Rogue's Lady

by Robyn Carr

  “Could I have misjudged my friend so thoroughly?”

  “That you are honest, my love, encourages the frequent fault that you expect others to be.” Evelyn shook her head sadly. “Paul, we should have given Vieve more credence. And we should not have sympathized with Andrew, trying a simple warning about good manners.”

  “If he’s hurt her, I’ll...”

  “We had better show restraint, here and now, for we are too late to help Vieve.”

  “Perhaps we should ride to Chappington,” he said, his own anger building as he began to realize his error.

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she said firmly. “We cannot arrive before it is very late, and something tells me that our expression of alarm will do more harm than good.”

  “What if she is hurt?”

  “If there is anything wrong, your father will send word to us and we will go. Otherwise, let her keep this difficulty to herself for now.”

  The sound of the front door slamming caused Paul to jump. It was the unmistakable sound of a longtime friend making an angry departure. He winced slightly at the thought that his show of loyalty for Andrew might have compromised his sister.

  “We did not, either one of us, take her seriously enough,” he said quietly. “She may need us now.”

  Evelyn looked up at her husband and braved a half smile. “I think it is dear by the color of Andrew’s ravaged face that our Vieve has what she needs. Let her be.”

  Vieve’s place at dinner was conspicuously empty. Tyson looked warily at Boris, but saw only his usual surly expression. This was one kind of bargain upon which Tyson had never before embarked, but he knew the same trader’s ethics would suffice. They began to eat in silence, saving the discussion until after dinner. They both cautiously maintained the cool, confident pose necessary for negotiation.

  “Will your daughter attend our discussion?” Tyson finally asked, midway through the meal.

  “She does not know we are having a discussion. She has chosen a hot tub and private meal in lieu of our company.” Lord Ridgley peered at Tyson, but the latter hid his displeasure by lowering his eyes to his plate.

  Tyson could not believe the foolhardiness with which he had stepped into the trap. Worse, he recalled how his mind had been whirling with possessive thoughts; he had carried out a sharp determination to change her preference from a boy to a man, only to be forced to pay for the act. She had not bargained with him for a promise of marriage. She must have wanted a wealthy husband speedily delivered. By her own lips, marriage was her price. And who better to be forced than a man who stood no chance against their laws?

  He forgot that he had intended to seduce her, for he had been seduced by her tearstained face, her mien of trust, and her less than willful resistance to his advances. And he was further incensed by the image of Shelby touching her. Even though he had not made her his by oath, act, or law, he could not abide the thought that another man would touch what he already considered his. He pushed past reason and put his mark on her.

  He knew it unwise to yield to a softening, teasing sensation that threatened his posture for the bargaining. He fought against the knowledge that he had done exactly what he had accused Andrew of trying to do. He would not question whether she had tricked him or whether he was the fool. However, there was one fact that could not be dismissed: she belonged to him now. The moment he had taken her young body he was instantly aware of the trap that had closed around him, and the possibility that she had willed it so.

  Tyson glanced suspiciously at Lord Ridgley. He did not consider the baron’s fatherly pride. He did not think of Vieve’s discomfort. He had been deceived, and he would assure himself that it was for the last time. She wanted a rich husband; she would have one. It might be more than she bargained for.

  Tyson filled his glass when he had finished with his food. Knowing his disadvantage, Tyson opened the conversation. “Before I came here, I sent a message to my mother’s cousin. We are planning to meet in London. It will no doubt relieve your entire family to know that my mother’s cousin is the earl of Lemington.”

  “Ah,” Lord Ridgley said, raising one brow and peering at Tyson with a smile twitching under his moustache. “How is it you have not mentioned that before?”

  Tyson leaned back in his chair. “It is a presumptuous connection on my part. We disclaim such noble hierarchy in America, and the connection is a distant claim. But I assure you, Lord Ridgley, I am well aware of whose table I share.”

  “And your lineage is an issue? I am surprised at you, Captain.”

  “What other requirements do you have?” he asked, letting his eyes narrow to show that he disliked this aspect of the subject. Tyson was compulsively private.

  “Has it seemed, even to you, that those are my priorities?”

  “The British practice some rituals that are not common to me. Perhaps you will direct me. If we were in Richmond, at my table, I would invite you to examine my fields, my fleet, my horses.”

  “We could as well be there,” Lord Ridgley offered. “I am convinced of your ability to keep my daughter. How could I ignore your achievements when a great deal of your money has already passed into my hands?”

  “Then name your requirements,” Tyson said.

  “Only two,” the baron said. “Although Chappington and the land on which it sits will belong to my daughter one day, I would suggest that you allow this English holding to pass to my son. You may take a larger share of the shipping and warehouse venture, if you wish, by yielding a small income to Paul after I am gone.”

  “That is agreeable. I have an estate in America; I do not need another one.”

  “I have already laid bare my shipping accounts; you have seen the trouble that industry has suffered. I would consider it a personal favor if you would give a cursory look to these estate accounts before giving the property over to Paul for management.”

  Tyson frowned slightly. “How many other personal favors will you be adding to this still tenuous agreement?”

