Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed

by Anna Campbell

  He made a dismissive sound in his throat even as his pride cringed to remember what he’d confided in her during those sweet nights in Devon. He’d trusted her with so much that he’d never shared with anyone else. And all the time when she’d pretended to care, she’d nursed this betrayal.

  “No, you’d rather William retained the title he disgraced. If he hadn’t died, would you ever have told me?”

  Her voice was low and her gaze flickered away from his. “I needed to work out what to do. That week… that week with you shook my certainties. But then the duke told you about William’s rampage. I’d hoped to settle Roberta somewhere safe, then tell you, but I had to see whether she was in danger first.”

  “It didn’t occur to you to tell me the truth and let me look after Roberta?” That was a huge part of her treason, that she’d given him no chance to decide his future or find some solution that protected Roberta and her sons.

  “I—”

  “Of course it didn’t. I might have unfettered access to your body, but you trusted me with little else.”

  “Don’t.” She shut her eyes as if she couldn’t bear looking into his face. She was as white as paper. Jonas told himself he wouldn’t take pity on her. He wouldn’t. But her misery still tore raw strips off his heart.

  “I find myself bewildered that you gave yourself to me at all.” Damn it all, he should shut up. Now. Berating her only confirmed what a gullible idiot he’d been. After all these years of trusting nobody, he’d trusted Sidonie. And she’d played him for a dimwit. “I suppose you were curious. Or perhaps you felt you owed me some recompense for stealing my inheritance.”

  She sucked in a breath that sounded like a sob, but to her credit, she didn’t retreat. “Please, Jonas, you know that’s not how it was.”

  He gave another of those unamused laughs. God help him, he could either laugh or cry and he’d humiliated himself quite enough. “It turns out I know nothing about you.” His voice lowered to acrid self-castigation. “I thought you were the only true thing in my misbegotten life. I discover you’re nothing but a pretty parcel of lies, base metal not gold.”

  “You’re… you’re not fair.” She raised her head and stared at him with a spark of defiance. “Roberta is my sister. I knew you a week. A mere week. Once I discovered what your illegitimacy cost you, I agonized over whether I was doing the right thing. I agonized the whole time.”

  He stepped away, partly to break the physical pull she exerted, no matter what he’d discovered about her. “Not enough to tell me the truth.”

  “I told you the truth in everything apart from this,” Sidonie whispered, twining her arms around herself in a defensive gesture that shouldn’t stab his conscience.

  “This turns everything else into lies,” he said wearily. He was angry, but anger was merely thin defense against the devastation hovering to crush him. If he didn’t love her so much, she couldn’t wound him like this.

  “You—” She swallowed, the movement of her slender throat vulnerable.

  He fought the traitorous urge to take her in his arms and tell her everything was forgiven. Because, hell and damnation, he couldn’t forgive her. Not when he remembered his father dying a broken man, far from home, mocked by the world that once revered him. Not when he remembered schoolboy taunts about his dago slut of a mother. Not when he remembered the blazing agony of William’s knife carving his face, marking him forever outcast.

  Sidonie watched him and if he didn’t mistrust every perception about this woman, he’d say his rage broke her heart. “You hate me now. I… I can’t blame you. It’s too late to make amends. You’re right. I should have trusted you. Even if I didn’t trust you, I should have told you. Every day William held the title after I found the marriage lines, I abetted his theft.”

  She sounded so reasonable. He couldn’t bear it. He lashed out, just wanting her to go away and leave him to drown in his wretchedness. “Do you hope to wheedle a pardon?”

  “No.” After a fraught pause, her voice emerged more strongly. She looked as severe as a stone angel. Whereas there was nothing angelic about her at all, God help him. “Jonas, hating me isn’t what’s important now. What’s important is what use you make of this information. If you tell people that you found the marriage lines before you visited Barstowe Hall and that’s why you went to see William, you’ll convince the authorities that you had no motive for murder. Faced with losing the title, William had stronger reason than mounting debts to kill himself.”

