by Eva Devon
It was so tempting to spring from the bed and watch his escape, but he hadn’t looked back. She wasn’t going to be a fool now and desperately watch for the last sign of him disappearing from her life.
Oh no. She was made of stronger stuff than that. After all, this is what she had wanted.
So, she stood, skirts tumbling down, her legs shaking slightly.
She needed to bathe. But there was not time for that just now.
“Rosamund?” the dowager called again, knocking with more force. “Are you abed?”
“Yes,” she called, her voice terribly breathy, as she rushed to her dressing table. “Just a moment.”
She caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror and nearly croaked in dismay. She was a tousled mess. Quickly, she yanked the pins from her hair and let the mussed mass of curls fall to her shoulders. She yanked her brush through it. Then she crossed to the door. Resting her hand on the brass knob, she gathered herself and unlocked the door.
When she opened it, the dowager stood waiting, staring, her lush lips pursed.
“Yes?” Rosamund asked with forced brightness.
The dowager’s bright eyes narrowed. She blinked her thick black lashes, the envy of women twenty years her junior, before turning her gaze to the bed from the doorway.
Rosamund forced a smile and tried to angle her body to block the incriminating evidence.
The dowager shook her head, her dark curls dancing, then finally said with a sigh, “Was he as good as everyone reports?”
“I beg your pardon?” Rosamund stuttered.
“Aston,” the dowager said bluntly raising her dark brows. “He has quite the reputation, as I’m sure you already know.”
Rosamund cleared her throat, still determined to bluster her way through this. “I have no idea—”
Gemma’s mother gave Ros what she could only say was the dowager’s own rather formidable version of the eye.
“I do not condemn you for it, dear girl,” she said matter of factly. “When faced with a man like Aston, yielding is the only sane thing to do. Who would deny themselves such a chance? However, you’ve taken a great risk. A risk you mightn’t have taken if you’d given it some thought.”
“I’ve no intention to marry,” Rosamund pointed out quickly. “So, my reputation is not—”
“He’s clearly fertile,” the dowager interrupted. “One bastard already that we know of, don’t you know?”
Rosamund felt her stomach drop and she knew what she was supposed to feel. Ill. She was supposed to feel ill. She didn’t. She wasn’t entirely certain what she did feel as the implication from the dowager’s words rioted through her already befuddled mind.
“I need to ask you a few questions, my dear. To see how deep into the water you’ve thrown yourself.”
Rosamund opened the door and gestured for the dowager to join her. She cleared her throat finally and said, “Yes.”
The dowager swished through, her svelte form easing into the ivory silk chair beside the window where Aston had made his escape. “Yes what?” she asked.
Rosamund lifted her chin. She wasn’t going to be missish about this, so she said, “In answer to your first question.”
The dowager’s brows rose and her perfect lips parted in a smile.
“Though I do not have anything to measure it against, I’d say yes. The duke’s reputation is warranted.”
“Glad to hear it,” she replied with a not so surprising note of approval given her own reputation. “Then you regret nothing? No matter the cost?”
Rosamund nodded. “No matter the cost.”
“Good.” The dowager clapped her hands together. “Then let’s discuss what sort of price you just might be paying.”
*
As Derek walked home through the park, he felt a wave of self-hatred replace the ecstasy that had buoyed him just minutes before.
What he’d done had been unconscionable.
Oh no. He hadn’t settled at just taking her virginity. While that had been bad enough, she’d wanted that. He’d wanted that. He’d come to terms already with that particular self-indulgence. . . It was the fact that he had acted like the most irresponsible of youths. He hadn’t done such a thing. . . Well, since Tony.
And while Tony was the most wonderful thing to ever happen to him, he couldn’t imagine that Ros would ever forgive him if he’d gotten a bastard in her belly.
Derek swallowed. Trepidation was not an emotion he was familiar with but as he walked to the edge of Hyde Park, his blood pounded with the growing realization that he had done something that might have incredible consequences.
How had he done it? How had he been so mad? In all the years since Tony, he’d always worn a French Letter or pulled out of the lady at hand before he could loose his seed.
With Ros, he’d done neither.
And it seemed that while she had knowledge, her knowledge had not been enough to give consideration to the potential results of what they’d done. . . Or had she just not given a fig?
That seemed bloody unlikely. He doubted very much she’d given any thought to the possibility of carrying his child. His bastard child.
Another wave of self-hate hit him hard. Very hard, indeed.
Of the two of them, he knew better. And he had no excuses. He couldn’t even claim passion in the moment, because he refused to deny personal responsibility of that sort. He’d just taken a very serious gamble that could affect everyone he knew. Hell. Everyone she knew, too.
Every bloody person about them.
Perhaps, his father had been correct all along. He was naught more than a piece of filth who would harm anyone he came in contact with. An undeserving, disgusting bit of refuse whose only job was to continue the Aston line. . . Which he apparently refused to do legitimately.
He was a bastard who begot bastards. . . Something that made him lower than low.
Derek strolled toward the East End, tempted to lose himself in gin. But even he knew that was just more self-indulgence. No. He had to get his control back. He had to punish himself. Just as his father had always done to him.
