How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3

by Katharine Ashe

  “Your valuables, if you will?” He gestured back toward her luggage.

  “I wonder if that is what highwaymen say when accosting a lady on a road.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Miss Lucas.”

  “My valuables.” She opened the trunk and repacked the bandbox efficiently. “Will we walk?” she asked as he attached the bandbox to Galahad’s saddle.

  “Unless you have a magic carpet hidden in that trunk.”

  “If I had a magic carpet I would be in Calais already.” Her eyes were troubled. But it was well after noon and the edge was pressing at his blood, his limbs unsteady again and his temper no better. So he left her to her ruminations and they walked in silence until the posting house came into view.

  “This one is not very grand, is it? The inn in that village yesterday was so comfortable.”

  “The taproom here is no less so.” Whiskey could be gotten within.

  “Walking is invigorating, but truth be told I am simply . . .” Her gaze fluttered past his mouth. “ . . . famished.”

  Drawing a slow breath, he scanned her bedraggled cloak and the muddy hem of her gown. She was an unusual girl, or perhaps despite her noble family merely a country girl accustomed to such walks. And with her cheeks flushed and brow damp from exertion, she was damnably pretty.

  Inside the posting house, he went to the bar and ordered food for her, and whiskey. Across the rough-hewn taproom peopled with laborers, a single patron appeared out of place. A slim man, garbed all in brown and still wearing his rain-spattered hat, sat in the farthest corner with his back to the wall. Familiar. He’d seen this man on the road to recover Lady Priscilla.

  Wyn paid for the bottle and glanced again. The man lowered his gaze.

  “The Hereford and London Coach is to stop here shortly,” he said when he returned to the table.

  “Perfect. Will there be time to eat first?”

  He withheld a smile. “Miss Lucas, you must reconsider your program. Although it astounds me after last night, I think you cannot be fully aware of the dangers of the road.”

  “Those are what you are here for, of course. As you were last night in that stable.” Her eyes flared with a joyful sort of intention. Then, for a moment, confused awareness shadowed them. Wyn could do nothing to ease her discomfort; his hands and lips still remembered her and he was again without speech. His friends would be astonished were they to witness him now, struck silent by a pair of blue eyes and the memory of a soft feminine body pressed to his.

  The barman set a plate of food before her. Her eyes twinkled. “How did you know shepherd’s pie is my favorite, Mr. Yale?”

  She swung so easily from thoughtful stillness to animated delight. Both attitudes made him want to haul her against him and caress considerably more than one round buttock. It was damned provoking.

  “I did not,” he managed to reply. “But I feared ordering the roast, as you might be disappointed by comparison.”

  “You are considerate. Or merely teasing. But you are not eating again.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you only drink?”

  “When I am escorting young ladies about the countryside against my will, yes.” Never, even when he was doing so voluntarily. But Diantha Lucas was not a Falcon Club assignment. She was apparently his own personal sort of torture.

  She seemed to study him as she chewed. Finally she set down her fork and pushed the plate toward him. “Try some. It’s excellent.”

  “Thank you. I will take your word for it.”

  “You look at least a stone lighter than the last time I saw you.” She glanced at the bottle of brandy. “My father used to drink prodigiously. He rarely ate too.”

  “Ah. Then you and I have something in common.” The words came without thought. More unprecedented behavior.

  Her brows perked. “Your father too?”

  “Prodigiously.”

  “Mine died of a stomach ulcer.”

  Pain tweaked Wyn’s belly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “It was a dozen years ago. I was barely seven. I think my mother drove him to it.” The blue of her eyes seemed to intensify. “Will you please help me, Mr. Yale? Willingly?”

  “No, Miss Lucas. I will not help you willingly. I wish you to return home and find a solution to reuniting with your mother that meets with the approval of your family.”