  “It sounds like a fairy tale,” he said sarcastically. He fought the urge to crumple the marriage lines and pitch them at her.

  “Except it explains so much. I imagine once you’re Viscount Hillbrook, the world will be happy to hear protestations of innocence.” She plunged a shaking hand into the pocket of her shabby cape and produced another paper. “This confirms Reverend Trask was in Spain when your parents married and there’s a letter with his signature for matching with the marriage lines.”

  Looking at her stung him, stung like hell. His embarrassing, sentimental hopes for a life with her scattered like ashes. He hated her. He hated her almost as much as he loved her. He longed to destroy the love. He had a bleak feeling that the love would destroy him. “You’ve delivered your news. I don’t want you here.”

  She paled even further and he muffled another unwelcome pang of guilt. She deserved to suffer. She’d cut his heart into mincemeat. Worse, she’d fleetingly and cruelly made him imagine that someone might love a monster like him. That was her real crime. He’d never forgive her.

  She was ashen and unshed tears brimmed in her eyes, but she wouldn’t back down, no matter how beastly he was. Hesitantly she stepped forward and placed the letter on the table against the wall. “Please listen, Jonas. This is your key to freedom. If you say you went to Barstowe Hall to tell William that you’re legitimate, people will know you didn’t kill him. If anything, he had motive to kill you.”

  “Why haven’t I mentioned this until now?” he asked, then descended to more sarcasm, hating himself, hating her, hating every damn thing in the world. “Did it slip my mind?”

  She flinched at his tone and he felt mean and small for baiting her. He was so livid, he wanted to smash everything to Hades. But needling her made him feel like he tortured a kitten. Not that Sidonie was so defenseless. Or so innocent.

  “You have—” She sucked in an unsteady breath. “You have every right to be angry. But please listen. If you say you waited to tell William’s family, and my visit here confirms that, people will believe you’re a hero rather than a villain. A man who, at risk to his life, considered the feelings of a suicide’s grieving widow and orphaned children.”

  She sighed and brushed her hair back from her face. It was considerably untidier than when she’d arrived. He remembered as if it had happened to someone else how he’d dragged her against his body and how his heart leaped at the sight of her. When she came in, he’d felt complete. He’d never feel complete again.

  “What a touching story. Unrelated to anything like reality.”

  Her lips tightened. “Don’t let self-destructive rage win, Jonas. Once you think about this, you’ll realize that this piece of paper, however tardily delivered, gives you a future. And a name. And a way out of this murder charge.”

  “Very bracing, my darling,” he said drily. “I find myself quite roused to action.”

  She drew herself up and stared at him. The blank despair in her eyes mirrored the agony in his heart. He tried to tell himself that her anguish was more deception, but he couldn’t quite believe it. “Don’t let this chance pass you by because you loathe me. You believe I wronged you. I did. I had good reason, but that reason doesn’t justify my actions.”

  “Get out of my sight.” He couldn’t bear to look at her. He couldn’t bear to remember everything she’d made him feel and know none of it was real.

  She whitened and staggered before he watched her gather faltering courage and stand her ground. Shaking hand
s drew her hood over her rich brown hair. “I… I wish you well, Jonas,” she whispered and turned away.

  Damn her, however angry he was, he couldn’t let her go like this. He didn’t even know if she came alone or with a maid. Newgate was in a dangerous quarter of London and it was the middle of the night. “Sidonie…”

  “Yes?”

  He couldn’t see her face but her rigid shoulders spoke of control barely maintained. “Do you have someone with you? I’ll pay Sykes to escort you home if not.”

  She didn’t face him. “What do you care?”

  The bitter, unacceptable truth was that he cared enormously. “I don’t wish ill upon you.”

  “That’s big of you,” she muttered and rapped hard at the door.

  “Sidonie, I want you safe,” he said helplessly as she swept past the turnkey toward the shadowy hall. “I want you to be… happy.”

  She’d gone and didn’t hear.

  With a groan, he slumped onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. How sodding wonderful. At last he could vindicate his parents and restore his birthright. He should be cheering his bloody head off.