And the greatest punishment of all was the one he had intended all along. He’d never see Rosamund again. And this time, he would keep his resolve. Truly.
Chapter 16
Rosamund beamed at anyone who dared look in her direction, which seemed to be the entire company. Since the infamous ball in which she and Aston had met like two duelers at dawn, she’d been engaged every evening in some sort of social whirl.
So many invitations had arrived that she’d had to turn down several and calling hours had become a virtual salon of her followers. Followers!
It seemed half of London society had applauded her determination not to be casually ruined by the notorious Duke of Aston and now, they made a study of her. The ladies copied her gowns and mannerisms. The gentlemen trotted at her heels like a pack of devoted hounds.
Somehow, over the passing weeks, she’d managed to become a jewel of society to which all the stylish people turned to for guidance. She had no idea how she’d been so lucky.
It might be tempting to wilt and proclaim it all a nuisance. But she would never be so ungrateful. She’d once been the girl that no one had admired. Who had been lonely. Who had no friends. All alone in the beautiful but solitary Highlands. She would never sneer at her recent shove into the light.
Maeve, her lady’s maid, was puffed with so much pride at her ascent. She had taken even longer as of late in dressing Rosamund and preparing her hair. Rosamund felt polished to an almost impossible shine.
The gathering this evening was a dinner party. She’d already managed to survive the decadent fifteen course meal and was now happily wandering the room, sipping ratafia, observing the card players.
“Do you not play?” the lilting voice of Lady Imogen Cavendish came from her right.
She’d been introduced to the exuberant young widow before dinner and was pleased to be sought out by her now.
&nbs
p; Rosamund shook her head. “Och, no. I’ve no wish to be pulled into that seductive ruin.”
Lady Cavendish laughed then waved her emerald silk fan, her jewels winking in her perfectly coiffed blonde hair. “Very wise. I, myself, play on occasion but try not to gamble a great deal.” She supplied a saucy grin. “At least, not with cards.”
It was impossible to report that her father had nearly ruined the family with gambling and women. Perhaps Lady Cavendish already knew. Many certainly would know such a scandal and Lady Cavendish was a lady who walked the edge of respectability.
That was why they’d never met until now. Her brother, who had for the longest time refused to meet Lady Imogen, had the worst opinion of the woman. That opinion had only made Rosamund more curious and in Lady Cavendish’s presence, she couldn’t see what made the woman so deuced bad.
And she wondered if her brother still felt that way, now that he’d made the lady’s acquaintance more than once.
“It is a pity we never met before,” Rosamund said.
“Indeed!” Lady Cavendish replied. “You seem merry company and it can be quite lonely in your bens and glens.”
“You’ve the right of it,” Ros agreed. “I was born there, but why have you spent so much time there as of late?”
“Because Scotland, to my mind, is the most beautiful country in the world. Because those beautiful Highlands make my soul soar. And quite truthfully, I am tired of town life.”
“Then why are you here?” Rosamund asked before she could stop herself.
Lady Cavendish laughed lightly at the impertinent question.
“Because. . .” Lady Cavendish’s perfectly smooth brow furrowed. “Well, because Scotland tired of me.”
Suddenly, Ros was almost entirely certain that Lady Cavendish meant her brother, the duke, had tired of her. She hesitated. Did she dare broach such a subject?
Finally she began, “Duncan. . . Duncan can be—”
“My dear, your dear brother is a marvelous fellow, but he has no wish for my company and I am not one to force myself on anyone.”
“Nor should you need to.” She gestured to the many men who had eyes only for Lady Cavendish. “I see you have many admirers.”
“Admirers are all well and good,” Lady Cavendish sighed. “But sometimes, one wishes for a man of substance. A man who scowls occasionally.”
Rosamund rolled her eyes. “My brother scowls hourly.”
“I know,” Lady Cavendish said with seeming regret. “And he has such a delightful scowl. It saddens me, though, that it is so hard for him to smile.”
“If you have seen him smile at all, you have done far better than I.”
A sad look softened Lady Cavendish’s face. “I have done what I can. It wasn’t enough.”
To her own shock, Rosamund placed a hand on Lady Cavendish’s arm. “With Duncan, it might never be.”
“No one should live like that,” Lady Cavendish said, her voice barely a whisper. “But you can’t force a person to embrace happiness.”
“Can’t one?” Ros challenged. And suddenly, she knew that she had to go home. Duncan, stubborn man that he was, needed a good talking to.
Lady Cavendish apparently had no reply because she smiled sadly, curtsied then wove into the crowd of gathered men, all waiting to dance attendance. Rosamund had the decided feeling that her brother was making an irreversible mistake.
Granted, perhaps she was jumping to a steep conclusion from her one conversation with her brother about Lady Cavendish many weeks ago and now her talk with Lady C herself, but she didn’t think so. Her brother had liked Lady Cavendish despite his grumblings. . . And foolish man that he was, he’d let her go.
Frankly, Rosamund was rather tired of foolish men. She seemed surrounded by them. It was tempting to admit that there was no other kind of man. But at least, in her brother’s case, she could hope there was a cure.
Yes. It was time to go home. If only for a short time and shake some sense into her brother, the Duke of Blackburn.
