Miranda Neville

by The Ruin of a Rogue

  “Yes.”

  “And this?” He’d noticed that her rib cage was particularly susceptible.

  “Oh . . . yes.”

  He kept his strokes long and languorous, intended to soothe rather than arouse. She stretched like a cat in the sun, her breath deepening as unconsciousness approached. Dropping a shallow kiss on her lips, he found them smiling as she drifted into sleep.

  He shouldn’t have waited. An offer of marriage was essential, he was quite clear about that. Even an unprincipled adventurer knew that one did not bed a virgin without offering to do the right thing. Except in his case it was the wrong thing. He still believed—knew—that she was better off without him.

  Better off? Without him she was the wealthiest woman in England; with him she had nothing. Perhaps she would be wise enough to turn him down. She said she loved him, but it wasn’t as though love and marriage always went together. She could enjoy a romantic interlude with a rogue, then return to her real life and marry some idiot like Lord Algernon Tiverton. The thought was extraordinarily painful.

  Yet when he eased out of a dreamless state, a surge of optimism made him light of limb and heart. After a long drought he’d satisfied his desires, and something more. The reason for what felt perilously like happiness stretched out in an abandoned sleep, her breath tickling his chest. He stroked her head, fingering the lustrous hair. She pressed into his touch with an incoherent murmur but didn’t awake. Apparently no longer able to sleep late, he reluctantly ignored the throb of morning lust. She must be sore and needed her rest. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and slid to the floor.

  He cracked open the curtains so that he could relish the sight of Anne in his bed, her pale face in lovely repose amid masses of dark hair. His chest tightened and an involuntary smile tugged at his lips. How rare not to be using them to coax, cozen, or deceive. Before restraint melted he turned to the window to find chill sunlight gleaming on the icy fields beyond the unkempt garden. He threw on some clothes without the help of Travis. Not that he had ever needed a valet, but Travis was meticulous about presenting himself for service. Marcus suspected the man had already been there and tactfully withdrawn. Without dispelling his good mood, the fact brought him down to earth. Shoals lay ahead, especially for Anne.

  He’d never cared much for the strictures of polite society, one of the advantages of living outside it. She’d blithely claimed not to mind being “ruined,” but it took a certain fortitude not to care what people thought of one. She wasn’t used to it. While she claimed indifference to the position her birth brought her, if she agreed to marry him the scorn of aristocratic ladies, not to mention the wrath of her guardian and the loss of her fortune, would be harder to bear than she thought.

  If she accepted him, selling Hinton for what he could get and resuming his wandering was no longer in the cards. He had to turn the estate around, and his best hope was to find whatever it was that his ghostly intruder was seeking, whether it came from his father or not.

  In the kitchen he found the enticing scent of fresh bread and Travis, in conversation with Mrs. Burt.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said. “Thought I’d better come and milk the cow.”

  “Thank you.” It hadn’t occurred to him, though he’d checked on the small farmyard since the storm, making sure the livestock had food. “Was it—er—she all right?”

  “After three days without milking she should have been glad to see me but she didn’t show it. Tried to knock over the pail.”

  “I’m happy she didn’t. We need milk. And do I see you’ve brought bread?” He bent over the large round loaf on the table and inhaled. “Still warm! You are a true heroine.”

  Mrs. Burt looked much less harassed than she had the previous day. “It was no trouble to make extra. Burt and I reckoned you’d be tired of stale and we weren’t sure if your man was a baker.”

  “Not as far as I know. Do you know how to make bread, Travis?”

  “It has never been one of my duties, my lord.”

  “How’s the roof holding up, Mrs. Burt?”

  “Very well, thanks to you, my lord. And I’ve almost got the house back in order. If it would suit, I’d be glad to come and work up at the manor for an hour or two a day. My sister’s two girls in the next village are looking for places. I’ll take the liberty of mentioning it in case you were looking for maids.”

