The Rogue's Redemption

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Had he left because of her silly words about marrying her? She’d thought the awkward moment had passed satisfactorily, but perhaps she had frightened the major. Perhaps he thought she was falling in love with him, and his leaving was a gentle way to discourage her sentiments.

  Or maybe he hadn’t thought of her words at all afterwards. He was a man of the world, as he kept trying to tell her, and doubtless had left many engagements pending in London.

  But the life of leisure and self-indulgent amusements among the vast and beautiful rooms and grounds of Thistleworth had lost their charm for Hester, and once again she only felt a desire to end her visit as soon as decently possible.

  She avoided Lady Stanchfield and felt awful for doing so, but she couldn’t help herself. She had no idea what to say to her, and each time she saw her or Mr. Delaney, she felt sick inside. Thankfully she saw little of him, and when she did, he stared through her as if she were a stick of furniture.

  Lady Stanchfield was different. After Major Hawkes had spoken to Hester, Lady Stanchfield had approached her in a diffident manner. Hester had felt so awkward that she’d been extra polite, but this seemed only to create more of a distance between the two of them.

  In an effort to put Miss Leighton completely out of his thoughts, Gerrit went in search of alternative female companionship. That had always worked in the past.

  A few days after his return from Thistleworth, he left a tavern after a game of dice with his lieutenant, Edgar, and headed to Haymarket. The two men sauntered down the street eyeing the women who lounged against the buildings or loitered on the street corners. It wasn’t long before Gerrit saw what he wanted. As he paused beside the pretty blonde, she let her shawl fall off her shoulders and sported her charlies for him. She was all he favored in a woman, lush and curvaceous.

  She eyed him up and down. “Care for some company, captain?”

  Although her cheeks and lips were rouged, her features were still young and fresh. “You’re a bonny lass. Have a friend for my companion?” He indicated Edgar with a gesture.

  “Always willing to oblige.” She waved down the street, “Tess!” In a moment, another girl joined them. She was similarly clad in a diaphanous gown, which left little to the imagination. She sidled up to Edgar. “You’re an ’andsome pair o’ gents in your regimentals.”

  “You’re a fine-looking piece yourself,” Edgar told her, patting her generous hips.

  “Where’re you off to this fine evening?” the first girl asked Gerrit.

  He reached for a ringlet of her blond hair and twirled it around his forefinger. “I had no particular destination in mind. Any suggestions?”

  She leaned closer to him. “I’m not particular. If you’ve no place to go, there’s always St. James’s down the road.”

  He chuckled. “I fancy a soft bed myself rather than a park bench. Care to come along to my rooms?”

  “I’d enjoy nothing more.”

  Seeing that Edgar was already walking off with the other woman, Gerrit hailed a hansom and gave the jarvey his address. Inside the coach he immediately proceeded to kiss the wench, seeing no reason to delay gratification. It had been too long.

  “You don’t sound like a London girl,” he said as he caressed her.

  “I come from Lancashire—oh,” she giggled against his mouth. “I like that.” She moved to accommodate him more.

  “Been here long?” he murmured.

  “Only three months…”

  He’d been right in his cursory assessment. Fresh from the country. Less chance of disease. He’d protect himself in any case. One experience with the clap in his younger days had been enough to last him a lifetime.

  After they arrived at his lodgings, Gerrit lit a lamp in his sitting room while the girl divested herself of her shawl. Crocker was nowhere to be seen. All the better. His batman was probably engaged in similar activities of his own.

  The girl wrapped her arms around him from behind. “Patience, my girl, until I finish with this lamp.”

  She only laughed and slipped her fingers into his hair.

  He replaced the glass on the lamp and turned to her. “You are a naughty girl.”

  “It’s not always I get to lay ’ands on such an ’andsome gent.” She smoothed her hands down the sides of his coat sleeves. “And an officer. Are you a Waterloo man?”

  “Mmm,” he murmured, silencing her words with a kiss.

