Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

  His gaze locked with hers, hurt clouding his dark eyes, and he let his hand fall. “Is there nothing about me that you don’t find objectionable? Not even one small thing you can bring yourself to tolerate?”

  Her heart thumped in and out of her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She tried to shelter her face from his scrutiny by lifting her fan, but her fingers refused to cooperate, and she fumbled, managing only to drop the thing at her feet.

  Seabrook bent and swept it up then folded it closed. “You seem to lose this with alarming frequency for something to which you apparently hold great attachment.” He grasped her right hand and slapped the fan into her palm. Even through her gloves her skin stung.

  Annabella gulped, but the words of apology she owed him stubbornly refused to form. She sat stunned and unable to move. For the first time since meeting Seabrook, she felt truly soiled, but not by anything he’d done.

  He continued to search her face for several heartbeats, and she stared back, willing him to understand, to see the regret she couldn’t bring herself to voice. But he turned away with a miniscule shake of his head.

  “I shall be but a moment.” Without another word, he left her behind and stalked into the building.

  “Sea— Oh! Wait!” Annabella scrambled from the carriage, brushing off assistance from the footman. Her knees threatened to buckle as she picked her way over the cobblestone paving, struggling to catch up and take in her new surroundings at the same time.

  The building was ancient, its stones stained dark. Moss coated the base, and ivy clung along one side. Quite obviously it had once been a church. A brass plaque embedded in the cornerstone, blackened with age and barely readable, bore the name St. Michael’s.

  An odor, sour and fetid, reached out to her from beyond the threshold. The sulfurous scent from the smelting chimneys would have been a blessing, but all she could smell was sickness and despair.

  She halted her chase at the bottom of the steps and stared at the door. For the first time, she noticed a steady stream of people climbing the stone staircase and entering the clinic. Struggling not to breathe in the scents of sickness and death, she raced up the steps and yanked open the door, hurrying to catch up with Seabrook.

  Once inside, she took a moment and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, astounded to find herself in the narthex, which had been made into a waiting area.

  People of all ages seemed to swarm like bees to a hive. Women with fussy babies sat on the rough hewn benches lining the stone walls. A few children hopped about with the energy of lightning in a thunderstorm, but most of the little ones rested with their mothers. A group of men lounged near the door. Giving her polite nods, they stepped apart and allowed her to pass.

  She scanned the teeming mass of humanity, seeking her husband. Finally, she spotted him on the other side of the room. He was speaking with an older woman garbed in dark blue wool. It was a practical dress and not at all fashionable, and she wore a white apron, dingy and stained, over it. Obviously a nurse of some sort.

  She slowed her steps a few feet away, unsure if she should approach them or not. They seemed deep in conversation, from the few words she could make out. Would Seabrook see it as an intrusion?

  Thumps and bangs arose behind her, accompanied by a few alarmed murmurs from the crowd, and Annabella turned. Several grimy men had made their way through the door. They bore another man on their shoulders. His face was a ghastly shade of gray, and dark liquid seeped through one of his trouser legs.

  Annabella looked away from the awful sight.

  Nearby, a girl, far too young to be a mother, clutched a screaming infant to her shoulder while the woman next to her comforted a slightly older child with blotchy red cheeks.

  Dear Lord, what was wrong with the child? Was she dying? It was becoming hard to breathe. So much sickness.

  When she’d been perhaps five years in age, Annabella had survived a dangerous bout of influenza. Her father had been away as usual, but her mother had held vigil at her bedside, pressing cool cloths to her face, holding her hand, singing to her, telling her stories.

  A lump formed in her throat at the realization of just how easy a life she’d had, even with the direction things had taken after her stepfather’s death. Not even the torturous days she’d spent alone in the cottage compared.

  Her stomach writhed like a serpent, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, praying her breakfast would stay down, as she ran from the clinic. She stumbled off the bottom step, everything swimming in and out of focus. Finally, the carriage loomed.

  “Lady Seabrook, are you unwell?” asked the footman.

  Annabella blinked and tried to look at the man, but his face blurred before her. “I’m— I…” She clutched at the side of the carriage. “I shall wait for Lord Seabrook out here. He said he’d not be…” She swayed.

  Strong arms caught her from behind as she drooped toward the ground, and she looked up to find Seabrook holding her. Then she found herself weak for all new reasons.

  Where did you come from?

  His eyes swept Annabella quickly, assessing. For a heartbeat, she could almost believe he cared about her. Then she blinked, and his expression closed down.

  “Steady now?” he asked, his voice as impersonal as if he addressed a rock.

  “Quite!” she snapped, pushing away from him. “How dare you just leave me out here on the street like a common—”

  “If we’re going to have this conversation, let us at least retire to the coach,” he said quietly through gritted teeth. Smiling, he nodded to a gentleman who dodged past them.

  Annabella glanced at their surroundings.

  A gig bumped over the cobblestones. In the distance, a shout arose, and a male voice nearby called out, perhaps answering the call. Two young women clad in rather garish and risqué gowns hurried across the street and walked up the steps of the clinic. The one closest to them cast an openly assessing glance at Seabrook as though he might be her next meal.

