ian Wendell called. Everyone at Lesser House called her ‘miss’. Franklin had started that on the very day Trevor had dumped her here, she recalled. Being that she was, in effect, still a miss, she’d never corrected anyone.

  “Been to the village to pilfer more daffodils from the baker’s gardens?” he asked, with an unassuming grin about his pleasant face.

  When he stopped the old cart next to her, she handed him her basket and climbed up into the rig, sitting next to him. “Mr. Fielding hasn’t any use for these pretty babies,” she told him with an impish smile. “And besides, all that heat from his constant ovens would kill them, and who would enjoy them then? They are put to much better use and appreciation at Lesser House, upon the foyer’s table, I should think.”

  Ian only shook his head, but he was smiling still. While he was perhaps only in his mid-twenties, she thought it odd that he’d not taken a wife yet, Nicole being very familiar with several young women in town who’d like nothing more than for Ian Wendall to glance their way. He was handsome, she’d often thought, with broad, workman’s shoulders and continuously mussed dark hair, often covered as now with a wide brimmed hat. His eyes were a light blue, whose shape Nicole had often thought reminded her of Trevor’s, though Ian’s had never so much as looked at her with anything other than kindness and respect.

  Nicole liked that he was always of an even temper, and that he desired to learn his job so earnestly, and to perform to the best of his abilities. He was learning still how to go about the stewardship of Lesser House, as was Nicole. As he’d been the only applicant for the job she’d posted in the area papers, she’d naturally hired him. They were learning together, and not doing too badly for their inexperienced efforts.