The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Perhaps because she is.”

  “You know, I do believe you’re right.” She shook her head, her tone indulgent. “When she told me she’d secured a pair of breeches to run in, I vow I was quite envious!”

  “I think they become her.”

  Delia laughed. “I find I quite agree with you. Maybe she’ll set a fashion.” She turned away from him, her canary-yellow parasol twirling on her shoulder.

  In truth, Gerrit had decided at the last minute not to race, because he’d much rather watch Miss Leighton run. He was secretly hoping she’d win and show up all those overweening dandies who fancied themselves Corinthians.

  Delia’s husband directed the men to their places. At his nod, the butler fired a pistol into the air.

  The runners were off. It was then Gerrit noticed Miss Leighton ran barefoot. She was swift, her long legs eating up the turf. She reminded him of a young colt running free. Her braid flew out behind her, her eyes narrowed in concentration, her hands balled into fists.

  She quickly left the majority of men behind. The course was one-hundred yards and the only contest was between her, Astley and Billingsley. But Miss Leighton beat them both, seeming to take a final leap across the finishing ribbon a hair ahead of Astley.

  Gerrit smiled, seeing the grim look on Billingsley’s face.

  After that there were more races, one of which had to be run backwards. The crowd roared with laughter as the contestants kept falling atop each other.

  Delia presented the winners with ivy crowns the women had woven the day before.

  As the crowd thinned out, individuals squaring their bets, Gerrit lingered at the edge of the lawn. Spotting Miss Leighton alone, he sauntered over to her. For once Billingsley wasn’t hovering. Probably gone off to sulk.

  “Congratulations,” he told her when he reached her.

  She smiled up at him. He felt captivated by her smile, the way he did each time. It reminded him of a time in his boyhood when he still knew how to take delight in things.

  “Oh, it was really no contest. You didn’t participate.”

  He shrugged. “What makes you think I could beat anyone here?”

  “You’re taller than the rest, for one. That and the fact that you’re used to marching for miles. You appear very fit, major.”

  “Not as fit as I once was.” Too much debauchery over too many nights, he refrained from adding.

  “Why don’t we determine the real outcome now?”

  “The real outcome?”

  “I mean, let’s race now.” She glanced around. “Everyone’s gone.”

  “You mean you against me?” What was her aim?

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You won your race fairly and squarely. You needn’t pit your skills against mine.”

  “I’d like to. I like to run.”

  “You silly child.”

  “Hardly that.” She half-turned from him. “Well, if you are afraid I’d be a poor loser and cry and carry on like some of the young gentlemen today…”

  He laughed. “You noticed. I don’t think Lord Billingsley was too pleased at being shown up by a young lady.”

  She joined in his laughter. “He’ll get over it by dinnertime, I imagine. So you’ll run one race with me?” Her look was so eager, he didn’t have the heart to refuse.

  “Very well, if it will make you happy.”

  “Come on. Here’s the starting line. Let’s do the first race.”

  “If we must.” As he spoke, he removed his jacket and laid it carefully on the grass. He debated removing his boots, but then shook his head at his own folly. Did it really matter how he ran? He wasn’t about to compete with a child.

  Before he knew what she was about, she’d put two fingers to her lips and issued a shrill whistle. One of the stable boys turned back from where he was heading toward the stables. At his look, she nodded and waved him over. When he arrived, she told him, “Now, Tom, I want you to say, ‘On your mark,’ then ‘go’ when you see us lined up and ready, just like Lord Stanchfield did earlier. Think you can do that?”

  “Yes, miss, ’course I can.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She gave the lad a smile that would warm any man’s heart, then turned to join Gerrit at the imaginary starting line.

  The moment the boy shouted “Go!” the thrill of the race took over and Gerrit ran his hardest. It was only when it was over that he realized he’d come in before Miss Leighton.

  “There, didn’t I tell you? You beat me by a good two yards. Congratulations.” She extended her hand to him, her smile as pleased as if she had won the race herself.

