The Dangerous Love of a Rogue

by Jane Lark

  The look said he thought her opinion worthless.

  Her lip caught between her teeth for a second, but she wished to speak… She could not bear to think of him at odds with his family, she could not stand to be in that position. “You can tell me. I shan’t judge you. But perhaps I can help you heal the rift.”

  Drew’s anger reignited, it had been like glowing coals since he’d left the Marquis and now she had blown upon it and made it flare. “The rift?” Was she not there… “Were you not in the room, Mary?”

  What did she want, for him to spell it out for her? He’d no intention of doing so. He was an unwanted, unloved, worthless bastard. Did she want him to explain that to her.

  She came towards him, all sweet innocent charm and quiet voice.

  “Andrew, what harm would it do to tell me what you did? It must have happened years ago anyway.”

  It cut that she laid the blame on him.

  He’d thought that in the last day or two her opinion of him had begun to change. It had not. She judged him by the view of her brother and her father, still.

  But God, this mess was not her fault. He tamped his temper – his urge to yell at her. “It’s not a rift,” he said to the decanters, “it is a damned canyon a mile wide and there are no bridges to cross it, Mary. Let it rest.”

  “But apologies can make amends, and—”

  “I have nothing to apologise for.” He lifted a stopper from a decanter.

  “I know that it often seems that way…” she said, as he half-filled a glass with brandy. “But sometimes if you apologise even if you do not feel in the wrong…”

  Was he to apologise for his birth? He swallowed back his anger and lifted the glass to his lips.

  Her fingers slipped about his middle pressing over his stomach for a moment as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, at his back. She was offering comfort, but he had a feeling she sought to appease him too.

  She let him go and he sensed her step back.

  He turned. She was twisting his ring around on the third finger of her left hand, and she glanced down at it.

  His breath stuck in his lungs as he sensed the question coming.

  She looked up, her pale blue crystal like eyes staring into him. “Why T R, I’d thought it must be your family ring, but the initials do not link with anything?”

  Could the woman not work it out for herself? He sipped his liquor once more.

  “I’m sorry, I suppose you won it in a game of cards, or…”

  Good God, Drew felt his anger sore. Or? Was she accusing him of stealing it?

  “Or what? Mary.” His pitch was low, but he could hear the threat hanging in it as his temper slipped out of his control. “Say it!” Leaning forwards he growled the last in her face.

  She stepped back, grasping the back of a chair to stop herself from falling. “Or, nothing…” He could see the confusion in her eyes that asked, what had she said wrong, but he could not get a grip on his anger. She had accused him!

  “Nothing? Mary…” He felt as though she had unleashed his devil. He glared at her. But damn her! “Not that it may be stolen? From whom would I steal it? Why would I give you something of so little meaning?”

  “I did not mean—” she stuttered.

  “To call me a villain? To assume I must be in the wrong and them in the right? You did mean, Mary. You meant every damned word. Well, I am sick of knowing you condemn me. I don’t give a damn anymore! Not a single grain of sand, for what you think.” He turned away, then said with his back to her as he walked away. “Think what you damn well wish.”

  He had to get away from her.

  “Andrew…” She followed. “I meant nothing. I just… I do not understand why it is T R…”

  He’d reached the table where the chessboard was. The pieces on it had been reset since the game they’d played last night. He turned back, lifting a hand to warn her from coming close. “I told you I did not wish to go, but you insisted. Are you happy, now?” He felt like she’d pulled a loose thread and he was fraying at the ends.

  T R, how the hell am I to know what T R stands for, whomever he is, he is only my damned father! Would you have me beg my parents’ forgiveness for my mother’s lechery, and my birth?

  A fire of pain and anger burned bright within him, and then he saw pity in her eyes. “Do not pity me, damn you!”

  “Andrew, please…” She tried to grip his arm, but he stepped sideways.

  “Please what? Befriend my damned family, who have always hated me, and regret my existence. Hell no, Mary!” With that he bent and struck the chess-pieces from the board, sending them flying with a satisfactory crash, and then for good measure he lifted the table, tipping the marble board to follow its players.

  When he stormed from the room his heart thumped, pulsing blood into his veins.

  Chapter 25

  Mary paced the sitting room for the thousandth time. There was still no thud of her errant husband’s footsteps on the stairs.

  Her stomach churned with anxiety. Of course it was empty, she’d not eaten luncheon, or dinner, but she’d hoped to eat supper at the ball…

  It appeared now they would not be going, it was getting too late.

