UNFORGETTABLE ROGUE (The Rogues Club, Book Two)

by Annette Blair

  “Poor Alexandra,” he said, running headlong into the subject with which he had been toying for weeks. “Would you rather we lived apart?” Even as the words left his lips, Hawk’s heart about stopped.

  Alex paled to the color of flour paste. “That will not be possible.”

  His heart caught the beats it missed and continued on its palpitating way, albeit a bit faster than normal, for he was as taken aback by her answer as he was relieved by it. Though he should not be, he reminded himself, for they must part in the not too distant future. “No?”

  “Do not be foolish.”

  “I am never foolish, Alexandra. I am occasionally blind, I have come to understand in hindsight, but never knowingly foolish. I should think that someone who cares naught for the rules and loves another might consider separation a solution.”

  “Only an annulment would serve as a solution, as far as my alliance with Chesterfield is concerned, and well you know it. But the fact remains that neither an annulment nor a separation is possible, for your wards need no family skeletons further littering their rock-strewn paths in life.”

  That she wanted an annulment at all, whether possible in her mind or not, damn near broke Hawk. And still, she had given no elaboration as to whether she did, or did not, love the man she had been about to marry.

  Hawk found the lack more than frustrating. He found it ill-mannered, evasive, and downright exasperating. “My wards?”

  “Your nieces, Claudia and Beatrix.”

  “I know who you mean. I simply cannot imagine how two little girls can have any bearing on the matter.”

  “You have been gone for nearly two years, Hawksworth. You must realize that Beatrix is now six, and Claudia, I will have you know, is due a season this year. She has some funds, but more beauty. With so small a dowry to her name, however, even something so simple as a separation in the family could be infamous enough an excuse for an ambitious mama to thwart a titled son’s unsanctioned attachment.”

  “Then I take it that you will not be living in sin with Chesterfield … until after Claudia marries?”

  “Do not push me, Bryceson.”

  Feeling immeasurably uplifted of a sudden, Hawk nodded. “If Claudia is due a season, then so must you be. You cannot be more than two years older than she.” … and stuck with a beast. The intrusive thought sent Hawk’s spirits plummeting.

  “Claudia is seventeen, and I am an old married woman of twenty,” Alex said. “There are many things I do need, but a season in London is not one of them, thank you very much.”

  Hawk wanted to ask what it was she did need, but he might not like her answer.

  Adoration, obviously, Chesterfield’s at least, but what about him? Would she accept his worship, if he were so foolish as to offer it?

  At one time, he had thought she might.

  And should he check himself into Bedlam today, or tomorrow, for having the idiocy to imagine it? Especially now.

  The angel of death must surely scramble one’s brain, Hawk mused, hoping that rest and further recovery would set his bedeviled mind to rights. Until it did, however, he would tread warily and guard his heart. “I hope you do not expect me to adore you.”

  Her easy laugh made Hawk see crimson. Was he still not good enough for her, then? Was the exalted Chesterfield an unexceptionable rogue? More attentive? Never more practiced?

  “The family will be in alt,” she said, dismissing his ire, if she even noticed it. “In veritable transports, to learn that you lived. I am sorry to say that Jud is not much liked by any of them, except Claudia.”

  “Jud,” Hawk said, giving the name a harsh, dull sound. “Should be playing a crude musical instrument with his unshod feet in the remote reaches of America.”

  Alexandra’s grin broke before she could stop it, and when she did, it was too late. She had warmed Hawk’s cold rogue’s heart in a way that organ had not been warm since he left her. Unfortunately, the thaw made him deuced uncomfortable. “Wait a minute,” he said, pinning her with his look. “I would have expected you to try and defend your swain.”

  To his entertainment, Alexandra raised that obstinate chin of hers, impaling him with narrowed eyes and glaring ire. She examined him so thoroughly that Hawk began to chafe with a disturbing need to hide his scars. Instead, he laid his head against the squabs and closed his eyes. Let her look her fill, and let him get on with being an object of horrified fascination. And, there, her reason for preferring Chesterfield came clear, for the knave stood handsome and unscathed.

