“You are not sure that you can give yourself to such a wicked man as I?”
Rosalyn’s heart and body clamored for him, knowing no caution, yet her head told her to take care. What did she really know of this man? “It is foolish of me to hesitate. At my age I ought to be grateful for the chance of knowing love, for however brief a time.”
More than anything, Damian wanted to sweep her up in his arms—but he, too, was aware of the need for caution. “I admit I have no right to ask you or any other woman to share my disgrace….”
Rosalyn gazed up at him in surprise. “You mean the old scandal?”
“There is—or will be more,” he said. “Until I am sure, I could not offer you marriage, Rosalyn.”
He kissed her again. Such a tender loving kiss that her resolve was almost broken. She was seven and twenty, unlikely to meet another man she could love. She would be a fool not to take her one chance of happiness while it was offered, regardless of how long it might last.
Anne Herries
ROSALYN AND THE SCOUNDREL
ANNE HERRIES
lives in Cambridge, but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty published novels.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Damn it! He must have been all kinds of a fool to come back to this country, thought Damian Wrexham. There was nothing for him here, except bitter memories. If he had the sense he had been born with, he would leave, return to India, or perhaps to a new life in Spain. At least it would be warm there. And yet he had undertaken the journey home for a particular reason. He had made a promise, and he did not break his word lightly.
He was standing with his back against a tree, brooding, staring at nothing in particular, when a flash of colour in the orchard caught his eye. His brow furrowed as he saw first the dog bounding towards him, and then, a little way behind, walking more slowly, the woman.
What a woman! She looked like a goddess of ancient myth, bestriding the Earth as her domain—Diana the huntress. Even in his misspent youth, Damian had not particularly admired the simpering Society misses he had met in the drawing rooms of London. Indeed, one of the sins for which he had been banished was—in his father’s opinion—his unfortunate penchant for the company of older women: married ladies, who found illicit pleasure in the bed of a young, rather wicked and handsome man.
‘Miss Eastleigh?’ he wondered aloud. Damian’s eyebrows quirked in amusement. Surely not? This could not be the old maid he had been told was his nearest neighbour. Perhaps she had a young relative staying with her? His interest was stirred. ‘It would seem that perhaps all is not quite lost…there may yet be some diversion in this place…’
Damian smiled to himself. He had begun to think he would have to go up to London to relieve the tedium, but now his mood of restlessness fell away like a second skin. Would the goddess have anything to do with him once she discovered his reputation? It would not be long before someone felt it their duty to tell her of his past—that he was, in fact, a scoundrel and that no decent woman should have anything to do with him. At least, if she valued her reputation, she would not. But until then it might be amusing to pursue her…a mild flirtation, nothing more.
What a wonderful morning! It made one feel so much better, thought Miss Rosalyn Eastleigh as she walked up through the orchard towards the back of her house. The buds had begun to burst, convincing her that spring had finally arrived after weeks of damp, miserable weather; the sun was warm on her head, for as usual she had discarded her bonnet and her glossy dark hair had been whipped into an artless tangle about her face.
It was a face that, though undeniably attractive, could not be called pretty—at least, it could not in Miss Eastleigh’s own opinion. She knew her complexion was too dark to be generally admired: her grey eyes were wide and candid, expressing too openly her often controversial opinions, her mouth too big, her nose too long. She was also taller than most men of her acquaintance, and everyone knew that gentlemen preferred petite, pretty women who fluttered their eyelashes and looked helpless. Men did not spring to assist Miss Eastleigh to a chair when she walked into a room: she was only too capable of managing for herself.
Not that Rosalyn gave much consideration to either her appearance or what the gentlemen might think of her. At seven and twenty she had spent too long on the shelf to bother about marriage. It was years since she had given the idea more than a passing thought.
‘Come, Sheba!’
She whistled to the madcap dog her brother Freddie had foisted on her during his last flying visit to the country. Sheba was a black and white mongrel who, Freddie had assured her, was the sweetest little thing and would cause no trouble. At the time, the puppy had been no more than a ball of fluff, undeniably pretty and very affectionate.
She was still affectionate some nine months later, but had grown into a great, long-legged, boisterous dog, who was forever into some mischief. Hearing her mistress call, Sheba bounded towards her, jumping up and scrabbling at Rosalyn’s gown with muddy paws.
‘Down, you wretch!’ ordered Sheba’s mistress, brushing at her skirt in a vain attempt to save it. ‘How did you get into such a state? This is the third clean gown you have ruined this week. I think you do it to spite me. I’ve a good mind to sell you to the gypsies—and, believe me, I would if I thought Freddie would ever forgive me.’
Sheba gave an excited yelp, understanding perfectly that her mistress did not mean a word of what she was saying. She lolloped off in pursuit of one of the kitchen cats, barking noisily.
‘Disgusting animal!’ Rosalyn said, smiling in exasperation. ‘Sheba! Come back here.’
Sheba paid not the slightest heed. As a puppy she had developed an annoying habit of disappearing into the surrounding countryside for hours at a time, though so far she had always found her own way home eventually—usually wet and always hungry!
