Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  Edward interjected his own thoughts then. “I told you she was one of a kind, Mother.”

  The dowager smiled fondly at her son, then turned that same smile to her soon-to-be-daughter. “You were correct, as always, Amblingshire. Miss Payne, I am happy Edward chose you. Welcome to the family.”

  Sarah’s countenance brightened. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Enough of that,” the dowager fussed. “Our tea has arrived. Will you help me pour?”

  “Of course!” Sarah looked at her betrothed and at her own mother, who had watched from a chair on the other side of Edward. When they smiled and nodded, Sarah turned her attention back to his mother.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The following three months were filled with all manner of activities, some the new couple participated in together, and others they did separately. Sarah shopped for wedding clothes with her mother and the dowager, who insisted on arranging for Sarah to be fitted by her own modiste, Madame Claire, who was the most popular and fashionable dressmaker in London. Appointments for new clients usually were made months in advance, but because the dowager duchess was such a good customer, the modiste cleared her schedule to be able to outfit Sarah with a selection of evening gowns.

  Sarah herself insisted that her regular modiste create the remainder of her trousseau, because Mrs Tremayne had sewed all of her clothes for as long as the girl could remember.

  Edward attended teas and engagement parties held by both families and their friends, always with Sarah at his side. The final event, held just two days before the wedding was a ball hosted by Mr Payne. Sarah wore one of her new evening gowns, a pink confection with a white silk overlay with darker pink embroidered flowers along the bottom. Edward had been struck dumb by her elegance and beauty, and as they danced the first set, expressed his admiration as well as a man could whose feelings were as strong as Edward’s were. Sarah’s blush at his compliments matched the color of her gown, and her betrothed soon found he had to leave off expressing his feelings to her, lest her skin turn a permanent red shade.

  The pair danced twice together, and several times with other partners, but much of their night was spent circulating among the guests, accepting the congratulations and teasing of their friends and family.

  Sarah had been introduced to many of the attendees over the course of her engagement. Most accepted her, if only because she was marrying a duke. None dared to speak ill of her for the same reason.

  At the end of the evening, as Sarah and Edward bid farewell to the last of the guests and the duke and his mother prepared to return to their own home, the couple had a brief, private good-bye. Huddled in the corner of the entry hall, they exchanged a brief hug.

  “I think that was the most exhausting ball I have attended all season,” Sarah declared, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

  “I agree, but I suspect it was only because we were the center of attention.” Edward held Sarah’s free hand in his, reluctant to let it go. Her hand had been on his arm most of the evening; he had discovered that touching his betrothed had become somewhat of an addiction. He looked forward to the day he could do so with impunity.

  Sarah chuckled. “I think you are correct. I rather long for anonymity after all that.”

  It was Edward’s turn to laugh. He looked over his shoulder at his mother and Sarah’s parents and sighed. “I should say good night. I love you.”

  Sarah squeezed his hand. “I love you, too. Good night.”

  They rejoined their parents, and before Sarah knew it, Edward and the dowager were gone. “Only two more days,” she thought. “You can do anything for two days.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Finally, the day of the wedding arrived. Sarah was up at dawn, too excited to sleep any longer. She sat in the window seat, watching the sun rise over the rooftops of the city, and dreaming of her future. Eventually, hunger drove her from her place, and she rang the bell, asking her maid to have tea and scones brought up. She was breaking her fast at the small table near the window while the tub was being filled when a knock sounded on the door to the hallway.

  “Come in,” Sarah called, a happy smile spreading over her face to see her mother’s head peek around the door.

  “Good morning, my love,” Mrs Payne greeted as she walked across the room. Reaching Sarah, she leaned down and kissed her daughter’s head. “Today is the big day. Are you ready?”

  “Well, other than being dressed, yes,” Sarah laughed. “I was up early. I was not sleeping, anyway, so I got up to watch the dawn.”

  Mrs Payne laughed with her daughter, feeling both pride and sadness, with a healthy dose of joy added in. “I am proud of you, Sarah. You have grown into a wonderful woman, and the happiness you feel spreads to everyone around you.” She felt tears welling up. “Oh, here I go again. I think I was up half the night, crying because you are leaving us.” She sniffed, looking around for a handkerchief. Sarah handed her one, and she thanked her. As she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, she listened to her daughter’s plea.

  “Mama, all is well. You are not losing me; you are gaining a son. I will still be near, at least for part of the year.”

  Mrs Payne sniffed again, dabbing her eyes with a dry portion of the cloth. “If your father takes that estate near Amblingshire’s, we may be near each other all the time.”

  Sarah smiled encouragingly. “Very true. You know you are always welcome in our homes. You may come and spend half the year, if you like.”

  “Oh, now, we would not do that. Your father would not allow it. He thinks me a ninny for being so emotional as it is.”

  “I doubt that,” Sarah laughed. “If he did say it, he was teasing.”