  As he took her slim hand in his, his gaze traveled the length of her. Her braid was disheveled, her face was overheated and she positively glowed. Her lithe, erect stance made the rough garments gain a strange appeal. Gerrit swallowed, realizing he’d never have given her boyish figure a second glance in the past. What was it about her that suddenly gave him such a jolt of awareness? There was something about her spirit—its freedom, its absolute lack of artifice—that enthralled him.

  “You were just tired from your earlier exertions,” he said, hardly aware of what he was saying.

  “Fiddlesticks. If you don’t believe me, we can race again tomorrow.”

  He pulled her braid and laughed. “Very well. I won, and we’ll have done with it. Satisfied?”

  She agreed and bent down to pick up his jacket.

  He took it from her and the two started walking across the lawn together.

  “Soon, my brother, Jamie, will beat me the way you did. I’m so used to racing ahead of him, but I’ve heard he’s shot up in stature during the time I’ve been away.”

  He heard the affection in her voice. “Do you miss him much?”

  “Oh, terribly. I miss all my family. But I shall go back soon.”

  He felt a sudden tremor. What would it be like when she was gone—and he’d never see her again? He shook aside the thought. She was just another—albeit somewhat more original—young lady whose memory would be effaced by next season’s crop, each group disappearing into the anonymity of matrimony.

  That evening, Gerrit was late leaving the dinner table. One of the young men had cornered him with a long discussion of beating the odds at faro. When he finally managed to break away, he glanced at his watch. He hoped Miss Leighton had waited for him.

  As he left the dining room, a footman handed him a note. He broke it open and glanced at the signature. Miss Leighton’s. He scanned the contents. It said only that she was fatigued “from the races” and had already retired to her room.

  Gerrit had never seen her handwriting, so he had no idea if she’d really penned the note, but he smelled a rat. He was rereading the note as he walked toward the drawing room, but now he turned and headed back to the dining room.

  Billingsley was gone. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen him last at the table.

  Gerrit went back into the corridor, his anger rising at the man’s audacity. He checked his usual meeting spot, but Miss Leighton was not there. He hesitated then headed out to the terrace to peer into the drawing room to see if Miss Leighton had indeed already left. He daren’t risk being delayed by anyone if he entered the drawing room himself.

  When he’d didn’t see her with the ladies, he walked back to the corridor and looked down the length of it. She was not at their usual meeting place. He crumpled the note in his fist.

  Should he go up to her room or look for her elsewhere? If she wasn’t in her room, he’d lose precious time. But perhaps she really was tired. Perhaps at that very moment Billingsley was escorting her to her room, meaning to take advantage of her up there, where no one was about.

  Gerrit couldn’t risk it. He turned and ran toward the stairs, cursing the size of his sister’s house.

  Hester exited the drawing room, already anticipating seeing Major Hawkes. She had to swallow her disappointment. She so looked forward to these few minutes in his company. To think she’d m
iss the pleasure this evening made her realize how much she was growing used to seeing him.

  Instead, she was surprised to see Lord Billingsley lounging against the wall, his arms folded. He straightened as she entered the corridor.

  “Good evening, Miss Leighton.”

  “Good evening, my lord. Are the gentlemen already finished?”

  “Not quite. They’ll be at their port for a while yet.”

  She looked at him, wondering what he was doing there.

  “I was waiting for you,” he said before she could ask him.

  “For me? Whatever for?”

  “I came to fetch you for Hawkes. He asked me to look for you here, as you’re wont to leave the assembly of ladies around this time.”

  She frowned, finding it strange the major would mention something like this to anyone. Was he a particular friend of Billingsley’s? She hadn’t noticed any closeness between the two.

  “He’s gone to get a spyglass. He asked me to bring you outside. There’s a curious phenomenon in the sky he’d like us to see.”

  “Oh, really?” Her interest immediately perked up. That sounded like something the major would do.

  “Yes, indeed. Come along, we can exit out through the terrace.”

