Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  “I mean, traveling with many strangers is not one of my favored occupations, but no one can deny the speed of the mail coach…”

  He looked at her strangely, as if she’d said something entirely unexpected.

  Entirely…wrong.

  “I wouldn’t want to take your carriage,” she said. “But if you prefer—”

  His face was stony, and she drifted off. There didn’t seem to be any way to end the sentence without meeting his continued displeasure.

  Evidently he did not approve of her taking his carriage.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “You informed my lady’s maid to pack my things?” Madeline asked him one day.

  “Indeed.” He smiled. How did she always manage to look so beautiful?

  “Admiral Fitzroy will return soon from Europe. Some distance from London would be beneficial.”

  “Oh.” She looked slightly less displeased. “Where are you sending me?”

  “Kent.”

  She frowned.

  “You complimented it on the journey. In fact…it’s not too far from Lord Rockport’s estate. Lord Worthing lives near there too.”

  “You desire them to keep an eye on me?”

  “It wasn’t an immediate concern, but naturally I wouldn’t reject—”

  Her face seemed to shatter. “When am I going?”

  He blinked. Did she imagine he might send her alone? “We are going tonight. That way we can reach it when it’s still light tomorrow.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “Naturally.”

  Madeline still looked puzzled, but there was something almost adorable—or even utterly adorable—about the manner in which she tilted her head.

  He only hoped she would appreciate it tomorrow.

  He was tempted to tell her what he’d done.

  His title had come with an estate, but he’d sold his manor house early in the war. At the time he’d been living in Falmouth and had been happy to sell it to relatives of the late marquess. Cumbria has seemed far too remote, and a manor house far too large for him at the time.

  So a week ago he’d purchased another one.

  And three days ago he’d purchased an art collection with which to fill it.

  He only hoped he hadn’t been too hasty, and that Madeline did not prefer to return to Yorkshire, the home she’d shared with her late husband, a place filled with memories that didn’t include him.

  The next day they arrived at Rose Point Park.

  Spring was in full force, and poppies dotted the fields. The carriage wound past half-timbered and brick farmhouses.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” Madeline asked.

  Arthur shook his head. “Patience is a great virtue.”

  Madeline frowned at him, but she didn’t seem too upset and seemed to enjoy the sight of village children playing in the streets and clambering over the wooden fences to dash about in the long grass.

  Finally the carriage swept through ebony wrought iron gates, and Arthur pulled the carriage over. “Let’s walk the rest of the way.”

  They strolled through the parkland and came to a Tudor house. Ivy curled over the dark gray stone, and steep gables pointed cheerfully into the heavens. Fruit trees were scattered on either side of the drive, and they inhaled the scent of apple and cherry blossoms.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she murmured, and he found himself beaming.

  “Are we visiting one of your relatives?” she asked uncertainly.

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “No.”

  “Then—”

  He took her hand in his, conscious that his own was shaking somewhat.

  Please let her be happy.

  “That’s Rose Point Park,” he said. “Our new home.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded gravely. “I purchased it for us.”

  “It’s heavenly.”

  “There’s a garden behind the manor house,” Arthur said.

  “This is already perfect,” Madeline said.

  “I thought we could keep a peacock there,” Arthur said.

  “A peacock?”

  “Given your proclivity for embroidering them.”

  She laughed. “I believe they have a tendency toward squawking.”

  “Then let’s get a herd of deer.”

  “The gardeners will grumble,” Madeline said.

  “Then let’s not grow vegetables.” Arthur laughed and swung her around.

  Madeline’s legs flew over the grass, and her heart soared. The sun beamed merrily in the sky, crowning the clouds with its light.

  Arthur took her hand and they strolled over the path. The dirt lane turned to stone pebbles that crunched beneath their feet.

  Wooden doors loomed over them, and they ascended the steps.

  “I’m afraid the place is still shut.” Arthur removed his key. “The previous owners took their servants with them when they moved to a smaller home.”

  “I am certain some of my servants will be happy to relocate here.”

  “Splendid,” Arthur said, and they entered their new home.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “It couldn’t be any other way,” he said. “Not where you’re concerned.”

  She stared at him. The reflection from stained glass windows sparkled over her. Tapestries hung from long walls, and oriental vases shone over ornate sideboards.

  He cleared his throat and stepped away. “There’s quite a nice gallery inside.”

  “Darling,” Madeline murmured.

  Arthur led her through the corridor.

  He grasped hold of a handle and pulled a heavy door toward himself. Jeweled canvases seem to glow from golden frames.

  “But those are Maxwell’s pieces!”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  He’d had a bloody hard time convincing the man’s heir to part with them, even after brandishing substantial coin.

  But he’d been happy to spend the money.

  “Mind?” Joy emanated over her face. “But I adore these pieces. I missed them. I thought I would never see them again. Y-you didn’t need to do that.”

  “I wanted to,” Arthur said. “I thought it would be good if someone actually interested in art owned it. Someone who’d selected the pieces herself.”