  “I know he was.” Mrs Payne’s watery giggle drew an answering chuckle from her daughter. She sighed. “I am so happy that you are marrying for love. Perhaps that is the root of my tears. I was so worried that you would be forced to marry without it. Your father was certain you would come to love anyone he married you to, but there is no guarantee that will happen with any couple.”

  Sarah’s lips turned up into another smile, and she held her mother’s hand. “You do not need to worry anymore. Edward loves me just as much as I love him. He will take good care of me, as I will of him.”

  “I know.” Mrs Payne sighed, deeply, and then straightened her spine. “Well, we are wasting time. Let us get you bathed and dressed. You have to be at the church in just a few hours.”

  Later that morning, as the sonorous tones of the pipe organ filled the air, Sarah began the slow trek from the back of the church to the altar, on her father’s arm. She could see Edward in his formal suit and trousers standing tall at the end of the aisle. Though butterflies had filled her stomach from the minute the carriage had stopped in front of the building, to see her handsome duke waiting for her gave her strength and confidence. Her face lit up as a smile overtook it.

  Sarah was surprised when her father stopped her. She had been so focused on her groom that she had not noticed they had reached their destination. She turned her smile to her father as he leaned down and kissed her cheek before giving her hand to Edward and backing away. She heard a sob behind her and knew her mother had lost her fight to control her emotions. She did not look back, instead staring into Edward’s dark, warm eyes.

  The couple turned then to face the rector and pledged themselves to love each other forever. The pledge was sincere. Sarah knew that there would never be another for her. Edward was the perfect man for her.

  And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his vows to her were heartfelt and that his promise to love, honour, and cherish her for the rest of their lives would never be broken. She felt blessed beyond measure that she would be this wonderful man’s wife from this day forward.

  She smiled up into his handsome face with her eyes filling as the emotions flooded over her. As she said her final vow to him, she reached up and stroked his cheek. He smiled and reached up to cover her hand with his. Suddenly she could not wait fo
r this ceremony to be over so she could begin the exciting journey ahead with Edward as his loving wife.

  THE END

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  More from Kelly Anne Bruce

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  About Kelly Anne Bruce

  Kelly Anne Bruce has enjoyed reading about the Regency period since her teen years. Intrigued by the society mindset, the elaborate dress, and the lovely parties, she couldn’t get enough. The people of the era are fascinating! And then there’s the romance. With the fancy dresses, dashing men of royalty, and the lavish social events romance absolutely has to be part of the picture.

  Writing sweet and clean romance started as a hobby and has since become Kelly Anne’s passion. Life as an author has been an adventure and Kelly Anne always believes the best is yet to come.

  Kelly Anne is an American, married to an English man who thinks her love of the Regency period is all about him. She hopes you won’t let that cat out of the bag.

  TO CAPTURE LOVE

  Shereen Vedam

  Chapter One

  April 1812, London, England

  One-and-twenty-year-old Pauline Blackburn hurried out of her father’s London townhouse for her appointment with the curator of the British Museum and a new client.

  The moment her neatly shod foot touched the pavement, a gull flying squawked overhead with an uh-uh-uh call. Pauline glanced up in time for the bird to spray refuse across the side of her bonnet, splash her cheek and plunge down the front of the blue-striped Spencer.

  She let out a howl of shock.

  The bird responded with a loud wail as it flew away.

  A passing woman stopped to chuckle and then masked her ill-thought humor with a soothing ooh, and oh dear.

  Pauline’s maid, Lucy, cried out in alarm. “Oh, miss, this surely portends ill luck.”

  “I’ve heard it said that it’s good luck,” the female pedestrian kindly offered.

  “Botheration,” was all Pauline could think to say before she rushed back up the front stairs and into her home.

  Her mother, checking the morning calling cards that had been dropped off, glanced up with concern. “What’s happened?”

  Pauline waved her away and rushed up to her bedchamber, Lucy trailing in her wake. This was an immensely important appointment. As such, her need to look presentable warred with wanting to arrive before the appointed time. Normally, to her mother’s distress, Pauline hardly noticed what she wore. Today was different. On this particular day, she wished to stand out, be admired, perhaps even impress.

  She quickly washed her face before choosing a new bonnet that would match a different Spencer. Then she expended precious minutes ensuring her shoes, too, harmonized with the rest of her clothing. All those preparations took fifteen minutes, the time ticking in her ears like an annoyingly loud pocket watch.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  Shut up, she mentally chastised her inner clockwork. She’d given herself plenty of time this morning for just such an unanticipated mishap. She would not be late.

  Her new client hated tardiness. Her cousin, Cecil, an infantry soldier, had mentioned that fact in more than one of his letters from the war currently raging in Spain. Cecil had served with her client, Major Livingston, while the British ground forces supported the Spanish troops during the siege at the naval base in Cádiz. The major’s nickname was apparently Stone, for his strength and endurance during battle.

  To Pauline, he sounded as if he would be unforgiving, especially if she was late. That would not happen.