  Lord Ridgley leaned his elbows on the table. “A few. My second request: you have said you have time to spend in England and have already indicated that overseeing the warehouse building appeals to you. Do not take my daughter out of the country for a year.”

  Tyson stiffened, and his frown grew into an insulted scowl. “You wish to have her wed, but you will continue to guard her?”

  “I will not interfere with your marriage. Unless it becomes necessary.”

  Tyson tried to maintain his composure. “What will necessitate your interference, my lord? The slightest complaint from your daughter’s lips? My failure to coddle her as she feels she deserves? What simple-minded fool would allow such—”

  Lord Ridgley’s fist hit the table with a loud crash. The dinnerware clattered on the table, but Tyson did not even flinch. “Enough. You may go and take your chances on my next action,” he said threateningly. “I already have your money; I could give the lass to Shelby, though such a decision would stick in my gullet for a long while.”

  “How do I know that at the end of a year you won’t press your advantage?”

  Lord Ridgley leaned back in his chair. “You don’t.”

  “You have said what it is you want,” Tyson said slowly. “What is it you will give?”

  “I give you my daughter,” Lord Ridgley said slowly. “I do not consider that a meager gift.”

  Tyson gave a short, angry laugh. “One wily young virgin for the sum of fifty thousand pounds. Who would argue the fairness of such a deal of trade?”

  “You feel the insult now, young man,” Lord Ridgley said testily. “But if you are wise, hold your judgment until you are gray around the edges and short of time to settle your family accounts. I will have been gone a long time before you reach such a stage in your life.” He paused and looked closely into Tyson’s angry eyes. “I have seen how you look at my daughter. You will one day feel this father’s bite.”

  Tyson lifted his glass and took a drink. “Y
ou wish to buy a manager for your warehouses, and you will guard your daughter’s welfare past the wedding day. Is that all?”

  “I would rest easier if in addition to that, you would give me your word that she will be loved and cherished.”

  “There has been enough dalliance. With all due respect, there are some things even your high-handed law cannot guarantee.”

  “The terms, then?” Lord Ridgley asked.

  “To the terms of your advantage, I bend.”

  “You are angry now, Captain, but you are clever enough to find your own advantage in any wager. We need not draw out the hostility, if we understand each other.”

  Tyson stood from the table and downed the remainder of his wine. “I will leave your house as soon as the contracts for my marriage to your daughter have been drawn. I can be of more use to my investment in the city, but within a month the wedding will be done— unless you wish to imprison me here in fear that I may flee.”

  Lord Ridgley smiled shrewdly and looked up at Tyson. “I do not fear your escape, Captain. If you fly from here, do so with my blessing. I will keep your money and give my daughter to Shelby.”

  Tyson’s temples began to pound. He placed both hands on the table and leaned close to the baron’s face. “Do not push me too far, my lord. It meets my mood to accept your terms, but should I find it a better notion to fight, you will be astounded by the force of my dissension.”

  The baron looked into the captain’s eyes and showed no fear. “Of that, my son, I am well aware.”

  Tyson leaned back from his threatening pose and watched with interest as the baron lifted his glass as if in a toast. Without another word, Tyson turned and left the baron alone in the dining room.

  Lord Ridgley held up his glass in a solitary salute. “To my first grandchild,” he said softly.

  After a bath and a light meal taken in her room, Vieve requested a brandy. “A brandy is it?” Harriet scolded. “Aye, he’ll love that, his lordship will.”

  “You needn’t tell him.”

  “Aye, and we’ll add that to the long list of things we needn’t tell his lordship. That we shall.”

  In spite of Harriet’s dubious scolding and her overbearing presence, there was little question of her loyalty. She had diapered Vieve’s bottom, and now her constant, reproving tongue played havoc on Vieve’s manners with all the affection of any mother hen.

  As Harriet picked up the discarded clothing by the cooled tub, she hung up the velvet habit and cast a wary glance over her shoulder at her young ward when she spied the tear. Then, upon gathering up Vieve’s chemise, she could not mistake the stains and dirt. She looked again at her young mistress. “Let it soak, Harriet, and it will be fine,” Vieve said in a smooth, controlled voice.

  Harriet dropped the chemise into the pile of laundry she had collected and quickly fetched the requested brandy. Vieve had known better than to think she could hide this incident from Harriet; yet she meant to guard the details with all her might. When Harriet held the glass toward her, she could see that her servant’s hand trembled and her eyes held a deep concern. “Harriet, the less said right now, the better. I should like to bear this alone for at least one day.”

  The old woman looked closely into Vieve’s eyes. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

  Vieve smiled a light and reassuring smile. “There are no bruises, Harriet. Let me be.”

  “Will the hearty be called to...”

  “I have asked only one thing of you,” Vieve said sharply. “One day of silence on the matter. Then you may question and scold, if you feel the need.”

  Harriet hung her head and, gathering up the soiled clothes left by the tub, moved toward the door. She paused as her hand touched the latch. Then, turning back, she plucked out the chemise that bore the stains of Vieve’s lost virginity. She tossed the garment into the flaming hearth and with a sharp nod of her head took up the bundle and left the room. An hour later she returned with a second brandy, though it had not been requested.