  He didn’t give a rat’s arse whether he lived or died.

  “Merrick? Merrick, what the devil’s got into you?”

  Dazedly Jonas raised his head. Two tall, well-dressed men crowded into his cell. It took him a few moments to recognize the Duke of Sedgemoor and Richard Harmsworth. Men who had once saved his life. Men who he’d avoided for years because every time he saw them he relived the vile shame of his scarring.

  “Where’s Sidonie?” He surged to his feet and thrust past them, but the corridor outside was empty.

  “I sent Miss Forsythe home in my carriage,” Sedgemoor said with a hint of disapproval. More guilt. Jonas guessed she’d been unable to hide her distress.

  Sedgemoor continued. “Before she left, she asked us to offer our services.”

  Brava, bella. He had no idea how she’d managed it, but with the assistance of these two darlings of the ton, he was sure to evade the hangman. He wished he cared.

  “The lady says she has proof of your innocence.”

  “Yes, yes, she does.”

  So the dance began. He drew an unsteady breath and realized Sidonie was right. While he might resent accepting her advice, he wasn’t stupid. He had to prove his innocence and the story she’d concocted would serve as well as another. Once free, he’d assess what remained from his ruined life. And whether he could be bothered to fix any of it.

  He studied these men who had come to his rescue long ago and who came to his rescue again. Sedgemoor and Harmsworth had never scorned him for his bastardy. Both, in spite of their scandalous backgrounds, were known as men of their word. If they pledged themselves to help, they would indeed help. He straightened his shoulders and struggled to sound purposeful. He couldn’t fail now. He owed his parents justice. “I have my father’s marriage lines.”

  “Good God,” Harmsworth breathed. “You’re Viscount Hillbrook. That sets the cat among the pigeons.”

  “Indeed.” It was too late to revenge himself on William by taking what he’d valued most. It wasn’t too late for Jonas to restore his parents’ good names. “Now I’ve received blessing from my cousin’s family to make circumstances public, I intend to claim my inheritance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mrs. Merrick requests an interview, my lord.”

  At the stentorian tones of the butler he’d employed to run his London home, Jonas laid down his pen and rubbed tired eyes. “Here at the house?” he asked, astonished.

  For three months, he’d been officially acknowledged as Viscount Hillbrook and he’d only started to make headway through the tangle William had left of the estate. He’d started on the current batch of paperwork before breakfast. It was early afternoon and he couldn’t see himself getting away before dinner.

  Now Roberta wanted to see him. He hadn’t spoken to either Forsythe sister since that bitter encounter in Newgate when he’d turned, hurt and angry, on Sidonie. Three months was time enough to repent his temper but did nothing to soothe the ache in his heart. Yearning for her stopped him sleeping. If he occasionally dropped into a restless doze, harrowing dreams tormented him.

  He was in a damned bad way.

  Such a bad way, he occasionally wondered if he could overcome pride to crawl back to Sidonie in forlorn hope of a kind word. After the way he’d lashed out at her, he didn’t expect forgiveness. She’d saved him and he’d reacted not with gratitude but with rage. But then prudence would demand he let well enough alone. Leave her free to pursue the future she had no intention of sharing with Jonas Merrick.

  She’d made that more than clear.

  When he’d settled an allowance on Roberta and accepted financial responsibility for William’s sons, he’d offered Sidonie a stipend, too. At the time, he’d still felt bruised that she’d put her sister before him—how lowering to recognize jealousy was at least partly to blame for his outburst. But even in his anger, he couldn’t bear to think of her scratching out a meager living. He wanted her to be able to buy a pretty dress or a new bonnet.

  Some City lawyer had replied on her behalf, rejecting any assistance from the Hillbrook estate. She’d made no acknowledgment of the gift as a personal matter. Her chilly refusal left Jonas feeling like she’d sliced open a barely healed wound. Common sense and self-preservation insisted he leave their dealings there. Common sense proved a deucedly cold bedfellow on a winter night and he was near to consigning it to the devil. If he chased Sidonie, he risked humiliation. Humiliation seemed a luxury compared to this endless, gnawing yearning.

