What a Reckless Rogue Needs

by Vicky Dreiling

  “I’ve already stated my reasons for selling it and won’t repeat them. The meeting is adjourned. Close the door on your way out.”

  Colin was breathing like a racehorse. “You cannot sell it.”

  “You’ve no say in the matter,” the marquess said. “You’ve shown insufficient interest in Sommerall and your family. I regret having to say no, but based on your actions, I find it difficult to believe you care about anything except gambling, drinking, and wenching.”

  He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do whatever you require.”

  “Very well. You need to prove to me that you have matured and are ready to settle down.”

  “That’s the point of allowing me to—”

  The marquess cleared his throat. “You will give up your dissolute pursuits and choose a wife.”

  A strange sensation gripped him as if the floor had shifted beneath his feet. “A wife?”

  “You heard me. A female, preferably a respectable one.”

  What the devil? Colin frowned. Had he heard correctly? “I think I should focus on renovating Sommerall first. Marriage can come later.”

  The marquess took a pinch of snuff and sneezed into a handkerchief. “You’ll continue along the same rakehell path. One day you will thank me.”

  Not bloody likely. “Do you mean to drive me away?”

  “Do not be tiresome, Colin. It is past time you give up your wild ways.”

  He took two steps toward the door with every intention of leaving Deerfield, but his father’s voice stayed him.

  “I know you don’t like me ordering you about, but my own father curbed my wild ways. You may not believe me now, but I’m doing you a favor. When a man has a wife and children, he leaves behind his selfishness because his family means more to him than dissipation. In your case, enough is enough.”

  “I intend to wed in the future,” he said.

  “You’re thirty-one years old, the perfect age for marriage. You will adjust your mind to your new responsibilities.”

  He turned around. “We’re out in the middle of the country, for God’s sake. Do you wish me to wed a maid?”

  The marquess picked up another letter and broke the seal. “If you require assistance, I imagine your stepmother or the duchess would be happy to help you.”

  He’d walked right into a trap.

  Colin clenched his jaw as he strode out of the house. He was shaking with hot anger and left the house without a hat or greatcoat. He barely felt the cold. When the sun speared through the birch trees, he squinted. Ahead, there were mounds of fallen brown and orange leaves, but he took no pleasure in the autumn scenery.

  He strode faster and faster along the leaf-strewn path. His blood must be boiling a thousand degrees or more. How dare his father demand he marry? For God’s sake, it was the nineteenth century, not the fucking Middle Ages.

  He felt as if he would explode at any moment. In the distance, he saw two laborers hacking at a huge tree limb on the ground. All he knew was that he needed to smash something to control the rage racing through his veins. His breath frosted in the air as he strode faster and faster, his fists locked tight. When Colin reached the laborers, they pulled on their forelocks and looked at the ground.

  “Stand back,” he said in a growl.

  He jerked off his coat, threw it on a lower limb, and untied his cravat. The two laborers’ eyes widened as he rolled his sleeves up to his forearms. Colin’s nostrils flared as he hefted the ax and brought it down in a giant arc. Splinters flew. He pressed his boot on the limb for leverage, gritted his teeth, and pulled the ax out with a groan. Then he stepped back and swung the ax over his head again. He grimaced as he pulled it out and swung it again…and again…and again with a guttural roar each time. Chunks of bark flew everywhere. One more swing cracked the limb in two.

  “Colin!”

  The feminine cry startled him. Salty drops of sweat stung his eyes as he spied Angeline running toward him. “Hell,” he muttered.

  He let the ax drop and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. He glanced over his shoulder at the two laborers. “Go on,” he said gruffly. They pulled on their forelocks again and retreated as if they’d just witnessed a madman. He certainly felt like one.

  The cold wind picked up, blowing through the damp linen of his shirt. He gritted his teeth.

  Angeline reached him. “You’ll make yourself ill in nothing but that thin shirt,” she said breathlessly.

  “Angeline, leave. I’m not fit for company.” He picked up the ax again. “Go,” he said.

  “No, I will not leave you in this condition. Obviously you are in a state.”

  “For the last time, please leave,” he gritted out.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re furious.”

  “If you have any sense, you will leave. Now go.” God, why did she of all people have to witness his ire?

  “You cannot stay out in the cold in that thin, damp shirt. You will make yourself very ill and worry your family.”

  His nostrils flared. “Please go before I say something I regret.”

  “Go ahead, but you’ll not stop me.” She unrolled his left sleeve and then his right. He looked at her from beneath his damp lashes. Her plump breasts rose and fell with each visible breath. He made himself look away. She might be comely and curvaceous, but she was trouble.

  When she lifted her lashes, her eyes grew huge as she looked at the dark hair showing through the V in his shirt.

  “What is it?” he asked. He rather hoped the husky sound of his voice would scare her off.

  She cleared her throat and appeared to be looking over his shoulder. “You cannot go about with your cravat undone.”

  He huffed. “That’s rich.” He’d gone about with far fewer clothes on many occasions, but he thought better of mentioning that in her presence.