  Her berry-pink mouth settled into its little thoughtful twist, supple and frankly delectable. Wyn spoke again because, confronted with that delectable mouth on a girl he had no business thinking such thoughts about, he deeply wished for another glass of whiskey. But he would not go that route again, not while she still possessed earlobes like silk, a neck like cream, and a derriere that begged to be handled. Temptation was best faced sober. He reached into his coat pocket for a cigar. “You must allow me to see you home.”

  “I cannot. I must continue on my way.”

  “Do you plan on doing so by subterfuge again?”

  “Yes. I am quite certain that if you continue to press me on the matter, I will escape you again. But instead of stealing away in the middle of the night, which was inconvenient and won me a horrendous lecture from the innkeeper’s wife, I will probably declare to everyone here that you have abducted me from my home and are forcing me to elope with you. I would demand to see the constable.”

  “Elope?” His hand stalled halfway to his mouth. “As in, abduct with nefarious designs.”

  “Yes.”

  He set down the cigar. “Miss Lucas, what actual knowledge do you have of such elopements?”

  She tapped the fork tines against the plate. “Teresa has told me stories, you see.”

  “I am beginning to.”

  “In your black coat, boots, and hat you are an ideal candidate.”

  “My heroic status slips swiftly, it seems.”

  “Do you think so too?”

  “I am clearly becoming the villain of this piece.”

  “I suppose you are.”

  “It would not bother me in the least.” One constable being rather quite like another. “But tangling with the law will win you a swift journey home.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. While everyone is busy castigating you and you are busy defending yourself, I will slip away.”

  “However, now that I know that will be your plan, I will guard against it.”

  “I will devise another. You cannot win, Mr. Yale. I am determined.” Her eyes glittered with a martial light, but perhaps too brittle. She was not a girl; her shapely figure and the clean lines of her lovely face made that perfectly clear. A bit too clear for the clear-headedness two drams of whiskey had now provided him. When the dimples appeared, they performed precisely the effect upon him that she intended—if, that was, she understood men. Which she probably did not, at least not to that extent, whatever Miss Finch-Freeworth had told her. On the other hand, the mother that had disappeared four years earlier was a madam, or so it seemed, although he was not quite certain the baroness’s daughter entirely understood what that entailed either.

  She was an innocent, a naïve innocent with rather too much bottom, too little sense, and a great deal of willful intention. The impulse that had driven her to the stable the night before proved it. But the glitter in her very blue eyes now suggested that her need was quite sincere—that this was, in fact, not at all a game to her.

  Outside, the sounds of a coach and six rumbled, and the barkeep called out, “Hereford to London Coach!” over the murmur of conversations.

  “You refuse to be swayed?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “I cannot convince you otherwise? Perhaps to return home now and enlist the aid of your brother-in-law, the earl?”

  “Certainly not. Alex despises my mother, and I could not ask that of my stepsister. Serena is a saint and loves everybody in the world except my mother.”

  “Why is that?”

  She tilted her head. “Do you know, Mr. Yale, I believe yo
u are trying to distract me so that I will miss my coach.” She gathered her bonnet and stood up. “So I bid you good day and happy journey, although I do sincerely wish you were coming with me to aid me in my search and perform the duties of a hero. But, alas, that dream is not to be.” She cast him an oddly sad smile and went to the door.

  He went after her.

  He grasped her elbow to stay her and bent his head, and her scent of wild sunshine caressed him. “Miss Lucas, allow me to speak plainly,” he said quietly with only the slightest huskiness in his voice. “You ask me to play a role now when you will not do so yourself. You must admit that your determination and nerve do not resemble the qualities of a damsel in distress.”

  She seemed to stiffen. She replied in barely a whisper.