  When her husband tipped his hat to them, Annabella’s blood steamed. “Friends of yours?” she ground out.

  He angled a cold stare in her direction. “And if they are?”

  She glared back. Not while I’m your wife they won’t be. But she held her tongue. For once.

  Making an impatient sound, Seabrook guided her to the carriage door and all but shoved her inside with one hand to her backside.

  She’d apparently committed a major blunder. And from the grim set to his features as he followed her into the coach and took the seat opposite her again, he wasn’t any too happy about it. “To Webber and Thatcher,” he ordered the driver through the sliding panel and then shut it with a solid thump.

  The carriage lurched forward.

  Seabrook settled back, pursing his lips as he sometimes did when he was considering a problem.

  I’m the problem he seeks to solve, she acknowledged sadly.

  With deliberate movements, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and placed it on the seat next to him. He sat staring at her through hooded eyes, tapping his fingers on one leg.

  But he never uttered a word.

  At last, unable to suffer his silent scrutiny any longer, Annabella cried out, “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Seabrook sighed. “What are you sorry for, Annabella? The list of possibilities seems rather lengthy at the moment.”

  Annabella inhaled deeply and released it slowly, feeling herself deflate by inches. “Everything,” she mumbled, meeting his level gaze. “I’m sorry for everything. But just now… it — that street was appalling. The people were… impoverished. Those in the clinic… they were so ill…”

  Seabrook’s lips twitched. “Coventry is but one city in a vast world. And by far this is neither the best nor the worst in terms of poverty.”

  In other words, she hadn’t seen the worst of the world. But did he have to address her in that indulgent tone as though she were a child? She’d rather have him snappish.

  The
carriage jolted, and Annabella braced a hand on the seat to keep from tumbling sideways. Seabrook rather maddeningly maintained his balance without resorting to such maneuvers.

  He glanced out the window then turned back to her with a long sigh. “I wish to offer my own apology, Annie. The clinic was no place to take you. I should have spared you the…” He shook his head as though lost for words. “I suppose you could call it the ugliness of being poor and in ill health.”

  He doesn’t have to go to the clinic either. Surely Blackmoor has a solicitor to handle such business. “But you go there. Do you visit often?”

  Seabrook shrugged then directed his attention back out the window. “I offer what assistance I can.”

  Generous. The nurse in the clinic had called him generous. The coughs and cries from the people moving about had made it difficult to understand much of what she and Seabrook had said. But Annabella had caught snippets. The nurse had thanked him for a donation. His donation. Not the dowager, then. And she couldn’t quite recall, but it seemed Seabrook had mentioned seeing that the clinic had the funds to hire more staff. Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention? She might have learned more about the man she had married.

  Because you’re a chicken brain and you ran like a coward, her conscience reminded her.

  The carriage stopped, and the door soon opened. This time when Seabrook exited and turned to help her out, he offered only a confident grip and a word of caution.

  “I’ve just got some brief estate business to conduct at my solicitor’s office.” He gestured at a small park across the street. “In the meantime, perhaps you would enjoy a stroll. Coventry isn’t London, but it has its attractions. Thomas will accompany you.” He motioned to the footman.

  Taken aback, Annabella simply stared. He was politely telling her he didn’t want her to accompany him. Do you blame him after your behavior at the clinic? No wonder Mother is always telling you to act like a lady.