  Bedamned. Would his father not have a good laugh at this turn of events?

  Once upon a fleeting time, Hawk’s many dalliances, a source of rare swaggering braggadocio to his father, had been legion and widely known.

  If not for his sire’s deathbed promise of true pride, Hawk would not have gone to fight Boney, which turned out to be an idiotic reason to support a patriotic and worthy cause. Despite his injuries, Hawk was glad he had fought for England.

  Before the war, however, he had not needed to walk with the aid of a cane. He had stood proud and strong, as prepossessing as any of the rogues in the Wakefield portrait gallery, as any London buck, including Chesterfield.

  He had stood handsome, as well. A heart-breaker, women had once called him. A rogue, a lady-killer. He had been all that, and more. Even Alex had been fond of him then.

  But he would slay the ladies no longer, not unless the women he gazed upon died of fright, as Alex had nearly done upon sight of him.

  The doctors in Belgium had said that one of his bayonet wounds sat close enough to his eye so that only a miracle could save his sight.

  Only a miracle could have saved his life as well.

  Yes, he got his miracles, both of them, and for that he must give something back.

  He must give Alexandra her future.

  “Here we are,” he said, loathe to prolong his painful reverie. “Bond Street. I have rooms at Stephen’s Hotel until the end of the month. I think it best we spend the night here and travel on to St. Albans in the morning.”

  Home in the morning. Alex could hardly believe it. With Hawksworth, her husband. To begin their life together. Finally. Though the bigger part of her rejoiced, a goodly part was still angry. He had used her … as she had used him, she must admit.

  In the way he had needed a caretaker for his family, she had needed a home and medical attention for her aunt. Besides which, she loved him and had foolishly thought he cared for her. But the fact remained that if he had baldly told her his true reason for marrying her, she would likely have married him anyway. God knew, if she had known she would lose him, she certainly would have agreed to be his wife. Though then, she would have demanded to be a wife in deed as well as fact.

  Lord, she was a love-struck fool, an idiot, a detestable weakling, who deserved what she got, because despite all of it, she was deliriously happy to have him back.

  She loved him that much.

  She only wished he loved her a fraction as much. She particularly wished that he had kept the fact that he did not love her to himself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Disgusted with her calf-eyed self, Alex gazed out at Bond Street, a jumble of tall brick buildings with few courtyards or alleyways to separate them. Signs proclaimed establishments such as John Jackson, Boxing Salon, known to the sporting set as Gentleman Jackson’s. They passed Yardley of London, Smith Adam & Charles, Linen-drapers, and Mr. Weston, the tailor Bryceson had once frequented.

  Alex’s heart sank as they passed Stedman & Vardon, Goldsmiths & Jewelers, which she and Bryce had visited on the day they wed, the day after he buried his father. As they passed, she wondered if he remembered the plain gold band he purchased for her that morning, and the wider one he had chosen for himself.

  She had worn hers until she arrived at Holy Trinity Church to marry Chesterfield earlier, removing it in the carriage before going inside. Even now, the precious symbol of her marriage to her one true love sat tucked in a velvet box inside
her reticule. What fate had befallen his wedding band? she wondered, as she regarded his unadorned hand.

  Once they arrived at Stephen’s Hotel, Bryce seemed to struggle as he stepped from the carriage, though he did so in the same way his man helped him, without being obvious. Once he was down, Bryce turned to offer Alex a hand, and she took it, though she made certain not to burden him with her weight and quickly let go. She no more wanted him to lose his balance than to guess at her undying love.

  The impressive hotel stood taller and less soot-stained than most of the Bond Street shops. On the Clifford Street side, there waited a score or more saddle-horses and half as many tilburies. A six-horse dray—Barclay’s Brewery lettered in red on the side—was being unloaded of its delivery of wooden casks.

  In the front of the five-story structure, men milled about in groups, talking, laughing raucously, reeling from overindulgence. Some of them were obviously dandies, but most wore the reds and blues of the military.