  She lifted her chin, stepped closer, and closed the three buttons of his shirt. Her scent was familiar—something flowery. That thought reminded him. “Don’t. I stink of sweat.”

  She flipped his shirt points up. “My nose will survive.”

  He watched as she pulled the two long tails of linen to an even length. Then she hesitated.

  He winked and deftly wrapped the cloth round his throat. “Perhaps you could tie a knot?”

  She managed on the third try. “It looks awful. I would make a terrible valet.”

  “A lady valet?” He envisioned a naked woman undressing him. “Brings to mind a number of possibilities.”

  She drew her large paisley shawl closed. “Mind your tongue.”

  Naturally he thought of several wicked uses for his tongue, but he pushed that out of his thoughts.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes full of questions. “What possessed you to wield that ax?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You looked enraged.”

  He retrieved his coat from the limb but said nothing.

  “What were you angry about?”

  “An unpleasant conversation.”

  “So you walked out without hat, gloves, or greatcoat?”

  He had no intention of explaining anything to her. “I’m made of sturdy stuff.”

  Her gaze slid over him. “Yes, I noticed.”

  “Like what you see?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I should have known you would say something indelicate.”

  “I warned you I’m not fit for company.” If she had any sense, she would have fled after seeing him hacking that tree limb.

  “Really, you must change into dry clothes as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do.” He started to slide his arm through the sleeve of his coat when she stepped forward to help him.

  “I can manage.” He didn’t want her help. He wanted her to leave him in peace.

  “I insist. Now lift your arm.”

  He knew she would persist, so he allowed her to help.

  “Your shirt is damp with perspiration, and the coat only traps it.”
>
  “Angeline—”

  “No, I refuse to listen to your arguments. You’ll catch your death out here. You must return to the house immediately.”

  “It would be ungentlemanly of me to make you stand in the cold,” he said. Truthfully, the brisk wind was more than a little uncomfortable, but he’d be damned before he admitted it.

  “Your nose is red,” she said.

  A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “So is yours.”

  When she took his arm, he matched his pace to her slower one. They strode past the folly, and a gust of wind blasted them. He couldn’t completely hide his shiver and regretted leaving behind his outerwear now. Next time he would just throw something into the fire. Of course, he hoped there wouldn’t be a next time, but he was rather pessimistic about those chances.

  She pushed her bonnet ribbons out of her face. “Something is clearly wrong. What happened?”

  “I do not wish to discuss it.” Especially with you.

  “It might help to talk,” she said. “Sometimes just airing your grievances helps you see matters more clearly.”

  Oh, good Lord. The one thing that drove him to drink was a woman who wanted to talk about feelings. But he knew enough about women to realize she wouldn’t leave it alone. “My father and I had a difference of opinion.” That is all you need to know.

  “You quarreled,” she said.

  Her persistence irritated him. “You need not concern yourself.”

  “Is this about Sommerall?” she asked.

  He halted. “How did you know?” he demanded.

  She lifted her chin. “If you wish me to answer, you will avoid using a harsh tone.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. Damnation. He did not want her poking into his affairs.

  “It is quite obvious that you’ve had a nasty shock.”

  This was an unfamiliar side of her, but to be fair, she was no stranger to difficulty. “I’ll sort it out.” But he was far from confident.

  “I overheard my father mention that someone was interested in purchasing Sommerall,” Angeline said. “It has been unoccupied for many years.”

  “I beg your pardon, but this is not a matter I wish to discuss.” Leave me alone.

  “Oh, my stars. You do not want the marquess to sell.”

  “Angeline—”

  “That is why you’re so angry,” she said.

  He halted. “Of course I’m furious. My mother is laid to rest there.”

  “Surely you can persuade your father not to sell. I would think he would cede the property to you.”

  He shook his head and started walking again. “He will—if I do his bidding.” They skirted around the thick, gnarled roots of an old oak. “I want the property, but that is insufficient for my father.”

  “What did you propose?” she asked.

  “To take care of all needed renovations, but we could not agree on the terms.”

  “I don’t understand. What is it that your father wants?”

  “Proof that I’ll honor my commitment.” His father’s lack of trust burned deep.

  “The only way to prove you will abide by your obligation is to allow you to begin,” she said. “I fail to understand why this is a problem.”

  He glanced at her. “My father proposed a different way for me to demonstrate responsibility.”

  “What is it? Clearly you find it abhorrent.”

  He laughed without mirth. “Marriage.” He should have kept that between his teeth, but his head ached with the anger still infusing his blood.

  She stopped him. “That is ludicrous,” she said in an outraged tone. “Forgive me, but your father goes too far.”

  “I share the sentiment, but it matters not.” His breath misted in the cold wind. “My father owns the property and can do what he wants.” His father intended to manipulate him like a marionette.

  “Marriage does not assure responsibility. We both could name dozens of irresponsible people who are married,” she said. “The king, for example.”

  “My father’s demands are unreasonable. Where am I to find a bride in the middle of the countryside?” he said. “It’s not as if I can pluck her like an apple off a tree.” He didn’t want to marry now, and by God, he certainly didn’t want to wed under duress, but he didn’t want to lose Sommerall.