  “Mr. Yale, I am not foolish. I know that what I am doing is dangerous and will win me chastisement, perhaps ruination. But . . .” Her lush lower lip quivered, although it seemed she fought to control it. “But I must do this. When I was fifteen my mother left me without a glance good-bye and without explanation. My stepfather, brother, and sisters are reticent to speak of her. Though I wish to pretend she does not exist, and have endeavored to do so for four years, I find I cannot. And, you see, it hurts rather more than I can bear.” She lifted her gaze to him, sincere need in her lapis eyes. “It was an accident that you happened upon me. But now you must allow me to go and make my way of it, and forget you ever saw me. I give you leave to do so with good conscience.”

  There was nothing for it. He could not do as she bid.

  “I will not allow you to go alone.” He released her arm, for to touch her, he realized now, was a great mistake. “I will assist you.”

  The transformation that came over her face hollowed out a space in his lungs. Her hand darted to his and clasped it, her blue eyes sparkling, wide, and despite all, trusting.

  “You are a hero. And a gentleman.”

  At present, Wyn knew he was neither. The old anger of vengeance fueled an impatience to be about his own mission that was all but heroic. And the heat of her touch through damp kidskin worked beneath his skin so that it required little imagination to strip the glove from those slender fingers and imagine feeling her. Once the glove went in his imagination, other feminine garments did as well. Quite swiftly. She was far too pretty, and he had been without a woman for far too long. He had not touched another’s skin in far too long. Except hers, too briefly.

  No, his thoughts were not in the least gentlemanly now.

  Chapter 5

  He drew his hand from hers. “Do you see the bar master behind me? He does not believe that you are my sister.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “His low character, no doubt.”

  The dimples flashed. “That character leads him to wicked conclusions, you suspect?”

  God, what had he done to deserve this? But sins would be punished, after all.

  “He was reluctant to serve a girl of your appearance who enters his establishment on foot without a maid or luggage. I was obliged to convince him that it would be in his best interests.”

  Her lips twisted. “You crossed his palm with silver.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Threats worked too, and they were less expensive.

  Her gaze darted about the taproom. “If I had a maid or companion, do you think he and others upon the road would draw such conclusions?”

  He followed her attention to the corner where a woman slumped against the wall in sleep. She was over middle age and garbed in drab, a knit scarf wound about her neck. Miss Lucas’s brow creased in contemplation.

  Wyn found himself smiling. “A plan is in the making, I imagine.”

  She flashed him a quick grin. “She was on the coach. We had a lovely chat before the dog and I went onto the roof. She is going to Stafford, but I believe she has lost that opportunity.”

  “And why do you believe this?”

  “The schedule.” She pointed to the placard beside the door and chuckled, a light, rippling sound of simple pleasure. “Good heavens, and you say you have traveled?” Her eyes danced.

  He swallowed over the dryness in his throat and glanced at the man in brown.

  “Then on to your plan, madam.”

  When they stood before the sleeping woman, Miss Lucas leaned down. “Ma’am? Do wake up. I believe you have missed your coach.”

  The sleeper’s nose twitched and she opened protuberant eyes.

  “I have? Well, dear me.” She shrugged off her slumber and straightened her muffler. “Hello, miss. I was terribly sorry that nasty coachman put you off. The little dog wasn’t so much of a trouble.”

  “Oh, thank you. This is Mr. Yale. We have come over to assist you.”

  “Have you, then? What a dear you are. Good day to you, sir.” She gave him a studying perusal, her smile fading.

  “But what is your plan now?” Miss Lucas asked. “Will you take the next coach to Stafford? It comes by tomorrow.”

  “Well, miss, they said if I weren’t there by today I’d lose the position.”

  “Yet you seem untroubled about this,” Wyn said.

  “I’m not, sir. Happens all the time. Can’t help myself. I drop off to sleep like that”—she snapped fingers as round as tea cakes—“and lose my positions left and right.”

  “She was on her way to be hired companion to an elderly lady,” Miss Lucas explained. “But to allow so little time to travel seems very harsh. Will you await the next London coach?”

  “I will, though I’ve barely a penny, seeing as how I’ve been out of a position for some time now, my last employer having something of a dark spirit and putting it about that I weren’t fit for a lady.”