‘You should teach that dog to obey you, or you may find she becomes impossible to control. Those half-breed collies can be a nuisance if they aren’t properly trained.’
Rosalyn was startled by the man’s voice. She had thought herself alone, failing until that very moment to notice him leaning against the trunk of an apple tree. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looked at him. This man was unknown to her—a stranger to the neighbourhood.
He was dressed plainly in a brown coat and cream riding breeches; his leather boots, though obviously well made, had seen considerable wear. Extremely attractive in a rugged, outdoor style, his skin looked tanned as if he had spent time in the sun, perhaps a much warmer climate than England’s. Rosalyn noted that his raven black hair was cut short in a fashion she recognized as à la Brutus, which was a style much favoured by Freddie’s friends; but, despite the haircut and the excellent fit of his coat, there was a carelessness about his attire that her brother would have frowned over.
‘Forgive me…’ Rosalyn realised she had been staring. ‘I was startled. I had not expected to see anyone here. May I help you? Are you in some difficulty?’
Her neighbours usually visited at the fron
t door. They came by carriage or on horseback, but never walked casually across fields and miles of open country, as this man must have, to reach her orchard.
Who was he—and what did he want here? She hesitated, a little wary, half-inclined to call Sheba to her.
‘I have been watching you,’ he said, a half-smile on his lips. ‘Fair Diana, the huntress—come to earth in search of human souls.’
As compliments went, it was unusually apt. In all the illustrations Rosalyn had seen of the goddess, Diana was generously formed and looked capable of living up to her reputation. Which could just as easily be said of Rosalyn.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you. No goddess, I am afraid, merely Miss Eastleigh taking her rather boisterous dog for a walk,’ she replied, concealing her amusement with a wry look.
It was a long time since a man had paid her a compliment. Freddie’s friends were too young to be interested in his spinster sister, and her neighbours were married, kind but incapable of paying such a tribute.
‘Miss Rosalyn Eastleigh?’ He seemed slightly taken aback as she affirmed it with a nod. He stood straight, bowing his head to her. ‘I thought… Excuse my execrable manners. Miss Eastleigh, allow me to introduce myself. I am Damian Wrexham. Your new neighbour. At least, I expect to be residing here for the next few months.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember now. Lady Orford told me her husband had let the Hall. I thought she said it was to an Indian gentleman, but I was obviously mistaken.’
‘No, not at all,’ Wrexham replied, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, which she had just noticed were very dark. ‘My…pupil, Jared, is of Indian descent through his father, though his mother was an Englishwoman. A rather intrepid lady, I understand. Apparently, she went out to India with her own father, who was a missionary, and fell in love with…Jared’s father. Despite all the difficulties and inevitable scandal, she married him and bore him a son.’
‘How exciting.’ Rosalyn’s interest was fairly caught now. ‘How brave of her to follow the calling of her heart and forget convention. I have often longed for adventure. India is very beautiful, I believe.’
‘Yes. Very. Exotic, wild, dangerous—but undeniably beautiful.’
They had been walking as they spoke, he matching his steps to hers. Now, having reached the house, it seemed natural to invite him in. Rosalyn offered her invitation without hesitation, her manner exactly as it would have been with any other neighbour who chanced to call.
‘I am about to have nuncheon, which for me is bread and butter, cold meat and tea. You are welcome to share it, Mr Wrexham, though it is but poor fare for a gentleman. I dare say we could find you some wine to make it more palatable.’
‘Another day, perhaps.’ He gave her an enigmatic look, which she found difficult to interpret. ‘I came in the hope of persuading you to dine with us tomorrow evening, Miss Eastleigh. As I believe I mentioned earlier, Jared is my…pupil. His father wishes him to spend some time in England, and I am teaching him English ways and manners. However, I have no hostess and you…to be frank, I expected you to be older.’
The expression in his eyes was so full of wicked humour that she discovered the reserve she had first felt towards him had flown. Her brows rose and she gave him what could only be termed an old-fashioned stare.
‘Indeed, sir. I wonder why?’
‘No, do not look at me so,’ he murmured wickedly. ‘You cannot know what I have been told, ma’am.’
‘Oh, I think I can guess.’ Rosalyn was betrayed into a laugh. ‘You were told I was an old maid. No, do not deny it, Mr Wrexham. It is quite true, you know. I am seven and twenty, and set in my ways. It would be a very brave—or foolish!—man who thought otherwise.’
‘I am forewarned,’ he replied, eyes gleaming. He raised one mobile brow. ‘Forgive me, Miss Eastleigh, if I presume on your good nature. But you do see my problem? Ours is an all male-household, apart from the Orfords’ excellent housekeeper, of course. Would it be quite proper, do you think, for a lady to dine with us? Even a lady of your advanced years…’
‘Alone?’ Rosalyn was amused. He was a shameless flirt, of course, but she liked his humour. ‘Oh, no, not at all. Quite improper. That would not deter me, however—if it were not that to accept such an invitation would lacerate poor Maria’s feelings.’
