The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8)

by Heather Boyd

  “Today,” she insisted.

  He scowled her. “You go too far, Miss Crewe.”

  She shrugged, shook out her black cloth and began rolling it up.

  He stared at the material without realizing what he was seeing for a long moment. “What is that?”

  Whitney shook out the material again and waved a pair of paint-smeared black silk breeches under his nose. “Have you missed these, my lord?”

  His lost breeches. He reached for them, but Whitney was quicker. She packed them away in her little box. “You cannot have them back now. They’ve come in quite handy.”

  “You shrew,” he whispered in horror.

  “If I was a shrew, I’d have already told your intended what you were doing the night before you met her,” she warned.

  He looked away, feeling guilty and ashamed. The one night he’d been incautious of his honor in society was the one time he’d truly felt free. Having the woman turn out to be Whitney Crewe, cousin of an earl, an acquaintance of his intended bride, was a source of embarrassment to him. If he’d known her name, connections, he’d never have touched her. “Why haven’t you?”

  “I’ve never particularly enjoyed sharing my mistakes with the world,” she admitted. “My cousin would have locked me up and thrown away the key if he’d learned of that night.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he replied.

  He stood quickly, glancing down the hill as he suddenly remembered why he’d rushed to Whitney’s side.

  The herd was meandering up the hillside now, cropping long grass as they went. He scanned the herd for the bull and saw him sniffing round one of the females. For now the beast was distracted, but soon…

  “You have to leave.”

  He glanced down, just as the pages of Miss Crewe’s sketchbook fluttered, revealing glimpses of her art. He focused on that. A hand, an eye, the line of muscle down a long leg. From this angle, she seemed quite accurate. He twisted to see more. A man’s leg, perhaps, thigh bare and knee bent.

  Whitney snapped up the book and tore out a different sheet. “Here. You might as well have this.”

  He stared at the sheet in shock. It was a portrait of a naked man without a face. “Are you mad? Who is this scoundrel?”

  She laughed. “It is funny that you don’t recognize yourself. I thought it a fair likeness.”

  He glanced at the sketch, noting certain private parts were drawn in great detail. It did look a bit like him, but she’d flattered his figure quite a bit, he felt. “Why would you draw me like that? When did you draw it?”

  “I drew it today. I’m unfortunately cursed with an excellent memory, and sometimes I must draw what is in my head and not my heart, in order to move on to other things.” She pulled a face. “Like all expectant brides, Alice seems nervous about the wedding night. Perhaps a sketch of what her future holds might calm her anxiety about the future.”

  He choked. “Any gently reared young woman would faint to be shown such an image of their intended before marriage. It couldn’t possibly calm Alice.”

  “It should,” Whitney murmured, and then straightened, holding her box to her chest. “The human body is a thing of beauty and grace, and you have nothing to be ashamed of, my lord. Anyway, give it to her whenever you like or do not. It makes no difference to me.”

  Everett tore the drawing into tiny pieces and threw them to blow away on the wind. “Do not draw me again.”

  “Believe me, I never want to.”

  He raked his hand through his hair, hoping she meant it. “How can you call yourself her friend and draw that sketch of me? We don’t even like each other.”

  “True,” she said with a soft laugh. Whitney stood, tucked her paint box under her arm and clutched her sketchbook. “Goodbye, Lord Acton. I expect to learn you’ve confessed your sins to Lord Taverham by the end of the day, or I will do it for you.”

  He heard the bellow, and shouts of alarm from his men, before Whitney had moved out of range. “Damn. Come here.”

  He caught her arm in a tight grip, urged her to his horse, and then tossed her up into the saddle before she had time to protest his rough handling.

  “Is that sound what I think it is?” Whitney immediately swung her leg over the horse’s neck so she could ride astride. She looked around as he set his foot to the stirrup. “Why didn’t Taverham warn me his bull had been put out with the herd?” she complained, eyes wide on the approaching animal as it began to run up the hill toward them.

  Everett mounted behind Whitney and settled her closer against his chest before urging his mount around. “Because that is my bull, my herd, and you’ve mistakenly wandered onto my land. I came to warn you.”

  “Took you long enough to tell me,” she grumbled. Whitney leaned into him, holding her belongings tightly to her chest. “Can we please go now? He looks very cross.”

  “He always is,” Everett murmured as he kicked his horse to a gallop, swept down the other side of the hill facing the Taverham’s estate. The bull would tire long before half a mile had passed, but he headed for the nearest boundary, a high stone wall and ladder gate through which Whitney could use to return home safely.

  When he finally saw the boundary, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The bull hadn’t pursued them far, as his own men had managed to cut off the beast and were driving it in the other direction.

  With the danger past, he slowed to a walk and loosened his hold on Whitney.

  He grinned as she tugged her gown over her bare knees.

  “There,” he said. “Safe again.”

  Even as he said the words, he knew he was stretching the truth a bit. He hadn’t noticed when it had happened but he now sported an erection. The movement of Whitney’s shapely derrière against his crotch was the most maddening sensation. He tightened his grip around her waist to hopefully lessen the friction.