  “I shouldn’t be long.” He released her hand and departed without a backward glance.

  ~~~~

  After a moment of congratulations, Alfred Webber droned on about the legalities and the necessity for legal proof — he’d need Annabella’s marriage lines for that. Hopefully she hadn’t burned them. Webber’s thin white hair stuck out at angles from his head. His white linen shirt had been stained by flecks of dark ink. Despite his unkempt appearance, the man had a brilliant mind that missed no detail.

  And he was insisting on going over those tiresome details of Grandfather’s will — the ones Jon had studied for the past several years.

  Jon turned away, his mind only half on what Webber was saying. Through the tiny window over the solicitor’s shoulder, he caught sight of Annabella standing at the canal basin and looking along the waterway. She had her back turned, so he couldn’t see her expression, but she stood straight and tall as she stared along the canal. Was she wondering where it led? If it would carry her away?

  Everything was wrong. A man’s wife shouldn’t want only to leave him. Abruptly, Jon pushed to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Webber, I have another engagement.”

  The solicitor blinked in surprise. “Certainly, Lord Seabrook.” Webber shuffled some papers and stood. “I shall prepare the papers we discussed and make all the necessary arrangements so you may receive your inheritance. Will you be returning to my office, or should I come out to Blackmoor?”

  “Please come to Blackmoor, Mr. Webber.” Jon winced at his sharp tone but made no apology as he left the solicitor’s office.

  He crossed the square with his eyes locked on his wife, his long stride quickly consuming the distance between them. But when he got within several yards of her, his determination faltered and so did his steps. He motioned Thomas back to the carriage, and the man left without a word.

  Annabella stood stock still; if she knew he was there she didn't show it. A wooden narrowboat bobbed at the dock, riding high in the water. Empty then. No one else was about. A whinny filtered from the stables behind the dock. One of the towing horses anxious to get to work, perhaps?

  The wind lifted several strands of her hair that had fallen free. The urge to take off her hat and loosen the rest so it could blow in the breeze nearly overwhelmed him.

  How many times had Jon stood in that very place and imagined taking a journey along the canal to… anywhere?

  “It’s quicker to take the post to London,” he said softly. “But if you’re wondering, the canals will get you there eventually — and without the jolting and jarring.”

  “A boat just left,” she said without looking at him. “It looked like a long, long log floating in the water. The pilot climbed aboard, and the man leading the horses just started walking. How odd to think of horses pulling a boat through the water.”

  “They can pull a much heavier load on the water than over land.” Jon rolled his eyes at his inanity. She didn’t need a lesson in shipping by canal boat. You know what she needs…

  He stepped closer so they stood side by side, staring over the water. He had so much to say to her, but the words wouldn’t form.

  “There is, you know,” she said quietly.

  “Beg pardon?” Had he voiced a thought aloud without realizing it? When he turned, she was regarding him openly, without guile.

  “You asked if I might find something about you to tolerate.”

  The breeze whipped up again, sending her flowery scent to tease him. She touched her tongue to her lips and slowly rolled the bottom one inward.

  “I…” How could he answer that? He had asked the question, after all.

  “I find quite a few things about you tolerable… more than tolerable, actually.” Her face colored up, but she didn’t look away. “You’re kind, but you don’t like others to know.”

  He stiffened at the near direct hit.

  “I like how you think quickly. Nothing affects you that you can’t overcome.”

  He wasn’t so certain of that.

  “Nothing seems to surprise you.”

  Now there, she was wrong. She surprised him every day.

  Annabella shifted her gaze back to the water. “Did you ever wonder what it would be like to get on one of those boats and just be carried away on the water?”

  “Every day since I was a boy,” he said, smiling at childhood memories that suddenly flashed through his mind. “My father brought me down here often when I was young, and we’d spend hours watching them loading and unloading the boats. Silk, satin ribbon, iron… I’ve always felt trapped on land ever since my first day here. So much so that I developed the notion of starting a shipping company.” He wanted to drape his arm around her shoulders or at least take her hand.

  He did neither.

  Silence fell between them, enhanced by the gentle slap of water against the dock and the distant hum of conversation along the street behind them.

  Why had he told her his dream? She couldn’t possibly be interested.

  “My father — my real father — was in shipping,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. She angled her gaze in his direction and the same sentiment reflected in her eyes. “Price Company. Business took him away a lot, and I missed him dreadfully. Mother and I hardly got on at all. But oh, how I loved Papa. He always seemed to be leaving…”

  She returned her gaze to the canal but her voice was so dreamy and faraway, Jon knew it wasn’t the water she was seeing. “When he came back, he brought me presents and sugar-stick candy — lemon and peppermint. And I felt like I was the only person in the world who mattered to him.” She held up her fan. “This was the gift he brought me from the last trip he took. He finally stayed home, but he—” Her sharp intake of breath might have been a sob, but after a moment, she continued with a quaver in her voice. “He died less than two years later.”

  The slash to Jon’s heart was sudden and unexpected, the emotional pain so exquisite he nearly staggered with it. But if he felt such anguish, what must she be feeling? To have carried the torment all tho
se years since her father’s death — it was unbearable to think about.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were woefully inadequate, of course, but he’d had to say something.

  “I think of him often,” she admitted with a sad smile. “But something about being here makes me feel closer to him.”

  “Maybe he’s nearer than you think.” Jon slipped his hand around hers and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  Silence cocooned them again, more comfortable than the previous quiet had been. After a moment, she returned his squeeze. The heaviness in Jon’s heart abruptly lifted, and a peculiar sensation of floating above the ground jolted his awareness. Maybe the conversation he’d intended to have with her could wait after all.

  “Annie?”

  She sighed and raised an eyebrow but didn’t correct him. “Yes?”

  “There’s something I like about you as well.”

  A nervous laugh slipped from her lips. “Really… I can’t imagine what.”

  “Your spark… your inner fire.”

  A lovely smile bloomed on her face.

  Jon only wished he’d told her sooner. He couldn’t do anything about that. But there was one thing he could do. “Come along then.”

  She giggled, and he embraced the tinkling sound of her unequivocal happiness.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Market Street, Horne’s Sweet Shoppe.” He smiled down at her, pleased to see the shadows were leaving her eyes. “I’ve a taste for some lemon stick candy.”

  At his words, she turned and flung herself into his embrace, twining her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him in a tight hug. A most unseemly hug.

  He hugged her back. Then he gestured toward the coach, and they began walking. As they passed the printer’s shop, though, Annabella halted and peered at a notice in the window.

  “Seabrook, do you know what the Mercian Bowmen Archery Society is?”

  Her question brought him up short. He hadn’t thought of the Society in several years. “Yes, Gran is a member… as… am I.” He bent forward to read the notice she pointed at, announcing the next tournament. “They hold several of these contests throughout the year.”