  It was good news that the local embargo on employment at Hinton was about to be lifted. Servants required wages but maidservants didn’t make much. “By all means. Send them up to see me as soon as the bridge is repaired.”

  “Burt said to tell you he’ll take the horse around the long way to the village later today and I’m to tell him anything you’ll need.”

  “I’ll make a list, but most important is timber and labor for the bridge. Do you suppose the other tenants would help?”

  “They’ll be wanting to get out too.”

  “Has this happened before, the estate being cut off by the river?”

  “Burt’s grandfather heard of a time, in the time of old King Charles.” Country memories were long. “Squire’s lady drowned when her horse went through rotten planks. Horse was killed too.”

  “It looked as though it hadn’t been replaced since then. My uncle was guilty of negligence.”

  Mrs. Burt was too respectful to agree. “Mr. Hooke got a little funny. Didn’t like anyone telling him his business, and he didn’t care to tell them either. Very closemouthed gentleman. Kept his secrets.”

  “Secrets, eh?” He betrayed nothing but idle curiosity. “What kind of secrets? A skeleton in the cellar? Or buried treasure perhaps.”

  “Only treasure round these parts was that Roman rubbish.”

  “I understood he gave that up some years back and the place was left to molder until Miss Brotherton resumed the excavation.”

  “A few times I saw him up on the hill and thought he might be starting that tomfoolery again.”

  Marcus tucked away the thought for further examination. The Roman villa offered plenty of hiding places.

  He walked down to the river, which remained in spate. In his judgment, not that he knew anything about the matter, it would still be a day or two before work could commence on a new crossing. A stone bridge that would withstand the elements would be more practical. And costly. Calls on his other tenants confirmed their willingness to help, also their willingness to suggest a variety of expensive improvements to their land and dwellings.

  He came home by way of the villa, on the chance he’d see something. For the first time he appreciated the size of the site. He paced out the main building and guessed it to be about eighty feet wide and forty deep. In addition there was a smaller attached building, which Anne called the kitchen, and the partially uncovered second villa that might well be twice the size. Completing the search could take months, even if it wasn’t winter and he wasn’t hampered by the finicky digging methods of his bride-to-be. There’d be hell to pay if he tore in with a team of laborers wielding shovels.

  He peered into Anne’s recent prison, keeping his distance from the crumbling edge. There wasn’t much to be seen except a layer of ice, encasing anything that might be on the floor. Once the thaw set in he’d take another look.

  Glancing back, he spotted a man in the middle distance, walking briskly toward the downs. One of the tenants, perhaps, but something in his garments and stance suggested a gentleman. Marcus had a feeling he knew him, though, Bufton aside, he’d met none of the local gentry. Strange that. Could be that fellow Anne had mentioned. A curiosity about the mysterious Mr. Bentley stirred in his gut.

  “Are you awake? I’ve brought you breakfast.”

  Anne undulated back into the pillows and blushed. In fact she felt pink all over and exceedingly well. The sight of Marcus, framed by the open curtains, made her smile inside. This was much better than being brought her morning chocolate by Maldon.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Strictly you sho
uld say good afternoon. It’s a little past midday.”

  “No wonder I’m hungry.”

  “I bring fresh bread and butter, courtesy of Mrs. Burt. And Travis has contributed a nice cup of tea, his words not mine.”

  Beneath his cheerfulness she saw wariness. She’d come to his bed last night without any commitment on his part, or mention of marriage. He knew that wedding her did not necessarily bring wealth. Her heart told her, contrary to her experience and his own testimony, that Marcus was a gentleman. Her brain half expected him to bolt. A nasty weight in the pit of her stomach was listening to her head.

  He’d moved a small table next to the bed to hold the tray. He’d used the best china, a pretty blue and white Chelsea service kept in a pantry cabinet. A spray of dried honesty in a blue vase completed the appealing arrangement.

  “Pretty,” she said, touching the translucent ivory disks.

  “I would have brought you roses, but Hinton unaccountably lacks a hothouse. This is the best I could find in my poor excuse for a garden.” He lifted her chin and dropped a light kiss on her lips.