  An unlit fireplace sat in the center of the room, and they stepped over lavish woolen carpets.

  Once the house was filled with guests and servants and perhaps, perhaps even family, the room would be magnificent.

  But as he gazed at Madeline it seemed as if the room could not be any more perfect, and the trickle of unease he’d experienced in London vanished.

  I’m happy.

  *

  Life had turned idyllic over the past few weeks, as if Madeline had ventured into one of the gilded framed pictures which adorned Rose Point Park’s gallery. She grasped her sketch book in one hand and strolled through the garden, stepping on the strategically placed stones.

  The wind flitted through the leaves of the chestnut trees, humming pleasantly, as the shadows flickered over the path. A rabbit peeked from underneath the hydrangeas, and other, more adventurous ones, hopped in the long grass.

  A twig snapped, and a deer darted over the field.

  Arthur hadn’t had to bring any deer to the manor house. A herd of them frequented the woods behind the estate, and Madeline took pleasure in seeing them.

  Perhaps she wasn’t in an actual painting, but Madeline was certain no artist could create a finer scene. The view must be as perfect as those devised by Poussin, and the compilation of roses and other floral notes must compete with anything the most dedicated Parisian perfumist might create. Still it was the reminder of Arthur’s lips upon hers and the manner in which his eyes flickered with seeming delight when he saw her that made her smile. Her heart swelled, as if she half expected to float away with the majestic clouds that sailed above her.

  Somet
imes Arthur would stroll with her. He’d kiss her, and in the evenings they would make love.

  He continued to be so sweet, as if he truly cared for her. But he’d never told he loved her, and she certainly did not want to tell him, even though she’d long decided this must be love.

  Love must be the force that made her happy to see him, happy to be around him, and happy for him whenever he had a good day. If so, it must also be the force that made her worry whenever he left for London.

  She worried that she’d imagined tender gazes from his eyes, and that she’d confused the pleasure he took in her body with the fact that she was the only woman in the area, and certainly the only one to whom he was married. But more than that she imagined highwaymen accosting him and mail coaches rushing into his path, even though no man in the world could be better equipped than he to handle it.

  She shook her head.

  Perhaps her time in the French prison was making her imagine the worst.

  Life was certainly blissful, and hopefully this afternoon she would also succeed in sketching one of the deer. They’d been evading her all week.

  Something rustled behind her.

  It must be the deer.

  She beamed and turned toward the sound.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The horse trotted toward the now familiar elegant facade. Arthur tied it up outside and ascended the steps. The groom would likely notice it soon, but now he wanted to greet his wife.

  He entered the building, and called, “Madeline. Sweetheart?”

  The place was silent, and Arthur smiled.

  Of course she wouldn’t be inside. The day was beautiful.

  Footsteps rushed toward him, and he sighed blissfully. “You’re here.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Arthur recognized the voice of Madeline’s lady’s maid, though now it seemed imbued with rather more hesitancy than that to which he was accustomed. The blissful sensation dissipated, and he swung around.

  He was accustomed to seeing the lady’s maid move around confidently. She was young and had already attained the position of lady’s maid to a marchioness. She tended to wear her hair in elaborate, ever changing coiffures as if practicing for Madeline. This evening her coiffure still seemed complex, but strands of her hair were loose, as if she’d raked her hand through them.

  Arthur assessed her. Perhaps she’d spent the afternoon frolicking in the fields and was taken aback at seeing her master.

  Unfortunately the servant also bit her lower lip, and her eyes seemed rounded.

  Arthur’s earlier contentment transformed to worry. “Has my wife taken ill?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I mean…I don’t know.”

  Her hands tangled her white apron. “She’s gone, sir.”

  “Gone?” Fear swept through him, moving with more speed than the most well engineered curricle.

  “I’ve been ever so worried,” she added.

  “When did she leave?”

  “Must have been just after breakfast. She went for a stroll in the garden and—never returned.”

  “Good God.”

  The day was still pleasant, but the sun was already setting. He’d been excited to pull Madeline outside to marvel at the tangerine and rose clouds that had set the sky ablaze.

  That inclination felt naive now.

  She’d left.

  He swallowed hard. “Did she take a bag?”

  Had she planned to go?

  “I didn’t notice anything missing, my lord.”

  “Please search.”

  Arthur despised the pity in the maid’s gaze. He felt like they were conspiring together, that only she knew that his wife had abandoned him.

  He thought about following her. Thought about rushing to Madeline’s room, seeing Madeline’s attire and jewels and art, and reassuring himself that she must be there.

  He wavered. He could search the gardens. Look under every bush and tree. Damnation. She couldn’t have hurt herself somehow, could she?

  He ratcheted his mind. There weren’t hidden ledges or thundering waterfalls on the estate, were there? Vicious lakes with slippery stones or bridges that collapsed when anyone attempted to stride over them?

  Or had someone gotten inside? There was a gatehouse, but with only one guard, it was hardly a paragon of fortification.

