Tender Rebel

by Johanna Lindsey

  “Did you doubt I would, a pretty piece like that? Though the little vixen in breeches would have done…never mind.” James poured himself another drink, disturbed by the regret he felt at losing that one. “Why didn’t you just tell your lady I’d marked the girl for myself? I mean, we’ve shared women before, but there’s something unsavory about sharing in the same day, don’t you think?”

  “True, but my dear wife wouldn’t put any unsavory deed beyond my capabilities. And I resent being put in a position of having to explain that I’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have to do that. A little trust wouldn’t be amiss.”

  James sighed. “Tony, lad, you’ve a lot to learn about new brides.”

  “You’ve had one, have you, which makes you an expert?” Anthony sneered.

  “Of course not,” James retorted. “But common sense would tell you it’s got to be a very delicate time for a woman. She’s feeling her way, adjusting. She’s devilish insecure, nervous. Trust? Hah! First impressions are more likely to be the lasting ones. Stands to reason, don’t it?”

  “It stands to reason you don’t know what the deuce you’re talking about. When’s the last time you even bumped elbows with a lady of quality? Captain Hawke’s tastes lean toward a different sort entirely.”

  “Not entirely, lad. Leading a band of brigands does have its drawbacks, mainly in the lower class of establishments one is limited to frequenting. And acquired habits are hard to break. But my tastes, as you put it, are no different from yours. Duchess or whore, as long as she’s comely and willing, she’ll do. And it hasn’t been that many years that I can’t remember the idiosyncrasies of the duchess. Besides, they’re all the same in one respect, dear boy. Jealousy turns them into shrews.”

  “Jealousy?” Anthony said blankly.

  “Well, good God, man, isn’t that the problem?”

  “I hadn’t thought…well, now that you mention it, that could be why she’s so unreasonable. She’s so bloody angry, she won’t even talk about it.”

  “So Knighton was right.” James’ chuckle turned into an outright laugh. “Where’s your finesse gone, dear boy? You’ve had enough practice in these matters to know how to get around—”

  “Look who’s talking,” Anthony cut in irritably. “The same man who got his shin kicked the other night. Where was the Hawke’s finesse—”

  “Blister it, Tony,” James growled. “If you keep bandying that name about, I’m going to end up with a rope around my neck yet. Hawke’s dead. Kindly remember that.”

  Anthony’s mood improved, now that his brother’s had taken a turn for the worse. “Relax, old man. These chaps wouldn’t know a hawk from a Hawke. But point taken. Since you’ve gone to the trouble of killing him off, we may as well let him rest in peace. But you never said, you know. What happened to the rest of your brigands?”

  “Some went their own way. Some formed an attachment for the Maiden Anne, even though she’s changed her colors. They’re landlocked only till we sail.”

  “And when, pray tell, will that be?”

  “Relax, old man.” James tossed the phrase back at him. “I’m having too much fun watching you make a mess of your life to leave just yet.”

  Chapter Thirty

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when George Amherst assisted the two Malory brothers out of the carriage in front of the brownstone-faced house on Piccadilly, and they did need assistance. George was smiling and had been ever since he came upon the two in White’s and smoothed over the disturbance they’d caused. He couldn’t help it. He’d never seen Anthony so foxed he didn’t know if he was coming or going. And James, well, it was utterly comical to see this intimidating Malory laughing his head off over Anthony’s condition when his own was anything but sober.

  “She’s not going to like this,” James was saying as he hooked an arm around Anthony’s shoulders, nearly unbalancing them both.

  “Who?” Anthony demanded belligerently.

  “Your wife.”

  “Wife?”

  George grabbed Anthony as the brothers began to sway and steered them to the door. “Splendid!” He chuckled. “You nearly get yourself kicked out of White’s for decking Billings when all he did was offer felicitations on your marriage, and here you can’t remember you’ve got a wife.”

  George was still getting used to the idea himself. He had been rendered speechless when Anthony had come by his house yesterday morning to tell him personally, before he read about it in the papers.