  She’d dressed over an hour ago in the hope he’d come back, although she’d not been able to lace her stays, so she’d left them off.

  Looking at the clock, as she’d done every five minutes, she saw it was now ten. She’d would have to lie to her father again tomorrow when he asked why they had not come.

  She heard footsteps. They weren’t Andrew’s, she’d learned the sound of his step.

  Dropping into a chair she clasped her fingers together over her stomach. Where is he?

  The footsteps travelled along the hall outside then stopped at the door. A knock hit the wood.

  Wonderful, now he had a caller.

  “Drew, old devil, are you in?”

  It was Lord Brooke’s voice.

  “Drew! Come on. Stop closeting yourself away with that wife of yours and let an old friend in.”

  Mary had assumed Andrew was with his friends. Clearly she’d assumed wrong. But if Lord Brooke was here, where was Andrew. She rose and opened the door.

  A blush heated her cheeks. “L-L-Lord Brooke. A-A-Andrew is not at home, I th-thought he was with you…”

  One of his hands gripped the doorframe. “I have not seen him.”

  “Oh.” She stepped back, feeling uncomfortable. He took it as an invitation to enter, and walked past her, heading for Andrew’s decanters.

  “I’ll wait for him if I may.”

  “Andrew had to go out, unexpectedly. I cannot say how long he will be.” Uncertain what to do, she closed the door. She’d never been alone in a room with any man other than her family, or Andrew.

  He helped himself to a drink. “No matter,” he said, turning back. “But I see you’ve dressed for the evening, so I assume you are expecting him back.”

  “As I said, I am not sure. I thought I would dress in case… We were going to a ball.” Mary kept her distance, leaning against the door, her fingers still on the handle. His dark brown eyes danced with humour.

  “But you’re not now?” he said, before sipping his brandy.

  Mary shrugged. “I was to meet my parents, but—”

  “Now, he’s left you at home, a damsel in distress.” Lord Brooke’s smile softened then he glanced about the room. His gaze stopped on the chess set.

  Mary had righted the table, placed the board back on it and reset the pieces, but the board was broken in two and that was obvious.

  His eyes came back to her. “Where were you going?”

  Her gaze lifted from the broken chessboard and met his. “To the Caldecotts’.” She let go of the door handle and instead clasped her hands at her waist.

  His gaze followed the movement.

  When it lifted he smiled, before drinking the last of his brandy. Then he set the glass down and bowed sharply. “Lady Framlington, as Drew’s friend
I believe it is my duty, and it shall also be my pleasure, to see you safely to the Caldecotts’. If you will allow it?”

  Mary’s thoughts spun like a top. If she went with Lord Brooke her father would be less likely to think something was amiss.

  But what about Andrew?

  He knew she’d agreed to meet her parents, though – he could find her.

  “Yes, thank you, Lord Brooke. I’d be grateful for your escort, if it will not overly disrupt your night.”

  “It will not. My carriage is here and I shall stay with you at the Caldecotts’ until Drew arrives.”

  “If he arrives, I really have no idea how long he will be. I’ll fetch my cloak.” She turned away, hurrying, her heart thumping. Perhaps it was madness accepting the escort of Lord Brooke, a man she barely knew, yet he was Andrew’s friend. Andrew trusted him, so surely she could.

  Her cloak lay over one of her trunks in the bedchamber. She picked it up and turned to return to the sitting room, only to see Lord Brooke at the bedchamber door. “Let me,” he said, entering and taking the cloak from her hands.

  She turned so he might set it on her shoulders. But immediately after he’d done so, her hands lifted to secure the buttons, to ensure he would not. Her fingers shook though.

  When she looked up he gave her a broad roguish grin. It reminded her of Andrew and made her heart lurch. Where is he? If only the thought would bring him home, but it would not, and waiting here would only make her more maudlin.

  No. Better to go out and pretend all was well.

  After all he’d left her here; so he could hardly complain about her going.

  Lord Brooke offered his arm. She nervously laid her fingers on it. “Thank you, Lord Brooke.”

  “Peter, my dear, if we’re to be friends; which I hope we are.” He patted her hand.

  She smiled, a little easier. “Call me, Mary, then, Peter.” He was flirting, but it was not threatening.

  Awkwardness hung over her during the carriage ride, alone with him in the confined space, but he kept her talking, as though he sensed her fear.

  When they reached the Caldecotts’, the carriage rocked as Lord Brooke’s footman jumped from his post at the rear. The door opened.