  “Very well. What kind of phenomenon is it?” she asked, hurrying along beside him.

  When they reached the terrace, she was disappointed not to see the major right away. “Where is Major Hawkes?”

  Lord Billingsley pointed toward the lawn. “By the small temple. It’s a good vantage point the way it’s situated on a slight rise.”

  The two made their way along the gravel path. Hester wished Major Hawkes had come for her himself. She normally would never accompany a gentleman out at night down a secluded path.

  When they reached the circular, colonnaded temple, there was still no sign of Major Hawkes. Hester turned to the marquess. “Where could he be?”

  “Oh, he’ll be along. Probably trying to scrounge up that spyglass.”

  She turned away from Billingsley, unsure how to behave with him. She knew he was a flirt and she’d never encouraged him, but in the broad daylight he’d always seemed perfectly harmless. She certainly wasn’t going to enter the small temple alone with him.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” she said, trying to enjoy the warm evening atmosphere. She looked up at the star-studded sky. “I wonder what Major Hawkes saw. Oh!” She jumped as she felt Lord Billingsley’s hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t realize you were standing right there.”

  He didn’t remove his hand from her shoulder, but instead used it to propel her around to face him. “I’ve been waiting for a moment alone with you.”

  “W-whatever do you mean?” Suddenly his hand felt like a heavy iron. She swallowed, realizing her mistake in coming out alone with the marquess. Would the major be here soon? She peered into the dark shrubbery. Or had it all been a ruse? Her heart began to thump at the realization.

  He chuckled, a low noise in his throat. “I think you know perfectly well what I mean.”

  She took a decisive step back from him, her mind in a whirl. How was she to defuse the situation? Was he intoxicated? “I have no idea what you mean. We see each other every day.”

  “But not alone…and not in the semidarkness.”

  “I am not in the habit of being alone with young men in the semidarkness or elsewhere,” she answered tartly, knowing she mustn’t show any fear.

  “Oh, no? What do you call your nightly trysts with Hawkes?”

  “How did—” The question died on her lips. Had he been spying on her? “Those are different.”

  “Different? A well-known rake like Hawkes and a young lady, strolling alone on the terrace. Hawkes wouldn’t be able to help himself.”

  “Major Hawkes and I are simply friends. There is nothing improper in our short walks together. And they’re certainly not trysts! And moreover, I don’t see what business they are of yours.” She could feel herself getting more and more incensed at the thought that she had been spied upon.

  “When I find myself attracted to a young lady, I make it my business to know the competition.” He took a step toward her again, but she refused to back down from him.

  “Well, you can rest easy. Major Hawkes is no competition. We are merely friends.” At all costs, she must keep him talking.

  “That does ease my mind.”

  “I think I put that badly. The fact that Major Hawkes and I are friends doesn’t mean I am seeking the attention of any other gentleman.”

  He reached out his hand and touched her face.

  “Lord Billingsley, I must ask you to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “I find I cannot help myself.”

  “Of course you can. If you do not keep your hands at your sides, I must warn you I shall return to the house immediately.”

  “You shatter me.” As he spoke, he took her in his arms and brought his face down close to hers. “My, but you’re a tempting armful.”

  Hester pushed against his chest. “Lord Billingsley, you must stop this nonsense this instant!” She pushed harder, but he was immovable. “You are no gentleman!” she said through gritted teeth.

  His laughter was deep. “The fault is yours. You make me forget myself.”

  She moved her face this way and that, trying to dodge his kisses, but he was persistent. His breath smelled of brandy and his whiskers burned her face. Oh, why hadn’t she thought to take the pistol her father had given her, along in her reticule?

  “My lord, I told you you must stop this unseemly behavior immediately!”

  “And I continue to tell you I am helpless to stop.”

  “You are a gentleman, Lord Billingsley, and must behave as such.”

  “But you bring out the beast in me.”

  As his mouth came down to hers, she managed to free one of her hands enough to bring it back. The next second it cracked against his cheek.