  Whitney stiffened. “I must admit, I don’t feel very safe in your arms right now. Is that…?”

  “Yes. My apologies,” he said, cursing his body under his breath. He stopped when they reached the ladder gate, swung off the horse, and lifted his hands up to Whitney. “I promise to behave.”

  His wayward organ twitched again at the very sight of Whitney riding astride his horse. It made him imagine other things, pleasures and positions he’d never share with her.

  He bit his lip, determined to hide what he was thinking.

  A ghost of a smile twitched over Whitney’s full lips, then she fell into his arms. Everett lowered her gently to the ground and stepped back. Whitney immediately started smoothing her skirts.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, then wrinkled her nose. “I always seem to look a little rumpled no matter what I do.”

  He considered suggesting she shouldn’t drive a carriage and four in the dark as she had the night of her arrival, if that was so, but he suddenly didn’t want to ruin the peaceful moment between them.

  “You always look lovely,” he promised.

  Whitney punched her hands to her hips. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment, Acton.”

  “It was sincere.” He blinked in surprise that he was not helping himself by revealing he might find her attractive. What was he doing, saying nice things to her anyway? He shouldn’t be complimenting Whitney Crewe. He should save that sort of business, flirting and such, for his future bride.

  He felt his cheeks heating and fiddled with the reins as guilt filled him. Whitney may occasionally look a little windblown, especially when compared to Alice’s pristine perfection, but such untidiness suited her, particularly in the countryside. “Walk up that rise and you will see the main house not far away. I’m sure you can find your own way home now.”

  He mounted his horse.

  “Acton,” Whitney called. “Thank you for your aid today.”

  “A pleasure,” he promised. He tipped his hat. “Until we meet again, Miss Crewe.”

  Reluctantly, he glanced her way and saw her s
miling up at him, a pair of distracting dimples on full display. “Until our next misadventure, my lord,” she promised.

  Chapter Eleven

  Whitney trudged up the hill alone, her step light and a feeling of peace filling her soul. She didn’t look back to see if Lord Acton watched her go because she suspected he was still there, making sure she stayed out of harm’s way.

  She smiled and pulled a stem of wild grass to twist between her fingers as she walked along. She was terrible, wasn’t she? Flirting, just a little, with an engaged man. She should be ashamed, but all she felt was intense relief to have been mistaken about his reasons for keeping Emily’s location quiet.

  He was conflicted, and that was not an easy feeling to reconcile.

  He wasn’t a monster. Yes, his sister had been scheming to make trouble for her friends. And yes, he had dallied with Whitney when he ought not to have given her a second glance. He was marrying an exquisite woman, the perfect bride. Alice was everything a proper gentleman could want in a wife.

  Acton was charmingly protective, and it surprised her that she did not mind it in the least. He had spirited her away from what would have been certain injury, perhaps even death, from a misadventure of her own making.

  And he was clearly upset that his evil sister was dying of consumption.

  He suffered no weakness of character for showing compassion for the woman. He should have told his friends about Emily, but she could understand he was hesitant to upset them or make them live in fear again.

  He might be a good man after all, though still far too handsome to completely ignore. She liked to look at him a little too much and too often. But she would draw one last sketch of him tonight and then tuck it away in her private collection. She would draw him on his knees, holding her hand as he asked after her health with such fear in his eyes it had made her heart skip a beat.

  She had been happy today with him, if only briefly.

  Lord Acton wasn’t the heartless scoundrel she’d made him out to be in her own mind, but she could not allow any further lapses of propriety to happen between them. He was marrying Alice Quartermane and that was the end of it.

  The hub of activity in the Taverhams’ country home revolved around the kitchen garden, and Whitney made her way there. There were a few servants out and about in the garden, and she greeted each one as she made her way to an open doorway. Upon arriving at the estate, Miranda had taken over a chamber closest to the garden—for the view of the activity, she said—and Whitney could see her poring over her ledgers in the sunlight.

  Whitney picked a sprig of rosemary and bruised it with her hands, making the scent wrap around her in soothing waves.

  “We need rain,” Miranda complained as Whitney joined her inside.

  “It will come,” Whitney promised, seating herself near Miranda and opening her sketchbook to a new page. Miranda looked lovely with the sun behind her like that. She began to sketch the marchioness’ face as she worked. “It always does.”

  Miranda frowned at her ledger, tapping her pencil against the pages briskly. “Forgive me for worrying out loud. I’m not used to these matters, or living here yet. Managing an estate of this size is quite a lot of work.”

  Whitney sat in a nearby chair and smiled at her friend. “What does the dowager have to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you asked her for advice?”

  “I’ve thought about it, but she is as warm to me today as the day I returned.”

  Whitney looked up. “Is that a surprise, given the marquess is avoiding her?”

  “Not really.” Miranda rubbed her brow. “Damn it all. I cannot concentrate today.”

  “Is there something on your mind?”