  They walked in silence for a while, and then she said, “There is the little season in London.”

  “It will look as if I’m desperate.” He huffed. “Considering the circumstances, I suppose I am.”

  “You are hardly desperate,” she said. “Dozens of ladies in London would leap at the opportunity to marry an earl.”

  “I’d no idea you were so romantic.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m waiting for my shining knight in rusty armor.” She regarded him with raised brows. “And you?”

  “A local milkmaid.”

  “I’m tempted to say you’ll find a way, but that will not help,” she said.

  He hesitated, but plunged in anyway. “Why did you break your engagement with Brentmoor?”

  She didn’t respond immediately.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Obviously, it is a painful topic, and I intruded.”

  “It could have been far worse,” she said.

  He frowned. “How so?”

  She met his gaze. “I might have married him.”

  I might have married him.

  Angeline marched into her room, yanked the ribbon loose beneath her chin, and slapped her burgundy velvet bonnet on the bed. She’d owed him no answer at all, but the words had spilled off her tongue. Had she learned nothing?

  Upon seeing the maid’s wide eyes, Angeline took a deep breath and slowly released it. “Marie, will you help me with the spencer?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Angeline lifted her chin while the maid helped her out of the tight sleeves. “Thank you, Marie. That will be all.”

  After the maid left, Angeline sat on the edge of the bed. Why had she responded to Colin’s question earlier? She ought to have upbraided him for his impertinence. Unfortunately, his question had caught her off guard, and she’d blurted out the words. She’d likely piqued his curiosity, but she’d no intention of satisfying it.

  Angeline realized she was overreacting, because she was sensitive about the subject. While his question had been impertinent, she had commiserated with him. She understood all too well how it felt to have a parent dictating one’s decisions, but she swore that when this house party ended, she would move into the dower house where her grandmother once lived. There would be a dustup, but she could not continue to live like a child in her parents’ home. She was thirty-one years old and determined to live independently for the rest of her life. It would not be easy, but she would live comfortably on the trust her grandmother had left for her.

  After all that had happened to her, she’d known that marriage was out of the question. She knew how others would view her, but that was nothing new. Angeline intended to make what she could of her life.

  A tap sounded, and her mother opened the door. “Angeline, why are you sitting here? I expected you in the drawing room over an hour ago.”

  “I just returned from a walk.”

  Her mother’s lips thinned. “Gather your sewing basket and join us in the green drawing room.”

  Like all ladies, she’d learned the art of needlework at a young age. She was in no mood to sit for hours with her embroidery, but she knew it would be rude if she did not put in an appearance. There was no need to rush, however. “I will join you after I finish this chapter in my novel.”

  The duchess arched her slim brows. “Directly, Angeline.”

  When the door shut, Angeline inhaled sharply at her mother’s command. To be ordered as if she were a young girl set her teeth on edge. It was one more reason to seek her independence. No matter how much she loved her mother, Angeline could not spend a lifetime beneath her thumb.

  Perhaps she would have been better off if she had married
Brentmoor, even despite his betrayal. She certainly wouldn’t have wanted for independence. Doubtless Brentmoor would have ignored her in favor of his married mistress. She pressed her fingers to her temples as if she could push the awful memory out of her brain. Of course, she could not have married him after what had transpired. Truth be told, it would have been horrible. Ironically, they had both left England after the scandal erupted. He’d fled his creditors, and she’d fled the gossips.

  There was no point in antagonizing her mother by procrastinating any longer. She retrieved her sewing basket and walked to the landing. When she saw her father, she hurried her step. “Papa, wait.”

  He frowned. “Is something awry?”

  “Oh, no.” She smiled despite his harsh expression. “I was hoping we might—”

  “Your mother is expecting you in the drawing room,” he said, and turned away.

  Her hand trembled, and she dropped her basket. She knelt, and her eyes blurred as she retrieved the needles and embroidery thread. He’d taught her to play chess and vingt-et-un. They used to read together and discuss books. They had been close, until the awful day she’d broken her engagement. She’d disappointed him, and now he barely spoke to her. A familiar ache settled in her chest. Her father’s rejection hurt one hundred times more than Brentmoor’s betrayal.

  Angeline dashed her hand beneath her eyes and rose. She took a deep breath, knowing it was critical that she appear unperturbed in the drawing room. The last thing she wanted was to alert her mother, and she most certainly did not want to worry Penny, who knew little about the awful events that had led the duchess to take Angeline to Paris.

  She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Out of necessity, Angeline had learned to keep her head high, even in the face of condemnation and worse.

  When she walked into the drawing room, she greeted everyone and decided to sit with Penny and the twins. The duchess regarded her with lifted brows.

  Angeline smiled. “Forgive me for being late. I accidentally dropped my basket.”

  “You are here, and that is all that matters,” the marchioness said.

  Angeline brought out her sampler and threaded a needle. Her mother insisted that keeping busy helped to lift one’s spirits, but for Angeline, needlework left her with too much time to dwell on the past. She preferred vigorous walks, because she felt free from all the constraints in her life.