  She and Lucy hurried downstairs for the second time. She arrived in the foyer to learn that her mother, having heard of the battle of the gull, had arranged for her daughter to travel in the safety of the Blackburn town carriage.

  Pauline hugged her mother with heartfelt gratitude and sped out the door. In no time, she and Lucy were off in the comfort of the family carriage, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  She checked her time piece. All good. She should be at the museum before the major even arrived there. Of course, he was more than just a major now.

  When he inherited the title of earl, it had been the news of the day in London. His ascension had been quite a surprise, as the late earl had both a wife and an heir apparent. However, a tragic carriage accident wiped out the whole family last summer, making Major Livingston the new Earl of Ashford.

  Pauline’s father had said that even after having heard of his inheritance, the major refused to give up his commission and leave Spain. Only after being wounded in the knee during a skirmish as the French forces marched toward Cádiz last autumn, did Ashford’s commanding officer order him home.

  Two weeks after he returned to London, news arrived that his brother, the Honorable Geoffrey Livingston, had died in battle.

  The tragedy was heartbreaking, not only to the Livingston family, but to all in London who had celebrated Major Livingston’s ascension, and then mourned his terrible loss.

  In her own small way, Pauline, too, wanted to ease the new earl’s suffering. That was partly why gaining this commission was so important. She knew him personally. Years ago, during her presentation to the queen, she had fallen in love with him.

  The sound of a crash ahead startled her out of her thoughts. Her carriage came to a jarring halt.

  Leaning out the window, she said, “Lucy, can you see what’s happening up ahead?”

  Her maid gazed out the opposite window. “Oh miss,” she said, “an apple cart’s crashed in front of our carriage.”

  Pauline hurried over to the other side and looked out. Every horse, bird and stray child nearby seemed to be swooping in to steal one of the escaping ripe fruit spilling across the roadway and causing a royal ruckus.

  “Oh no!” she whispered in horror. They were still two long blocks from their destination. “We’re going to be late.”

  That panicked thought had her flinging open the carriage door and jumping out. Picking up her skirts, she sprinted down the pavement, weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic.

  “Miss, wait for me,” Lucy shouted behind her.

  Pauline didn’t slow a bit, her heart hammering in a panic that she was about to lose this assignment.

  She ran pell-mell down the street past people shouting in alarm at her speedy passage, all the while praying, Please don’t let him leave without seeing me.

  * * *

  Despite being only five and twenty, Matthew Robert (Stone) Livingston, the sixth Earl of Ashford felt as old as his late father as he tapped his good right foot on the museum foyer’s marble floor in rhythm to the pounding at his temple. Headaches assaulted him frequently these days, especially after news arrived of his younger brother’s death last November. Waiting a good fifteen minutes for the artist he’d employed had exacerbated the throbbing. He checked his timepiece, snapped it shut, and slipped it back into his pocket.

  “My lord,” the curator said, “I’m sure Mr. Black will be here shortly.” The man’s nervous glance toward the front door dissuaded Robert of any such fortunate occurrence.

  Stone strode with his lopsided gait to the closest window. Six months since his return to England, and his injury still plagued him as if it had occurred yesterday in London, instead of months ago on the road to Cádiz.

  He gazed out the window in a forlorn mood, disappointed with the speed of his healing, missing his brother and the comfort of his late parents. The only close family he h
ad left was a first cousin he’d hated as a child and couldn’t stomach as an adult.

  This museum fronted Montague Street, which was heavy with London’s morning traffic of hackney carriages, gentlemen on horseback, and carts carrying produce to the city center. No Mr. Black rushed up the museum steps to keep his overdue appointment.

  He could not believe he stood here like a dunce waiting for the rude fellow. If anyone else had dared to keep him waiting, after refusing to meet him at the Ashford estate, the offender would have lost Stone’s custom within a minute of the appointed time. He approached the opposite window, but it offered no better prospect.

  He should simply hire another artist. However, shortly after Geoffrey’s funeral, he’d received a sympathy card from the Blackburn family, which had included a palm-sized stone carving of a man petting his dog. An odd gift to include as a condolence gesture, but Stone had been fascinated by the plaque. He had kept it close at hand ever since, giving it pride of place on his writing desk.

  When he first saw the delicate carving, he had been entranced by the kindness in the man’s face and the depth of feeling shared between master and pet so skillfully depicted in hard cold stone.

  The hand-sized marble plaque was cool to the touch but it generated a burning warmth within his heart every time he thought of it, as it did now. On its hind flat side, the name P. Black had been etched.

  When he went to be formally presented with his new title at the House of Lords last December, the prime minister had approached him about sponsoring a war memorial in memory of Geoffrey’s heroic death. P. Black was the name that instantly popped into his mind. However, at the time, just the thought of his slain brother had brought a lump to his throat. So, he’d refused, unwilling to deal with a memory that was still too fresh and painful.