  “Oh, everything. The weather, the harvest, the state of the wine cellar…” She laughed as she left the desk and sank into a spot beside Whitney. “Tell me you are enjoying your visit.”

  “I am enjoying my visit very much,” she promised, twisting to rest her arm across the back of the chaise so she could still sketch the marchioness. She leaned upon her free hand, and talked as she moved her pencil with the other. “I’ve never been to this part of the country, and it’s lovely. Green and lush. Just the way I always imagined. My uncle Yardley would have said even a dead seed would grow here in a drought.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, just how many homes have you lived in? You mention so many uncles and aunts I can barely keep track.”

  “Seven homes in sixteen years. Four uncles, two aunts, and then I lived with my cousin, Martin.”

  “I wonder that you were never eager for a home of your own? My years of wandering about have made me appreciate what I have now more than I might have done as a younger wife.”

  “I managed some of them, especially for my unmarried uncles. They always employed terrible housekeepers,” she said with a fond laugh. “But now, how could I commit to managing a home, my husband’s estate, and still hope to see something of the world? If I married, my husband would control my fortune. He would control my future, too. I don’t imagine many would allow their wives to paint scandalously unclad gentlemen for the sake of her art.”

  “Oh, I am sure you are correct on that score. Many men would find that sort of thing an embarrassment and an attack on their masculinity.” Whitney giggled but Miranda continued. “Responsibilities can put a damper on travel, but I would hope for your sake that there might be one man with an open mind who could fall in love with you and let you see the world, too. For me, it is such an effort just thinking about returning to Town next year for the season, with all this yet to understand.” Miranda sank back with a weary sigh, took up Whitney’s free hand and squeezed. “You know, Martin once claimed you’d never married because you were disappointed in love in your first season.”

  She burst out laughing. “Does he still believe that? I never said anything of the sort to him, but it is not my fault if my cousin chose to latch on to the only thing my aunt Thomasina said that made sense.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” Miranda’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Been swept away by a gentleman and thought maybe, maybe he’s the one for me.”

  Whitney winced. “Well, if I had, you can tell that I’ve never received a proposal of marriage from him. Love and marriage have never been issues I had to decide upon one way or the other.”

  Miranda studied her closely. “Whoever he was has no sense, and therefore could never deserve such a woman in their life.”

  For a response, Whitney laughed rather than agreed.

  “So, tell me more about this trip you wish to take,” Miranda asked. “When exactly does your adventure begin?”

  Whitney told the marchioness her itinerary for the journey, her hopes for the adventure on foreign soil, and dreams of mingling with like-minded individuals. “What I’ve learned from my time in London society is that I’m not suited to doing the usual thing expected of proper young ladies.”

  “I think you fit in with some people we know well,” Miranda suggested.

  “But not with the majority, and that is a mark against me. Even Alice thinks I’m strange. She is so fixed upon making a good match, but doesn’t understand that having a husband could mean putting her dreams on hold forever if she had any others. I haven’t the selflessness to give up everything I’ve longed for the way she has.”

  Miranda nodded, as if she understood. “Does it frighten you to think that you will be so far from everything you’ve known? And everybody you love?”

  “A little, but I intend to write often.”

  “I’m glad, because you know I won’t sleep well—”

  “They’re here. They’re here!” Christopher bellowed as he burst through the door from the garden and then rushed away toward the entrance hall of the house, screaming about it at the top of his lungs.

  Whitney grinned at the marchioness. “I think you have more guests.”

  “Shall we go and greet them too?” Miranda asked with a laugh.

 
Whitney nodded and followed after Miranda, listening to the rush of feet in all parts of the house. New arrivals meant more work for everyone. A trio of carriages were coming along the drive at a sprightly pace and by the time Whitney gained the front steps, the carriages were drawing to a halt before them.

  Whitney curled her hands over Christopher’s shoulders to hold him still as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “Wait. It may not be them.”

  Just then, small heads popped out of all the carriage windows, and then more hands than the heads should owned began to wave frantically.

  “It is them!” Christopher promised.

  “I think you must be correct,” Whitney agreed, happy for the boy that he would have playmates his own age at last.

  The family disembarked, a melee of children and servants and luggage around a pair of very rumpled parents.

  Having met the couple before in London, Whitney held her arms out for baby Elliot even while pressing a kiss to the sagging mother’s cheek. “How lovely to see you again, Lady Carrington,” she murmured. “Let me give your arms a rest.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Lady Carrington immediately turned to her cousin and hugged the marchioness tightly.

  After a moment, Miranda began to squirm. “Agatha, my dear, a little air?”

  “Sorry,” the woman said with a laugh as she drew back, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. “I’m still astonished every time I see you.”

  Miranda cupped Agatha’s cheek, and then looked about them at the gathering children. “My word, you’ve all grown so much I barely recognize you all.”

  Lord Carrington backed away and shook hands with the marquess, who was late arriving to greet the newcomers.

  Whitney looked about for Christopher, and saw him standing with his arm draped over one of the children’s shoulders. The pretty little girl was nattering to him nonstop about their trip, from what she could tell.