After all, she was never going to have a happily ever after with the duke she so admired. Lady Cavendish might as well have hers.
If such a thing was possible at all.
Chapter 17
Six Weeks Later
Aston headed up the gangplank of his ship and waited for a wave of peace to wash over him as he stared up at the three towering masts that flew high overhead.
The Wild Maiden stood proud and sleek amidst the hundreds of ships that were currently anchored at the London docks.
He ran his gloved hand over the frequently sanded, smooth wood rail as he strode onto the deck. He paused as he caught sight of his first mate, Francis Bates.
“Captain!” Bates called, his deep voice booming through the din of sailors about their daily tasks on board and the general noise of London.
Bates was a short, stocky man whose face looked like it had been used as a prayer book which sanded the decks. He might not be pretty but he was damned handy in a fight and was the best sailor Derek had ever known. Bates had been with him since his first voyage and had largely taught him everything he knew about sailing and privateering.
Derek had some suspicions that Bates had served on vicious and bloody pirate ships as a boy, but one didn’t ask such questions.
“Bates!” Derek called, grabbing the man’s meaty shoulder and clapping him on the back.
“It’s good to see ye, Captain,” Bates said with undue pleasure. “We’re all growing a bit weary of our land legs.”
“As am I. As am I.”
“So, when do we set sail?”
Derek stared down at his first mate and the words he’d been determined to speak died suddenly on his lips. He’d meant to say, Now. Immediately. Make ready.
Apparently, his mouth refused to cooperate with his brain. And his idea of punishment.
“Captain?” Bates prompted.
Derek forced a laugh. “I’m having far too merry a time to weigh anchor just yet, Bates.”
“Too much wenching will drain your manly powers, Captain. You’re looking a bit worse for wear.”
The apt judgement nearly had Derek coughing on his own irritation. There was a woman and he did feel little better than a walking corpse. Still. . . He wasn’t about to admit it. “Yes. Well. I haven’t quite had my fill of the ladies just yet.”
Better for Bates to think he couldn’t quite let go of tarts yet, than to think he’d been entirely laid low by a lady.
“Well, you’re looking under the weather, Captain. In my opinion, the putrid town air is affecting you. Perhaps a bit of time in the salt air would set you to rights.”
“Soon, Bates. Soon.”
“Where’s the young rascal?” Bates glanced about. “I thought he might be on your heels.”
“Tony’s in the tavern if you must know. He spotted a wench and followed her in.”
“Young devil,” Bates said with a heavy groan that was half exasperation, half pride.
Bates had been as much of a mother to Tony as any boy might hope for. It might seem odd to those that didn’t know them, but Derek’s crew loved the young man as if he were the son of every single one of them.
Tony had quite the diverse group of men to learn from over the years and none more loyal and kind than the rough and tumble Bates.
“You really should discourage taverns, Captain,” Bates tsked after a moment. “Those women are as likely to gut you as tickle your—”
“Bates, you taught Tony as well as you taught me to be on the lookout for such games.”
It was true. Bates had made deuced sure when he’d been barely older than Tony, himself, that one never forget that the world was a dangerous place and what might seem like a soft pillow of pleasure was actually a knife waiting to sink into one’s guts.
He’d learned the truth of that in the back streets of Port Royal and since, Derek had forsworn tavern wenches who often worked for toughs waiting to murder men for their purses after being lured into
a shadowed alley.
Tony was still game.
Derek was fairly certain that Tony loved the excitement that such chance brought. If there was one thing that ran in their blood, it was that need to walk the edge of respectability and safety. Life was far more thrilling when one threw caution to the wind, after all.
“A pint then to decide what be next?” Bates suggested.
Derek nodded. With each step he took aboard his ship, he felt more at ease. More like himself and yet, the peace he was accustomed to was not appearing.
In fact, he felt a decidedly unpleasant feeling at the idea of heading off across the seas in the near future. Away from that woman. Away from protecting her from the multitudes of men who would wish to seduce her and the women who’d wish to gossip about her.
He grimaced as he headed for his quarters, Bates in tow.
“Forgive me, Captain, but are you in pain? Should you see the sawbones?”
“No and no, Bates. Stop acting like a nanny.”
“Well, then stop acting like a little boy that needs his medicine, Captain.”
He whipped around. “I beg your pardon?”
Bates didn’t back down. If anything, his barrel chest puffed with indignation. “You’ve a sulk about your person as strong as any boy’s about to have his Sunday bath. No use denying it.”
Derek bellowed with laughter at being told what was what. “Thank God for you, Bates.”
Bates grinned and followed Derek into the small but well-appointed quarters that had been Derek’s home for many years.
Oh, he visited his estates and London residence, but this was truly his home. It was where he had escaped when his father had finally made his life too unbearable to survive. And it had been a grand escape, indeed.
“I thought you needed a bit of truth, Captain,” Bates observed warily. “You’ve such an unlikely look about you. Not like yourself at all.”
He contemplated lying but Bates was someone he was not accustomed to keeping secrets from. And as tempting as it was to keep up the ruse that he was still up to his neck in doxies, apparently Bates was not to be deceived.