  She nestled her cheek into his palm. “Your hands are cold.”

  “That’s because I’ve been out and about this morning, visiting tenants, checking on Frederick, picking dead flowers. I even almost milked a cow.”

  “Almost?”

  “Luckily Mrs. Burt got to her first. I’m afraid cold hands are a hazard of life as a farmer. Could you get used to it?”

  “Will I have to learn to milk cows?” she asked, tamping down a rising exhilaration.

  “If you marry me, I promise not to make you.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

  How sweet of him to observe the formalities. “I am honored by your offer and yes, Marcus, I would be proud to be your wife.” Spoiling the solemnity of the moment, she shoved back the blankets, just managing not to knock over any china, and flung her arms about his neck. His arms came about her but the embrace was perfunctory and all too brief.

  This was not how it was supposed to go. Felix’s formal offer, long awaited, had been unexciting but comfortable. She had expected the same—with less comfort—from whichever suitable man Morrissey chose for her. But from a highly unsuitable man with whom she was madly in love, she would have liked more . . . rapture. To be enfolded, passionately kissed, seduced. To hear words of love.

  Instead he handed her a cup of tea.

  “Drink it while it’s hot,” he said. Then he cut buttered bread into tidy strips and handed them to her one by one, as though she was a small child and he her nurse.

  “I’m surprised you’re not dipping it in milk,” she said peevishly.

  “Would you like that?”

  “No I would not. I am neither a child nor an invalid and I do not need to be fed pap.”

  “Two days ago you nearly died.”

  “And yesterday I strode around in breeches. Clearly I have recovered.” She gave him what she was fairly sure was a seductive smile. “And if you’re in any further doubt about the state of my health, may I remind you that last night I did not behave like a child and you didn’t treat me like one.”

  The smile wasn’t working. “No. I owe you an apology. I am sorry for it.” He sounded strained and not at all seduced.

  “I am not. It’s true that it’s not quite proper to do that before we are wed but no one need know. And now we are betrothed so what does it matter?”

  Tossing a finger of bread onto the plate, he stood up. “We shouldn’t be betrothed,” he burst out. “I shouldn’t have offered and you shouldn’t have accepted me. Luckily it’s not too late to draw back. As you say, no one will know.” Standing by the fire, he gesticulated wildly. “As far as the world knows you were trapped here by the flood. Your reputation will be a little tarnished, but so great an heiress will always be forgiven. You told me yourself.” She’d never heard Marcus speak so desperately, with so little calculation. He wanted her to withdraw her acceptance and make their engagement the shortest on record.

  She sank back against her pillows, searching for warmth.

  “You’re cold,” he said. Crossing the room, he found a quilted cotton banyan and placed it around her shoulders in a caring gesture that failed to comfort.

  She shrank away from him. “I understand. You only offered for me because you are a gentleman. Now you want me to withdraw, also because you are a gentleman and cannot do so yourself.”

  “I don’t know what it will take to convince you that I am no gentleman.”

  She blinked back tears and struggled to remain composed. Last night she’d flung herself at him, both her body and her affections. If this was the end of it she would retain her dignity. Never mind that she wanted to howl because Marcus didn’t want her without her fortune and if he didn’t, no man would.

  Sitting up straight and folding her hands on her lap, she prepared her speech. “If you don’t wish to marry me, I withdraw my acceptance. Let me assure you that I have no desire to wed a man who doesn’t truly want me. It would have been kinder not to mention the subject at all. You let me make a fool of myself.”

  She would not cry.

  Marcus wanted to tear his hair out. Despite her disheveled presence in his bed, Anne appeared like the prim, collected young lady he’d first met. Only a telltale dampness in the corners of her eyes betrayed how much he’d upset her. Of course she was upset! He’d made a thorough muck of the encounter. He allowed himself to touch her rigidly clasped hands.