  “One laugh, George…one little chuckle and I’ll rearrange your nose for you,” Anthony had told him with appalling sincerity. “I was out of my mind. That’s the only excuse for it. So no congratulations, if you please. Condolences are more in order.”

  Then he had refused to say another word about it, not who she was or why he’d married her, nor a hint about why he was already regretting it. But George wasn’t so sure he was actually regretting it, not when Anthony had dragged him off on a search for this cousin of hers who was some sort of danger to her. The desire to protect her was obvious. The desire not to talk about her was equally as obvious. Most obvious was Anthony’s anger, simmering just below the surface all day. George was bloody well relieved they hadn’t found the chap Anthony was looking for. He would have hated to see the result if they had.

  But a chance remark from James as George was hustling them out of White’s put some perspective on the thing. “You’ve just found a temper to match your own, Tony. Can’t say as it’s a bad thing in a wife. It’ll keep you on your toes, if nothing else.” And he had laughed, even when Anthony snarled back, “When you get one of your own, brother, I hope she’s as sweet as that little viper who kicked you instead of thanking you for your help the other night.”

  The door opened just as George was about to pound on it. A wooden-faced Dobson stood there, but the butler’s expression relaxed into aggrieved surprise as James abandoned Anthony for a steadier handhold—Dobson.

  “Where’s Willis, dear fellow? I’m going to need help with my boots, I think.”

  That wasn’t all he would need help with, George thought, grinning, as the skinny Dobson, saying nothing, tried to get the much larger man to the stairs. George was having trouble holding Anthony up as well.

  “You’d better call some footmen, Dobson,” George suggested.

  “I’m afraid,” Dobson puffed without looking back, “they’re on errands for the mistress, my lord.”

  “Bloody hell.” Anthony perked up, hearing that. “What’s she doing dispatching—”

  George poked him in the ribs to shut him up. The lady in question had come out of the parlor and stood with hands on hips and an unpleasant gleam in her hazel eyes, which moved over them all. George swallowed hard. This was Anthony’s wife? Gad, she was breathtaking—and furious.

  “Beg pardon, Lady Malory,” George offered hesitantly. “I found these two rather deep in their cups. Thought it prudent to get them home to sleep it off.”

  “And who are you, sir?” Roslynn asked stonily.

  George didn’t get a chance to answer. Anthony, fixing his gaze on his wife, sneered, “Oh, come now, my dear, you must know old George. He’s the very chap responsible for your distrust of the male gender.”

  George flushed hotly as her eyes narrowed with a distinct golden glow on him. “Blister it, Malory,” he hissed, throwing Anthony’s arm off his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of your wife. No more than you deserve after that crack.” Not that he understood it, but that was no way to introduce one’s best friend to one’s wife.

  To Roslynn, George nodded. “Another time, Lady Malory, hopefully under better circumstances.” And he departed angrily, not even bothering to close the door.

  Anthony stared after him, bemused and unsuccessfully trying to keep his balance in the middle of the hall. “Was it something I said, George?”

  James laughed so hard at that, he and Dobson fell back two steps on the stairs. “You’re amazing, Tony. Eith
er you don’t remember at all, or you remember more than you should.”

  Anthony rounded about to stare at James, halfway up the stairs now. His “What the deuce does that mean?” got only another laugh.

  When it looked as if Anthony was going to fall flat on his face, Roslynn rushed forward, dragging his arm about her neck, and putting her own around his waist. “I canna believe you’ve done this, mon,” she gritted out, maneuvering him carefully across the hall. “Do you ken what time of day it is, to be coming home like this?”

  “Certainly,” he replied indignantly. “It’s—it’s…well, whatever time it is, where else would I come home to, except to my own home?”

  He tripped on the bottom step, pulling Roslynn down with him to sprawl at the foot of the stairs. “Hell’s teeth! I ought to leave you here!”