  Arthur didn’t think it needed to be.

  He strode toward the door.

  Letters flickered against the surface of the glimmering silver platter on which they were placed.

  He sighed, recognizing the hand of Admiral Fitzroy’s secretary. He didn’t want to hear from him. He didn’t care if the man intended to send him to Europe or the Caribbean, North Africa or North America. He didn’t even care if the man desired him in politics.

  He picked up the letter. Likely he should toss it in the fire. Unfortunately he would have to call a servant to light one, so tearing it in a multitude of pieces would have to suffice.

  He tore open the letter. Madeline’s name caught his attention, and he unfolded the letter and smoothed the creases from the paper.

  “I regret to inform you that your wife has been discovered to be behind the theft of the Costantini jewels. We have arrested her—”

  His throat dried.

  It was nonsense.

  Comte Beaulieu was not some advocate for the law. Or at least not any form of the law that applied to justice and improving things.

  He likely had her locked up in some hovel.

  No way would he stay silent. Madeline was his wife, no matter who they brought telling him he could have an annulment. Perhaps he didn’t have bloody sheets to flaunt like some paunchy medieval knight suspected of impotence, but Madeline was his. Perhaps there would be a child in nine months to prove it. But he didn’t want to wait to find out. He didn’t want any excuses to not be with her.

  I love her.

  Had he never told her that?

  The thought rose in his mind, as strong as any cyclone, as fear inducing as any French fleet pointing cannons at his ship.

  Guilt lingered in his body, merging with the faint sickness caught in his throat and settling in his stomach.

  Likely she was scared. Likely she was terrified. And he’d done absolutely nothing to alleviate any pain she might be feeling.

  Good God. Prayers had always been things he’d thought best to leave to ministers, but he wanted to sink to his knees and bow his head and beg—

  But there was no time. “I’m leaving,” he called to the maid and he rushed out the door.

  Arthur swung onto his horse and urged it into a gallop. Admiral Fitzroy didn’t have a house in the area, something Arthur had been distinctly happy about when he’d chosen the property.

  The horse trampled over blossoms that had fallen from the chestnut trees. Vague ponderings of roasting the chestnuts over the fire at Christmas seemed at once naive and a hopelessly precious dream to cling to.

  Finally the horse’s legs carried them from the estate, onto the lane, and—

  Arthur pulled the horse to a stop. It snorted, perhaps annoyed at the sudden halt to its exercise.

  If only he were certain in which direction to guide the gelding.

  The Dolphin.

  It was the only coaching inn in the district with decent accommodation, something which the admiral had a definite fondness for.

  Arthur directed the horse toward it. Soon his horse was once again galloping over the lane, stomping its hooves, and skillfully avoiding the odd puddle.

  Pink and purple slabs of color shimmered over the once cerulean sky. Lately sunset sightings had been causing him uncharacteristically sentimental musings, causing strange swellings in his chest area, but now the sunset just reminded him that time was dwindling.

  Arthur leaned forward on his horse. He attempted to concentrate on the rhythmic thud of the horse’s hooves and the sudden jolts whenever the lane inclined unexpectedly. That had always succeeded in keeping his mind focused in the past, whenev
er he was assigned to venture into enemy territory. But now all he could think of, all he wanted to think of, was Madeline.

  A wagon appeared in the lane before him, and he guided the horse to swerve onto the field and to join the road after.

  A farmer shouted angry things at him.

  It didn’t matter.

  The only thing that mattered was Madeline.

  She was the absolutely dearest person in the world to him. He’d loved her when he’d first come to London. She’d been the most elegant, most exquisite debutante in the entire capital.

  That hadn’t mattered.

  Arthur hadn’t even been a marquess. He’d marveled at her ability to have mastered etiquette, but it had been his conversations with her as they danced through the balls that he remembered.

  She’d been witty and vibrant, intimidated by the glitter and gleam of London. She’d been observant, noticing everything of interest. Some of the bluestockings prided themselves on their disinterest in London, but she’d been interested and intelligent, a truth made clear by the fact she’d become a renowned art scholar, even if she’d used her husband’s name.

  No.

  He didn’t want to see that vibrant, charming spirit crushed.

  Lord. I should have told her.

  He’d been too proud. He hadn’t wanted to remember how she’d asked him, through her uncle, to stop seeing her.

  He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how he felt. And now—now it was perhaps too late.

  Finally he saw the inn appear before him. He scrambled off the horse, threw the reins to a surprised looking groom and asked him to tie the horse up, and then dashed inside.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Arthur stormed over the dark wooden floorboards of the inn. “Have you seen Admiral Fitzroy?”

  The other patrons stared at him. Perhaps his question had resembled a shout.

  “A man,” he said. “With the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  “Was she blonde?” one patron asked.

  “With eyes as blue as the Mediterranean,” Arthur said dreamily.

  The patron blinked. “Upstairs.” He frowned. “The nicest room is 203. Perhaps try that.”