  “My darling—” The endearment slipped out unawares. “If you marry me you’ll lose everything. How can I ask you to give up so much? Your guardian will never accept me as a suitable match for you.”

  “No, he probably won’t and I don’t care. But perhaps you do. From what you said earlier I gathered you knew about the situation. If you won’t take me without my fortune I understand.”

  Her desperate bravado twisted his gut. “With or without your wealth, any man would be lucky to win you. And I especially. Because for what it’s worth I care for you. Very much.”

  “Then I don’t see the difficulty.” Her voice wavered. “Do you think you could kiss me again? You make me so happy.”

  This was not a request he had the strength to deny. He climbed up beside her and gathered her in, slender in his arms with a fragility that belied her inner strength. She was tough and clever, Miss Anne Brotherton, soon to be Lady Lithgow if she didn’t come to her senses. And so very sweet. That he had apparently won the love and hand of such a woman made his head reel.

  I love you, Anne. But he wouldn’t say it aloud because he didn’t trust that it was true. What did he know of love? I love you. He tasted the words that he knew she wished to hear, but above all he owed her honesty.

  The unspoken words melted into their shared breath as though there were no boundaries between feelings and deeds. Through a long kiss he let himself pretend everything would be fine. That this was the first in a lifetime of shared embraces between avowed lovers. That they set out on a long life together. That she was his very own.

  But self-deception was a luxury he’d never been able to afford. He broke away, allowing himself only the pleasure of an arm about her shoulders, his fingers lightly caressing the joint beneath his draped banyan.

  “Because I care for you,” he said, resuming his argument as though the romantic interlude hadn’t happened, “how can I ask you to give up one of England’s greatest fortunes?”

  Her arms encircled his torso and held him tight. “I hate my fortune. It has nothing to do with me and brings me no pleasure,” she said with rising ferocity. “I don’t want to be tied to the duty of my estate. I reject it. I want to live with you, the man I love, here at Hinton or wherever else we decide and I don’t give a jot if we are poor.”

  “Thus speaks the woman who never lacked for anything. I promise you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

  “I don’t imagine my trustees, ev
en Morrissey, would allow me to starve. They just wouldn’t turn over the Camber estates to you.” She raised her head from his chest to face him. “Would you mind too much?”

  “What do you think? I pursued you for your wealth,” he said brutally.

  She tossed him a saucy grin. “Too bad. Now we’re betrothed and I’ve decided I won’t release you from your engagement.”

  “You never did tell me how you discovered I was an unrepentant fortune hunter. Or was it merely a good guess?”

  “Not at all, you had me quite deceived.”

  “Glad I hadn’t lost my touch.” Incredibly, they were joking about his despicable behavior.

  “I was halfway in love with you when I overheard you talking to the Duke of Denford over the garden wall at Windermere House.”

  Marcus cast his mind back, trying to remember a conversation that had been clouded with brandy and cigars. He and Julian had engaged in their usual competitive nonsense. “What were you doing outside late at night in the cold?” he asked severely.

  “Thinking about you.”

  “Oh dear. What did I say?”

  “You said I would soon be begging for your attentions.”

  “What an ass.”

  “And you called me a spoiled heiress.”

  “I didn’t even believe that, not when I first knew you. I suppose you decided to show me how such a woman would behave. With great skill, I may add.”

  “I was angry, more angry with myself than with you, I think. Caro warned me, Lady Ashfield warned me. Everyone warned me against you but I thought I knew better.”

  “I won’t argue with their assessment.”

  “And now I’m angry with you again,” she continued, “because you should argue with me. I know you are a better man than you believe, yet you wallow in your unworthiness. You can change your ways. You already have. The selfish man I first knew wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble for the Burts.”

  “I’m trying, Anne. I am. But I can never be the man you deserve.”

  She pulled out of his arms and knelt on the bed in front of him. It was cold without her. The way she flung back her hair spoke to her frustration. “Why are you so sure of that?” she said. “Why shouldn’t we be happy?”