  Anthony misunderstood in his befuddled state. His arm whipped around her, holding her so tight against his chest she couldn’t breathe. “You’re not leaving me, Roslynn. I won’t allow it.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “You…oh, God, save me from drunks and imbeciles,” she said in exasperation, pushing away from him. “Come on, you foolish man. Get up.”

  Somehow, she got him upstairs and into his bedroom. When Dobson appeared at the door a moment later, she waved him away, why, she wasn’t sure. She could have used his assistance. But it was a unique situation, having Anthony helpless and unable to do for himself. She was rather enjoying it, now that the first irritation had passed. That she was likely the cause of his condition was satisfying too. Or was she?

  “Do you mind telling me why you’ve come home drunk in the middle of the day?” she asked as she straddled his leg to remove the first boot.

  “Drunk? Good God, woman, that’s a disgusting word. Gentlemen do not get drunk.”

  “Oh? Then what do they get?”

  He shoved against her backside with his other foot until the boot popped off. “The word is…it’s…what the deuce is it?”

  “Drunk,” she repeated smugly.

  He grunted, and when she came for the second boot, his shove was a bit harder, sending her nearly toppling when the boot came off in her hands. She swung around, eyes narrowed, only to find him grinning innocently at her.

  She threw the boot down, coming back to the bed to tackle his coat. “You didn’t answer my question, Anthony.”

  “What question was that?”

  “Why are you in this disgusting condition?”

  He didn’t take offense this time. “Come now, my dear. Why else would a man tip one too many? Either he’s lost his wealth, a relative’s died, or his bed’s empty.”

  It was her turn to look deliberately innocent. “Did someone die?”

  He placed his hands on her hips, pulling her a touch closer between his legs. He was smiling, but there was nothing humorous about it. “Play with fire, sweetheart, and you’ll get burned,” he warned thickly.

  Roslynn yanked hard on his cravat before she pushed him back on the bed. “Sleep it off, sweetheart.” And she turned on her heel.

  “You’re a cruel woman, Roslynn Malory,” he called after her.

  She closed the door with a decisive bang.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Anthony woke with a splitting head and a curse on his lips. He sat up to light the lamp by his bed, cursing again. The clock on the mantel said a few minutes after two. It was dark outside his window, so that told him which two o’clock it was. He cursed again, realizing he was wide awake now in the middle of the night, with his head coming off and too damn many hours till dawn.

  What the hell had possessed him? Ah, well, he knew what possessed him, but he shouldn’t have let it. He vaguely remembered old George bringing them home and something about his having belted Billings—bloody hell. Wished he hadn’t done that. Billings was a good sort. He’d have to apologize, probably more than once. Hadn’t George left angry? Anthony couldn’t quite remember.

  Uncomfortable, he glanced down at himself and grimaced. Mean-tempered wife. She could at least have undressed him and tucked him in proper, since it was her fault he’d got foxed to begin with. And hadn’t she got snippy there, rubbing it in? He couldn’t remember that clearly either.

  Anthony leaned forward, gently massaging his temples. Well, he had his options, even at this hour. He could try to get back to sleep, which was doubtful. He’d slept more than his customary hours already. He could change and go back to White’s for some whist—that is, if he hadn’t behaved too abominably earlier and they’d let him in. Or he could be as mean-tempered as his wife and wake her up to see what might come of it. No, he felt too bloody rotten to want to do anything about it if she did prove amenable suddenly.

  He laughed, which made him grimace. Best to just work on getting rid of this hangover before morning. A bath would be nice, but he’d have to wait for a decent hour to rouse the servants. Some food, then.

  Slowly, because each step reverberated through his head, Anthony left his room. He stopped just down the hall, seeing the light under his brother’s door. He knocked once but entered without waiting for permission, to find James sitting naked on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. Anthony almost laughed but caught himself in time. It hurt too much to indulge.

  James didn’t glance up to see who had intruded. Softly, ominously, he grated out, “Not above a whisper if you value your life.”

  “Got a little man hammering in your head too, old man?”