  She returned his embraces, her body melting against his.

  Even as he kissed her and held her, he felt a strange waning of any desire for her. He renewed his efforts, telling himself it was merely the lateness of the hour, or perhaps the fact that he’d been abstemious for…most of the summer, it seemed. He’d lost track of how long it had been.

  Since the disaster with Lady Gillian. The memory drew him up short.

  “I feel thirsty.” He pulled himself away from her slightly. “Care for a drink?”

  “I’m parched,” she said, outlining his lips with her fingertip.

  Gerrit poured them each a generous goblet of wine. He felt the need for the invigorating drink. He took a long swig, wondering why the prospect of an attractive, willing female held so little allure. After another swallow, he set the pewter cup down. “Come, sweetling, it’s time to satisfy your host.”

  “I’d love nothin’ better,” she said with a laugh, downing the rest of her glass and wiping her mouth with her hand.

  Gerrit led her to his bedroom. The girl lay back on his bed, beckoning to him with her arms outstretched. He lay down alongside her, waiting for his initial desire to rekindle. She pulled him close and kissed him, obviously using her skills to entice him. To no avail.

  After several equally fruitless efforts on each one’s part, Gerrit lay back away from her, still no closer to fulfilling his end of the bargain. He felt a strange torpor, as if his limbs no longer belonged to him. What had happened to him? For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been able to perform.

  The girl laid her hand across his chest. “That’s all right, luv, nothin’ to worry yerself about. It ’appens to plenty o’ coves. No need to get upset.”

  “I’m not upset…merely pensive,” he said, draping an arm over his eyes. Wishing he could just be rid of her, he eased away farther on the bed. Had he drunk too much this evening? That must be it.

  “I remember a gent, tried so hard but nothin’. ’Ole night long ’e was at it…” She chuckled. “Then there was Mr. Marleybone. I remember ’is name cause ’e was sweet on me and kept me a few weeks. There was a spell when he couldn’t manage it neither…”

  A spell? Gerrit rubbed his eyes. This was one night, hardly a spell.

  “Now this other toff, never did know ’is name. Most don’t give their names. Well, ’e swore by Dr. Berrychill’s Elixir. But it didn’t work that time.”

  “Thank you for regaling me with your stories,” he said, rising from the bed. “You are most informed, I’m sure, but you needn’t bother. This was just a momentary aberration.”

  He put on his dressing gown and belted it tightly. “I merely drank too much, slept too little last night…was distracted…” How many nights hadn’t he drunk more and still bedded a woman?

  Was he getting old? Did a man lose his prowess already at six-and-twenty? He’d have to ask Crocker, who was in his forties. Yet he’d never heard Crocker speak of having a problem.

  The girl finished adjusting her gown and stood looking for her shawl. He spied it in the sitting room and fetched it for her.

  “I’m sure you’re right, luv,” she told him as he draped it around her shoulders. “I told you, it ’appens to the best o’ men.”

  “Yes, so you said.” He dug into the pocket of his jacket for some coins. “Here, you go. That should make up for your trouble.”

  “Oh, no trouble at all, captain. I quite enjoyed myself,” she replied with a sly smile. “Come, look for me anytime ye want to ’ave another go. The name’s Esty. I’m usually at Haymarket. ’Twould be
my pleasure to accommodate ye anytime…day or night,” she added with a saucy wink.

  “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

  She waved at him. “Don’t forget, ’appens to the best o’ men.”

  Well, now it had happened to him.

  Gerrit lay back on the bed, his arms folded behind his head, pondering this new knot in his life.

  The next afternoon—Gerrit deliberately chose afternoon, a time when he was well-rested and sober—he looked up a female friend from his former days in London.

  She was still as beautiful and amusing as he remembered. They spent the first hour reacquainting themselves with each other over tea.

  The next hour proved not as entertaining, as Gerrit again tried every way he knew to bestir himself, with no success. This time he couldn’t tell himself it was because the woman in question was a common street wench with little attractions. This lady was not only beautiful, but expert in the ways of pleasing a man.