‘Maria?’ His brows arched. ‘Tell me at once, I beg you! No, ma’am, do not laugh. It is of the utmost importance. I most ardently desire to know—who is poor Maria?’
‘Miss Maria Bellows, my cousin, a very respectable lady in her middle years. She lives with me. Has done so since Papa died three years ago.’ Her own expression was little short of wicked, which made Damian chuckle deep in his throat. ‘You must understand, Maria felt it her duty to devote herself to me. I could not refuse, of course, since she would otherwise have had to find herself a position as a governess—or some other equally unpleasant post—and, of course, it would not be proper for me to live alone. Indeed, it would be quite shocking—do you not agree?’
‘Even at your advanced age? One would have thought that quite acceptable.’ His brows rose once more. ‘Unless you have an unfortunate propensity for wild orgies if not strictly watched?’
‘Wretch!’ Once again Rosalyn was betrayed into laughter. She decided she rather liked her new neighbour. If he was always so entertaining, he would enliven many a dull dinner party that summer. ‘You deserve to have your ears boxed, sir—but I shall forgive you, providing you extend your dinner invitation to Maria as well as myself.’
‘You will come?’ She saw warm approval in his eyes and felt herself blush, something she had not done since leaving the schoolroom. ‘You are generosity itself, Miss Eastleigh. I believe you will like Jared—and I am certain he will adore you.’ He smiled at her, a smile so charming and full of warmth that it took her breath away. ‘Tomorrow at six-thirty, then. We dine at seven. Late hours for the country, perhaps, but in India we have been used to dining in the evenings, because it was always cooler then. It will not upset you?’
‘Not at all. We shall look forward to it, Mr Wrexham.’
‘Until tomorrow, Miss Eastleigh.’
He bowed, then turned and walked back towards the orchard, obviously intending to return the way he had come.
Rosalyn stood watching him for a few moments. The chance meeting had lifted her spirits—if only because it made a change to converse with a man who was actually taller than she. No, that wasn’t her only reason for liking him. She had found him amusing and he intrigued her, blowing away the slight cloud of ennui that had been hanging over her.
She sensed a slight mystery about him. Twice he had spoken of Jared as his pupil. Somehow Mr Wrexham did not strike her as being the kind of man who became a tutor. His skin had a deep tan, as if he had spent much of his life outdoors. She thought he looked too active—too physical—to be a teacher. He would have been more at home as a soldier—or some kind of a bodyguard, perhaps?
Rosalyn laughed at herself. Now what had made her think of that? Perhaps because he had been living in an exotic environment, where such guards were often necessary. She recalled reading recently a report in a newspaper of an Indian prince having survived an assassination attempt; it had only been a few lines, but had interested her more than all the usual stories of society events.
Her new neighbour could of course have had nothing to do with that infamous affair. Mr Wrexham was unquestionably a gentleman—but very different from the gentlemen she was accustomed to meeting in society. It was not just the casual way he wore his clothes, or his very direct manner of speaking…but a certain vitality, and an alertness she had sensed rather than seen. There was something out of the ordinary…unorthodox about him. One sensed that he would never bow to convention; he was too large a character, too bold to concern himself with the rules which governed others.
He was, she felt sure, a man who had tasted life to the full, no longer young—perhaps in his late thirties. He had spoken of India as being exotic but dangerous,
and he too was a little like that. A man with a past. Yes, that description suited him very well.
Rosalyn was smiling at her own thoughts as she went into the house, to be met in the hall by a small, plump lady, who was wearing a grey gown and a lace cap over hair which even her kindest friend could only describe as mousy.
‘Ah, there you are, dearest,’ she said, giving a nervous little laugh. ‘Has your headache quite gone? You are looking much better.’
‘I feel better. The walk did me good.’
Rosalyn had forgotten the headache, which was merely an excuse to get her away from the house and her cousin’s chattering for a while. Maria meant well, and she was devoted to her, of course, but sometimes she could be just the tiniest bit irritating. Oh, no, that was unfair! Rosalyn scolded herself for the uncharitable thought. But Maria would fuss so!
‘Who were you talking to just now, Rosalyn? I couldn’t help seeing you when I looked out of the parlour window. I do not believe I know the gentleman?’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Rosalyn said, amused by her curiosity. Maria was such a busybody, but she could not help her nature. ‘I met him for the first time this morning. He is Mr Damian Wrexham, our new neighbour. Or one of them, at least. His pupil is an Indian gentleman.’
‘Oh, dear…’ Maria looked uncomfortable. ‘So unfortunate that Lord Orford should have let to strangers for the summer. Dear Lady Orford always gives such splendid dinners.’
‘Well, she left her cook behind for the benefit of her tenants, Maria. So I’m sure you will be pleased to hear we’ve been invited to dine tomorrow night.’
‘To dine…’ Maria reached for her lace kerchief, dabbing at her lips. She was clearly disturbed by the news. ‘But, Rosalyn, my dear…an Indian gentleman…do you think we should?’
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