  Vieve reclined against the propped-up pillows in the four-poster and watched the candles burn down and the hearth wane. The minutes dragged into hours as she thought of how far from her own desires she had fallen. The proud Vieve, stripped bare of dignity once and for all. After a year of fighting Andrew’s advances, the Yankee had but to command her, and she was without resistance. She damned her golden hair, her clear blue eyes and shapely maiden’s form, which men cursed as their own demise. Was she not just a woman, after all? How strangely men drew themselves that they could test the limits of her resistance, begging for her response, and yet when that acquiescence was found, make hers the sin, for she was pretty, or tempting...or in love.

  What Andrew had begged for the sake of love, he had been willing to steal from her. And what Tyson had accused her of yielding, he had forced from her. It did not matter that Tyson’s form of force was a sure finesse; he had seduced her with the intent to enjoy the pleasures of intimacy without commitment.

  For a young noblewoman there was just cause to mourn a lost virtue, for it lessened her worth in marriage with any but the man who had claimed her. Oddly, though, it was not that sacrifice that caused her to cry late into the night. It was the other loss of knowing he would never learn the truth. His touch had caused all sense to flee, all will to crumble, all reason to disappear. She had not held him away for want of promises, for the only promise she sought was to be his, for a day, a month, a year. Could he not see that if she was moved by her father’s want of money, she need not have yielded so much? And if marriage was her price, she’d not have given in for a farthing less? No other could draw from her what he could command. She loved him. She could not deny his simplest wish, because her heart dominated where her wits were mute.

  She wept until she fell into exhausted sleep. Her last thought before night overtook her was his demand for her silence. By morning, she reasoned, he would be gone.

  Tyson filled his pipe from his pouch, lit it from a candle in the foyer, and stepped out onto the veranda. He sought the evening breeze to cool his heated ire. In one short week he had been relieved of fifty thousand pounds of his family money, had warehouses to build, and would soon add a conniving young bride and her interfering father to his meager possessions. And all this, he realized, was his own fault.

  The warehouse venture was not a disappointment, provided there had been no trickery in the contracts he had signed. He had not intended to leave the invested sum to go unchecked; even without the baron’s request, his plans included staying through at least most of the building. But what had happened with Vieve still astounded him.

  All of his adult life, Tyson had been cautious of women. He had not lived a celibate life, but his affairs had been few and generously spaced. Out of respect for his mother and the rest of his family, he had used discretion even with Lenore, denying himself on many occasions. But because Lenore was not prudent in her affairs, any man in her company was the object of speculation from the gossips.

  From the time of his youth to the present, there had been few women who successfully charmed him. He had dealt with a mild stirring here and there, had become aroused by this one or that, but never in his life had he been at a woman’s mercy. And those women before Vieve had not been wanting for good looks or sharp wits.

  What simple idiocy, he asked himself, had this little vixen inspired? His mind had failed him, his good sense left unguarded. From the first moment he held her in his arms, he had wanted her. And when he kissed her and held her in the aftermath of Andrew’s assault, he would not be denied. He had not thought, reasoned, questioned her, or even lightly considered restraint. Her presence had rendered him mute, deaf, and out of control. Was she not only a woman, after all?

  He banged his pipe on the veranda rail, sending a shower of embers down into the damp shrubs below. They had his money, his commitment and, indeed, his future in their hands. They had as much of him as he was willing to give. She may have successfully caused him to lose his head once, but sh
e would not again.

  Chapter Seven

  When Vieve was dressed and ready to descend to the drawing room, where the family would gather before dinner, her father knocked on her door. When he entered and looked at her, she forced her hands to remain still and tried hard to appear poised.

  “You look none the worse for wear, daughter.”

  She lowered her gaze to hide a blush, choosing to take his comment as a compliment. “Thank you, Papa.”

  “Captain Gervais came forward with a proposal for your hand,” he said in a brusque, straightforward manner. There was no mistaking the finality in his eyes. “I accepted his terms. Should you like to know what he offered?”

  “It’s not necessary, Papa.”

  “You are willing?” Lord Ridgley asked.

  Vieve bolstered herself to answer. “Until yesterday, I did not realize how important it is that a contract for marriage be settled. Nor did I see how impossible a choice Andrew Shelby would be.”

  Her father’s frown bore down on her. “Your perceptions about Andrew Shelby could have used my counsel long ago, but by your actions I suspected you were not of a mind to listen to an old man’s advice.”

  “I know, Papa,” she said quietly.

  Lord Ridgley cleared his throat. “It was enough that Shelby has lost his own inheritance through laziness. What his father left him was not grand, but a little good sense and hard work could have made more of it. Shelby showed no interest in our estate and always left our discussions from boredom. I may not be far wrong in guessing that he has nothing left. And if that is not dire enough, you couldn’t have realized how he likes to drink and gamble.” Lord Ridgley raised both bushy gray brows. “I don’t think you would sit idly for that.”

  “No, Papa,” she murmured.

  “Good. Your marriage to Captain Gervais may be abrupt, but it will be done and you need not suffer through any more bidding.”