  “Darling, Gerrit,” she told him, smoothing his hair back off his forehead, “it’s nothing to be concerned about. I’m told it happens to every man once in a while.”

  He shushed her with a fingertip. “Yes, to the best of them, I’ve heard.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, “You say you’ve been told. I take it that means this is the first time it’s happened in your—er—presence?”

  She considered. “Yes, I believe it is. But don’t worry.” Her smile was languorous. “I shan’t take it personally. Now,” she said more briskly, as if knowing instinctively that he didn’t want to dwell on the topic, “how about coming with me to the Little Theatre tonight?”

  “I think not. I have an engagement with some of the Guards,” he lied, knowing it would soon be true enough.

  As he rode toward Whitehall later that day, he tried to put the past two days out of his mind. They were merely isolated incidents, nothing more.

  As soon as he returned to a steadier routine in his life, things would get back to normal. Thankfully, he was taking command of his regiment once again. Keeping more regular hours, cutting down on the drinking, getting regular exercise should do the trick.

  He nudged Royal forward, eager to meet with his commander at the Horse Guards.

  Delia returned to London in early September. Soon Viscount Stanchfield would be headed north for the hunting season. So, she wanted to do some shopping in town before she was isolated in the wilds for a month.

  She was annoyed with her baby brother. Gerrit had up and left Thistleworth with only a note. He’d clearly left poor Miss Leighton pining.

  However strained their own friendship had become, Delia was grateful the girl hadn’t betrayed her. Neither by a word nor gesture had Miss Leighton hinted to a soul about the viscountess’s little indiscretion in the garden. So Delia hated to see her sad countenance over that worthless Gerrit. After he’d abandoned the party, Miss Leighton no longer joined the gentlemen at their outdoor games. She spent all her time either reading by herself or sitting beside Mrs. Bellows, helping her with her needlework. Delia shook her head. It wasn’t right.

  Thus, as soon as she was back in town, Delia sent a note to Gerrit asking him to come to tea the next afternoon. As she sanded the note, she thought how it wouldn’t be a bad thing for Gerrit to settle for someone like Miss Leighton. Besides the obvious advantage of her dowry, there was something sweet and constant about the girl. She’d be a steadying influence on that rattle of a brother of hers. And if he was too much of a slowtop to see it, well, Delia would just have to help him along.

  After she pressed her seal into the wax of the note, she took another sheet of paper and began her invitation to Mr. and Miss Leighton.

  Gerrit read Delia’s note and tossed it aside. Tea at four. So, his sister was back in town. He wondered about Miss Leighton. Delia made no mention of her.

  How had she fared after he’d left Thistleworth?

  Gerrit strolled to his window and pondered the question that had never left the perimeters of his mind since his departure.

  Needing to find out, he headed to his sister’s for tea.

  When he arrived, he found both Mr. Leighton and his daughter seated in his sister’s salon, sipping tea. They were not the only guests present, so Gerrit couldn’t talk privately to either Miss Leighton or Delia. After greeting his sister who scolded him for absconding from her house party, he made the rounds of her crowded sitting room. When he reached the Leightons, he nodded to the father.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Leighton.”

  The older man furrowed his brow at him as if trying to remember who he was.

  “This is Major Hawkes, Papa,” Miss Leighton said softly beside him.

  “I remember. Major.” Leighton gave a brief nod of his chin.

  “I trust you are finding London to your liking.”

  “It’s profited me.”

  Gerrit inclined his head and said no more, preferring to turn his attention to the man’s daughter. She was a sight for sore eyes in her yellow sprigged muslin, with matching ribbons in her straw bonnet.

  He bowed his head over her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Leighton.”

  She said nothing. He peered again into her eyes, which continued studying him. Was she angry? Hurt at his abrupt departure? “How was your journey back?” he asked, hoping to elicit something, he didn’t know what, from her.