  Miss Lucas glanced at him and her eyes sparkled.

  “Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Polley, sir. Married Mr. Polley in ’ninety-two and lost him to Old Boney in ’thirteen.”

  “Mrs. Polley, might you be inclined to assist us now, and earn your journey back to London?”

  “I would as long as the work’s honest, sir.” She looked between them, guardedly now.

  “My sister requires a chaperone upon our journey yet sadly lacks one. We were forced to leave our previous residence in haste and hadn’t time to plan. So you see we are in need of a lady such as yourself.”

  Her eyes slitted like cut melons. “Now see here, sir, I’ve not been living in a hole in the ground these past fifty-five years and I’ve a strong suspicion the two of you aren’t related.”

  Miss Lucas laughed. “Oh, not at all. What’s more, I am intended for Mr. H, a much less handsome gentleman who admires me immensely and will make a very good life for me. But I have a task I must accomplish before then—to rescue my mother from a Den of Iniquity—and I’ve set out on the road to do so. It was only by accident that I happened upon Mr. Yale, who is a particular friend of my family, and he has kindly agreed to assist me.”

  Mrs. Polley’s demeanor did not alter. “Have you now, sir?”

  “I thought it best, under the circumstances.”

  “So you see he is not kidnapping me or encouraging me to elope with him across the border or any such nonsense.”

  “No nonsense whatsoever,” he murmured with that slight smile that made Diantha’s belly dance.

  “Not only that, but he was insisting to me only a moment ago that I must have a chaperone, and here you are stranded and without a position. It seems serendipitous.”

  Mrs. Polley did not now take her eyes off Mr. Yale. “Well I don’t know fancy words, miss, but it does seem like a pot of good fortune that we’ve come across each other.” She gave Diantha a careful look. “And you say this gentleman here is known to your kin?”

  “Quite well known.”

  Mrs. Polley seemed to chew on the inside of her cheek.

  Diantha couldn’t wait. “Then we are all for Bristol together?”

  Mrs. Polley shifted her attention to her. “Den of Iniquity, you say?”

  “You needn’t remain in Miss
Lucas’s service once we reach our destination if you do not wish to be associated with it, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Polley stood, her double chin quite firm when brought to the height of perhaps four and a half feet. “I’ll remain as long as I see fit, sir, which will be as long as you’re trailing miss about the countryside here. She is a fine girl, this one.” She patted Diantha’s arm. “And I’ll not have any fellow who claims he’s friendly taking advantage of her. I’ll stay until I’m certain I’m needed no longer.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, ma’am.” He bowed.

  Diantha grinned. She cast him another quick glance as Mrs. Polley gathered her belongings, but he was looking at her with very sober eyes now. Her stomach did somersaults. When he looked at her like this, serious and still, it was again borne in upon her that she knew very little of him, and the notion came to her that the moment on the road when he’d looked dangerous might in fact have revealed the real man, the rest only a facade.

  The traveling trunk was retrieved from the road and Mrs. Polley’s luggage gathered, and Wyn saw the ladies into the next southerly bound coach. But before departing he had a private conversation with a quiet lad delivering sacks of grain to the stable—a tall youth whose clothing hung on his frame and who stared at the bone the mongrel was chewing with the eyes of starvation.

  With grim satisfaction, Wyn approached him. He’d been at this work for a decade. He knew well how to pick his man.

  A coin and very few words later, the lad was nodding in assent.

  “I’ll do it gladly, sir. Pa went off to fight the Frenchies and never came back, and me and Ma have been trying to keep my five brothers in shoes and porridge, without much luck. I’ll take this to her”—he gestured with his palm gripped around the coin—“and start off to Devonshire right away. Little Joe’s nearly as big as me now. He’ll take care of the others while I’m gone.”

  “The contents of that pouch should be sufficient to hire a horse and pay for room and board along the road, William.”

  “Don’t need but a stack of hay to sleep in, sir.”