  James raised his head slowly. His scowl was murderous. “A dozen at least, and I owe every bloody one to you, you miserable—”

  “The devil you do. You’re the one who offered to buy me a drink, so if anyone has a right to complain—”

  “One drink, not several bottles, you ass!”

  They both winced at the raised tone. “Well, I suppose you have me there.”

  “Good of you to admit it,” James snorted as he massaged his temples again.

  Anthony’s lips began to twitch. It was ludicrous, the punishment they put their bodies through, though James’ body didn’t look any the worse for wear. Anthony had been surprised for a moment on first entering, not having seen his brother naked since the time he had burst into that countess’ bedroom, he couldn’t even remember her name now, to warn James that her husband was on his way upstairs. James had changed since that night more than ten years ago. He was broader, more solid. In fact, he fairly bulged with thick muscles running across his chest and arms, down his legs. Must be from climbing all that rigging in ten years of pirating.

  “You know, James, you’re an incredible brute specimen.”

  James shook his head at that sudden remark, looking down at himself, then back at Anthony. He finally grinned at his brother’s surprise. “The ladies don’t seem to mind.”

  “No, I don’t imagine they do.” Anthony chuckled. “Care for a few hands at cards? I can’t get back to sleep to save my soul.”

  “As long as you don’t break out the brandy.”

  “God, no! I had coffee in mind, and I seem to recall we missed our dinner.”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  When Roslynn sat down to breakfast, she was still bleary-eyed, having spent another restless, sleepless night. This time it was her own fault. She felt rather guilty about her treatment of Anthony yesterday afternoon. She could have at least undressed him and made him more comfortable instead of leaving him as she had, not even bothering to see he got under the covers. After all, he was her husband. She was familiar with his body. Nothing to be embarrassed about.

  Half a dozen times she had nearly gone up to rectify the matter but changed her mind, afraid he might wake and misconstrue her concern. And after she had gone to bed, well, she wasn’t about to enter his bedroom in her nightclothes. That would certainly be misconstrued.

  It bothered her that she felt guilty at all. She wasn’t sympathetic to his plight. If he wanted to get drunk and blame it on her, well, that was his pr
oblem. And if he suffered for it this morning with a gruesome hangover, that was also too bad. One had to pay for excesses, didn’t one? So why had she lost half a night’s sleep thinking about him sprawled helpless on his bed?

  “If the food’s so bad that you must scowl at it, perhaps I’ll eat at my club this morning.”

  Roslynn glanced up, Anthony’s sudden appearance surprising her enough that she replied simply, “There’s nothing wrong with the food.”

  “Splendid!” he said cheerfully. “Then you won’t mind if I join you?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, but moved to the sideboard and began piling a mountain of food on his plate. Roslynn stared at his tall frame, immaculately encased in a coat of dark brown superfine, buckskin breeches, and gleaming Hessians. He had no right to look so magnificent, to be so chipper this morning. He should be moaning and groaning and damning his folly.

  “You slept late,” Roslynn said tersely, stabbing a plump sausage on her plate.

  “I’ve just come back from my morning ride, actually.” He took the seat opposite her, his brows raised slightly in inquiry. “Did you only just rise yourself, my dear?”

  It was a good thing the sausage hadn’t entered her mouth yet, or she would have choked on that seemingly innocent question. How dared he deny her the satisfaction of taking him to task for yesterday’s disgraceful behavior? And that was exactly what he was doing, sitting there looking as if he had just had the most wonderful night’s sleep of his life.

  Anthony didn’t expect an answer to his last question, nor did he get one. With an amused glimmer in his cobalt eyes, he watched Roslynn attack her food, determined to ignore him. Perversely, he wouldn’t let her.

  “I noticed a new rug in the hall.”

  She didn’t spare him a glance, even though it was an insult to call the expensive piece woven to resemble the figured Aubusson tapestry a rug. “Strange you didn’t notice it yesterday.”

  Bravo, sweetheart. He smiled to himself. She was going to get her licks in one way or another.