  “Am I allowed inside?” Alex queried stepping closer to her husband’s side as they walked arm in arm toward the black lacquered double front doors.

  He patted her hand on his arm. “Stephen’s is mostly frequented by officers of the Guards—the Life Guards in red and the Royal Horse Guards in blue—but you, as my wife, will not be turned away. Though as the rare female among us, you will be much admired, I daresay.”

  That surprised her. “Admired? Me?”

  Bryce shook his head, as if she had made a poor jest. Alex wanted to call him on it, but they stepped inside the hotel and her attention was taken with the bustling activity and gentlemanly ambiance.

  “You will be safe from the crush beside the stairs,” he said. “Wait there while I fight my way to the desk to claim my key.”

  Feeling at sea, Alex kept her gaze trained on him while several men in uniform saluted as he made his way toward the front. She wished she could hear what he said that relaxed his subordinates and made them smile.

  Closer by, a military man in the red of the Life Guards mentioned Hawksworth by name catching her attention. “Excellent commander,” the handsome officer said. “Had the full respect of his men.” The speaker went on to say that Hawksworth was brave, forthright and had saved his men’s hides a time or two.

  One soldier shook his head, as if disbelieving. “How was it then that he was so carelessly given up for dead?”

  Since awakening in his arms, Alex had wondered about that, as well.

  “Hawk told me that he was so near death as to be incapable of correcting the medic, dodging grapeshot, who pronounced him dead. So Hawk was painfully tossed on the body heap. Minutes or hours later, Hawk said, a peasant boy leaned over him to snatch the gold buttons from his coat and Hawk did the only thing he was capable of doing; he bit the blighter’s hand.

  “The boy took him to the Waterloo Inn, but the doctors there, scrambling to save those more like to survive, said they could do nothing for Hawk. When our man was given up for dead that second time, the lad went looking for a dray and went back for him. Took Hawk home and his family nursed him back to health.”

  “Good God.”

  “Good lad.”

  A body heap? Alex wished she had not eavesdropped, for she felt as boneless and light of head as she had at the church when she heard Hawk’s voice for the first time. But despite the dip in the room, she was determined to remain upright.

  When Bryce called her name, the story-teller noticed her and must have realized what she heard, as he stepped forward, appalled, and lifted her into his arms. Despite her argument that she had not been about to swoon, the repentant officer carried her all the way up the stairs at Hawk’s direction. Mortified to have become a spectacle for the second time that day, Alex wished she could shrink from sight.

  The man sat her down in a leather chair in the sitting room of a small apartment that looked very much like a gentleman’s study, while Bryce poured her a brandy. After she sipped it, while her husband stoked a fire in the hearth to “warm her and take the damp from the room,” Alex turned her attention to her rescuer. “Thank you for becoming my chariot.”

  “If not for my thoughtless story,” he said. “You would not have needed a conveyance.”

  “But it was a true story?”

  He grimaced. “Indeed.”

  Bryce looked from one of them to the other, silently questioning, but when neither of them enlightened him, he cleared his throat. “Alexandra, may I present Squadron Corporal Major Reed Gilbride of the Life Guards and a charter member of The Rogues Club. Reed, my wife.”

  “Your wife? Congratulations are in order, then?” The officer bowed and kissed her hand.

  Bryceson waved his friend’s congratulations away, as if their marriage meant nothing, and Alex’s heart sank. He must have removed his ring and never mentioned having a wife the whole time they served together. Alex swallowed the rising lump in her throat. “We married shortly before Bryceson joined the Guards,” she said to explain why congratulations were unnecessary, and to keep her husband from seeing her hurt. “Tell me about this Rogues Club.”

  “We were bored playing at war, your grace,” her rescuer said, charming her out of countenance, for she had not been courted by a gallant for longer than she could remember. “So in our dreary tent, we formed an unofficial club.”

  “But exclusive,” her husband said.