  “Without incident.” Although brief, her words held no animosity.

  “I’m glad. And you are well?” She seemed more than well. She seemed like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy city. There were no signs she had been pining for him. He should feel relieved.

  “I’m very well, thank you.” She hesitated a second. “And you?”

  Was there more behind her simple words? “I’m fine.” Drowning, but fine.

  With nothing more to say, he was forced to nod once again and move on to the next guest. After that, he had to content himself with sitting across the room and observing the woman whom he’d been unable to get out of his thoughts even though he’d removed himself far away from her presence.

  She sat quiet and erect, replying whenever spoken to. Delia did try to include her and her father in the general conversation, but it was difficult for her as hostess to do much more than throw an occasional question their way, when they did nothing to contribute to the talk.

  Gerrit couldn’t help but smile. Mr. Leighton said no more than “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am” to Delia’s questions. Gerrit knew how uncomfortable these gatherings were for Miss Leighton. He pictured how wild and free she’d been on the grounds of Thistleworth. As he watched her now, he relived that fortnight at his sister’s house party. Had his presence there made it more tolerable or less for Miss Leighton? Had she been sorry to see him leave or glad?

  He didn’t regret leaving. He knew it had been the best—the only—thing to do.

  When Miss Leighton and her father rose to go, Gerrit got up immediately and followed his sister to the door to take his own leave of them.

  After a brief exchange of nods with Mr. Leighton—the man clearly hadn’t warmed to him at all since the disastrous rout—Gerrit turned to Miss Leighton and held out his hand.

  “It was good to see you again,” he began, even as he hated the sound of the insipid phrase that didn’t begin to describe what he’d felt upon seeing her.

  She gave him a small smile. “I’ve missed you.”

  The words were his undoing, more fatal than a gunshot. They were spoken so simply and with such evident sincerity that they ripped through every reason he’d created for staying away from her.

  Without having any prior intention of doing so, he found himself asking, “Is it still your custom to ride in the Park in the forenoon?”

  His words seemed to throw her. She hesitated a few seconds but then nodded. “Yes. It’s my favorite part of the day.”

  Her quiet words didn’t diminish the enthusiasm of them, and he was struck again at how much he’d missed her. “Perhaps I shall run in
to you.”

  “I rather think not. I am out quite early, usually by eight.”

  That was early, but her immediate assumption that he wouldn’t show challenged him. On the other hand, she’d been specific with the time. Clearly, she was leaving it up to him. The early time of day would give him a chance for a quick ride to the park before he had to be at the Horse Guards’ Parade Grounds.

  “You never know.” He bowed over her hand. “Good day then.”

  “Good day.”

  Reluctantly he let her hand go and turned to leave, feeling a sudden pang. He really didn’t want to be out of her company.

  He felt her gaze on his back until he was out the door.

  As soon as he’d left Miss Leighton’s presence, Gerrit told himself to stay away. He repeated the same thing to himself all evening long.

  He’d gotten what he’d wished. He’d seen that she had survived Thistleworth; she’d come away unscathed, in fact. If he were to judge by her appearance, the place had agreed with her. She looked positively refreshed. Soon, she’d be heading back across the Atlantic with her father. She would make out fine in the remaining time in London under Delia’s and Mrs. Bellows’s wings. His part in the drama was over.

  Yet, the next morning, he was up at seven, shaved, washed and breakfasted. By a quarter to eight he was out the door with plenty of time to get to Hyde Park.

  Drat! He’d forgotten to ask her which gate she used. Taking a chance she would follow a similar route as when he’d last seen her, Gerrit headed his horse in that direction. It was but a short while later that he spotted a rider in the distance, followed by another. The place was almost deserted at that hour. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing only then how fearful he’d been of missing her.

  “Good morning, Miss Leighton,” he greeted her when he came abreast of her. He raised his hat to her, then to her groom. “Ned. How are you?”

  Miss Leighton gave him a wider smile than the one the day before. “You remembered his name.”