  In Devon, Sidonie had wanted him. He’d been wrong about so much, but surely he wasn’t wrong about that. Perhaps if he groveled low enough, she’d deign to bestow her favor again. So pathetic he’d become in his loneliness. All his life he’d imagined that if he claimed his heritage, wiped the stain of dishonor from his parents’ memories, acquitted that brute William for his spite, he’d be happy. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been unhappier.

  As he said, pathetic.

  Even he was sick of how he moped around Merrick House. He needed a good kick up the arse.

  “My lord?” the butler prompted, extending the silver salver with Roberta’s card once more.

  Jonas realized he’d drifted off again. His continual distraction was another thing to blame on Sidonie. He’d been hailed as the most incisive financial mind of his generation. Nobody would say that these days.

  Roberta was here at Merrick House. Probably to cavil about her allowance—Jonas had hedged the payment with strict conditions to curtail her gambling and extravagance. To hear news of Sidonie, it might be worth enduring a tirade about his stinginess.

  His pride really was in tatters.

  He glanced at the butler. “Show Mrs. Merrick in and have tea brought, Jenkins. Inform the stables that I require Casimir saddled once my guest has left.”

  Roberta must want something—she never came near him unless she did. This time, he wanted something from her in return.

  Sidonie let herself out of the tall white house in Paddington and sucked in a breath of fresh morning air. Well, fresh as London air got. Late February offered scant promise of spring, although yesterday in Hyde Park, she’d noticed a few brave snowdrops. This year winter lasted forever.

  Or perhaps she carried winter with her.

  Shivering, she shrank inside her brown cape. Since arriving in town two months ago, she’d bought a couple of secondhand dresses, but she couldn’t summon interest in ordering a wardrobe befitting her new independence. She barely summoned interest to struggle out of bed each day.

  The morning was advanced but hadn’t warmed much from frosty beginnings. As a woman past first youth lodging in an irretrievably middle-class neighborhood, she at least could wander abroad unchaperoned. She was later than usual. It had been especially difficult to rise and dress today.

  As always lately, the need to make pe
rmanent arrangements for her future nagged at her. For weeks, she’d battled the lethargy that had gripped her since visiting Jonas in Newgate. At first she’d been too heartsick to care where she went, so she’d returned in a fog of despair to Barstowe Hall. But Roberta’s caprices soon grated and Sidonie couldn’t forget how her sister had blithely abandoned Jonas to face accusations of murder.

  Life in Wiltshire became increasingly disagreeable as Roberta whined about Jonas Merrick stealing her place in the world—however many times Sidonie explained that if anyone was a thief, it was William and by association, William’s family. Inevitably once confirmed as viscount, Jonas requested possession of Barstowe Hall. This sparked another storm from Roberta, who eventually moved with ill grace and at Jonas’s expense to a pleasant villa in Richmond.

  After they left Barstowe Hall, Sidonie decided for the sake of sanity to live apart from her sister. Her birthday had passed and she’d received her legacy. Her own establishment was finally a possibility.

  But the actions to make that establishment a reality had proven beyond her.

  Staying with a former governess in Paddington provided a stopgap. Each day Sidonie intended to make plans. If only about where to live. But each day passed in a pall of desolation and ended with no more concrete arrangements than at the start. She didn’t want to stay in London. She’d decided to move to the north, Yorkshire or even Northumberland. If only because either was a long way from Devon. But village or city? And right now, she couldn’t manage the journey out of London to find a house.

  Instead she spent too many days skulking in her room like a wounded animal, only doing the minimum to maintain health. She hated what she’d become, but didn’t know how to break free of regret and guilt and longing. Hester, her hostess, had attempted to draw Sidonie into her social circle. Sidonie resisted, just wanting blessed numbness.

  As time passed, blessed numbness proved harder to maintain. The necessity for action clamored beyond the glass wall that shielded her. Eventually she’d heed the demand, but right now, she drifted with no more conscious volition than a twig in a stream.