  “Oh very,” her rescuer replied with a chuckle, regarding Alex. “My true identity is something of a mystery, you see, even to me.” He said it with a wink and Alex was doubly taken.

  She smiled. “What must one do to become a member of this Rogues Club?”

  “Why, be a rogue, of course,” Bryce said with a shrug and a wink of his own.

  “He means we are all scamps,” the charmer explained, “who banded together against Boney in support of Mother England and in support of each other’s families, should the worst happen to any of us.”

  “Sounds like a worthy club, then,” she said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, C.S.M. Gilbride.”

  “The honor is all mine, I assure you.” He bowed. “I shall leave you to recover and hope that I may see you again in the near future.”

  Alex said her good-byes and Bryce walked his friend out, shutting the door, leaving her alone inside. When he did not return for fully fifteen minutes, she began to think he had deserted her again. But he finally returned, followed by a succession of servants bearing a table, linen, everything necessary for an intimate supper. Other servants brought up the rear with her bags, which Hawk’s man must have taken from Chesterfield’s carriage at the church.

  Dinner looked and smelled divine, but Alex was in a fair way to dozing off after such a taxing day. The joint of roast pork and fried sole were simple but delicious fare. She was just too tired to eat much beyond a nibble.

  Hawksworth waited until everything to do with supper had been collected before suggesting they retire early, which woke her right up. Was this then to be the first night of their marriage? Finally?

  Since this was supposed to have been her wedding day, Alex thought it fitting for the wedding night denied her nearly two years before.

  This man leading her into the bedroom was Bryceson, after all, her friend, first, now her husband, her love.

  Hawksworth, his friends now called him. Hawk.

  She liked it.

  Hawk, taking the pins from her hair, turning her in circles until he found the hooks beneath the rosebuds marching down the front of her cream satin wedding gown.

  Hawk, opening and sliding her wedding dress off to bare her to her stays and petticoats.

  And this was Alexandra, not only allowing her husband’s intimate attention but reveling in it, flattered and amazed to have so much of his focus directed her way.

  He sat her on the bed and left her then. And like a bisque doll on a nursery shelf, Alex sat unmoving, waiting to be redressed, or undressed, or dropped and shattered, at whim.

  Far in the back of her mind,
she knew she was acting lovesick and calf-eyed again. But at this moment, she cared not a whit.

  When Hawksworth returned, he laid her portmanteau beside her on the bed and extracted the gossamer gown she was supposed to have worn for her wedding night with Judson, one of several he had dared to purchase for her.

  Hawk’s brow rose as he regarded it, then he set it aside and extracted the wrap that went with it. When he was finished, he lifted her foot to his knee, removing first one cream kid slipper, then the other.

  As if she floated outside her body, and watched from afar, Alexandra wondered what or who had taken over her more sensible self and why she was letting it happen. But the only answer that came was love, or lovesickness, as she thought.

  Why neither of them spoke, Alex did not know. Perhaps Bryceson was too busy concentrating on his task while she was too busy appreciating and noticing everything about him. She knew only that his topaz eyes were warm, kind, loving. Here stood the gentle boy who’d tended scraped knees, extracted slivers from small hands and dried a lifetime of silly tears. She saw that his shoulders were broader, his arms stronger, his huge hands callused, his sable hair, prematurely silver-gilt.

  His demeanor no longer bore the mark of a young god, perfect of feature and seeking admiration, but of a soldier home from war, wounded and scarred, though striking, still, and virile. So potently male that Alex lost her breath just watching him. As opposed to his former chiseled perfection, Hawk’s face now bore a hard, flawed quality, which gave him an aura of jeopardy, a provocation that would draw women like moths to a flame.

  He was definitely older, though she could not yet vouch for wiser, but after overhearing his amazing story, earlier, she surmised that he could hardly have escaped some degree of wisdom. She did know that he must have survived a great deal more than he would ever willingly reveal. “Your father would be proud of you,” she said without thinking.

  “If I had died fighting Boney, perhaps, but I expect that he would have considered any man mustered home, broken, as a failure.”