  Billingsley cursed and brought a hand up to his face.

  “I am sorry to have been forced to do that, but you brought it upon yourself—”

  Before she could finish, he grabbed her roughly by the arms. “Why, you little tease—”

  Chapter Ten

  Gerrit raced back down the corridor from Miss Leighton’s room, having found no one there.

  Swearing at the length of the hallways, he finally reached the wide stairs and took them two at a time. Where could Billingsley have taken Miss Leighton?

  Outside, of course. Isn’t that what Gerrit himself would do if he were planning to seduce a young lady at a house party?

  He reached the terrace and scanned the length of it. Not a soul. His panic mounting, he descended the shallow steps to the gardens. There could be a million places a man would take a young lady. But would Miss Leighton be foolish enough to follow him? Yes, she would. She was such an innocent. His mouth dry, he imagined the worst.

  He raced down the path, his boots crunching on the gravel. They couldn’t have gone far, his common sense told him. Miss Leighton wasn’t so naive as to venture too great a distance from the house.

  Slowing down, he forsook the gravel for the well-trimmed lawn and strained to hear past the evening sounds. A soft breeze rustled the trees and crickets sang by the pond.

  “No!”

  Gerrit froze at the sound of a woman’s cry. Miss Leighton! Adrenaline flooded his veins and he took off in the direction of the voice. Reaching the small temple he pushed past the shrubbery surrounding it. There before him, two figures were locked in a struggle.

  In two strides, Gerrit was upon them. Grabbing Billingsley by the shoulders, he hauled the marquess off Miss Leighton and threw him onto the ground.

  “What the—”

  “You’d better learn to listen when a lady tells you to stop.”

  Billingsley got up with a groan, dusting his clothes as he did so. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing, Hawkes? You have no right to interfere in my amorous affairs.”

 
“Don’t speak of Miss Leighton as if she’s a light-skirt, or you’ll find yourself with more than just a dusty jacket.”

  Billingsley grunted. “Coming to claim what is yours? Sorry, old boy, but Miss Leighton has made it clear the field’s wide open. To use her words, you and she are ‘merely friends.’ So, I’ll thank you to stay out of what doesn’t concern you.” Before Gerrit could forestall him, Billingsley swung out his fist and connected with his jaw.

  Gerrit’s face jerked back, but he recovered immediately.

  “Why you—” Ignoring the pain, Gerrit assumed a fighting stance, crouching low. For the next few minutes, the two fought it out. Although Billingsley was strong and a skilled boxer, he was no match for Gerrit, who had learned to fight in all kinds of situations where the only rule was kill or be killed. With a strong hook to his gut and a knee to his groin, he wrestled the marquess to the ground and slammed his head against the turf. When Billingsley cried, “Enough!” Gerrit sat back, straddling him.

  Seeing the wind knocked out of him, Gerrit finally stood. “I suggest you get yourself to the kitchens and request a slab of meat to put on your face, if you don’t want too many questions tomorrow,” Gerrit told him, fingering his own sore jaw. “And you’d better make it clear to the others that you lost the wager.”

  Once more Billingsley pulled himself to his feet, more slowly this time. “Confound you, Hawkes, for spoiling a man’s fun.” Without even looking at Miss Leighton, he limped from the enclosure.

  When Gerrit was sure he was gone, he turned to Miss Leighton. “Did he hurt you?”

  She stepped up to him. “No, he just frightened me.” She reached out a hand but stopped just short of his face. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied, looking at her from head to foot to make sure she spoke the truth. Now that the danger was over, he felt a strong awareness of being alone with her, a distance from the house.

  She took a step closer to him and peered at his face. “Are you sure you’re all right? You two were at it quite furiously.”

  He shrugged and attempted a light tone. “Apart from a few bruises which will make their appearance by tomorrow, I’m fine.” He smiled. “I planted him a few good facers. I don’t know how he’ll explain those to the company.”