  Lord Brooke climbed out and lifted a hand to help her.

  Her fingers shook furiously when they were announced to the receiving line, which was about to break up. Lady Caldecott’s eyebrows lifted, an unspoken question burning in her eyes.

  Mary ignored it, smiling. Just a few more yards and she would reach normality – her family.

  Lord Brooke turned her to the room and began walking her in their direction.

  She would have to quell her father’s concerns first.

  Why was everyone staring at them?

  Mary focused on her father. He turned, saw her and frowned.

  She let go of Lord Brooke’s arm and took the last five or so steps alone. “Papa.” She pre-empted the barrage of words in his eyes, “Andrew was not able to come; something urgent arose to detain him. Lord Brooke kindly offered to escort me so I could attend.”

  Mary looked back at Lord Brooke, her heart pounding. “Thank you, Peter, it is very kind of you to volunteer.” He bowed graciously, and she hoped, ungraciously, he would go away.

  She’d deliberately not said Andrew was unaware of the arrangement. Her father’s eyebrows lifted, in criticism of Andrew for leaving her with Lord Brooke. But it was better Andrew was ill-judged for that, than for an ill-temper.

  The orchestra struck up the tune of a waltz. Instantly Peter bowed at her side. “Mary, my dear, will you do me the honour?”

  Nausea tumbled through Mary’s stomach.

  His gallantry was sweet. But her father… To refuse would look odd to everyone around them and she wished her father to think her comfortable with Lord Brooke.

  “Thank you, Lord Brooke.” She had not even said good-evening to her mother. It did not feel right.

  His hand gripped hers and then his other laid on her back. Why must the dance be a waltz? It felt too intimate.

  I want Andrew.

  A painful emptiness ran through her.

  * * *

  At just past ten o’clock Drew ran up the stairs to his apartments. Late. He’d been walking off his irritation for hours. None of it was really Mary’s fault. She was not responsible for the situation of his birth.

  But at least now she’d probably dismissed the stupid idea of him apologizing to his family out of her head.

  She had her own, she did not need his.

  He’d not realised how late it was until he’d finally heard a church clock strike somewhere in bow. He’d walked miles.

  Shame hitting him he’d turned around and rushed back. He’d left Mary alone…He’d promised to take her out…They’d be late.

  The door was locked. Mary must have given up on him and gone to bed. Guilt grasping in his gut, he opened it. Damn, he hoped she had not left him? His heart pounded.

  The chessboard had been set back on the table and put to rights, but it was broken and two used glasses stood with the decanters. One had been the one he had drunk from before leaving. The other… Something gripped in his gut like cold stone.

  What? “Mary?”

  He went into the bedchamber, she was not there but her things were.

  But where the hell was she?

  With her family.

  Common-sense spoke the answer.

  She’d have sent word to her father and they’d have called and collected her. She’d be at the ball. Drew would meet her there.

  The smell of her perfume hovered in his rooms as he put on his evening dress. Arriving late was better than not arriving at all.

  It took him little more than half an hour to dress and reach the Caldecotts’. The receiving line had broken up but the footman informed him that Lady Framlington was indeed in the ballroom.

  Stiffening his spine and straightening his shoulders, preparing for the animosity from her family, Andrew stepped into the ballroom.

  His gaze passed about the hall’s glittering mirrors, chandeliers and people, society in full splendour, displaying its feathers like a peacock. Marlow and Pembroke were easy to spot, like him they were a head above most of the women and some of the men. He moved towards them without thought, drawn like metal to a loadstone. Mary? His spirit cried for her.

  She was not with them though.

  His gaze spun around the room skimming over the heads of those dancing, stopping at every dark one. He noticed the exact shade of ebony secured in a high knot by a silver comb that had lain on his dresser.

  His feet stopped moving, weighted with lead, and his blood turned to ice.

  She was waltzing with Peter! Her slender figure gripped in his hands. A red flood swamped Drew. What the hell! The glass in his room. Peter had been in his rooms, with Mary! And now here!

  The thread she’d pulled loose, unravelled at a rate knots. He could see nothing but red. His teeth clenched and his hands balled into fists.

  My best friend! Why my best friend?

  He did not hear any music, nor the buzz of conversation. No one existed but the two of them.

  She’d ripped his heart out!

  He walked across the floor, through the dancers. People stumbled, moving out of the way and shouting at him. Then the music ceased and the couples broke apart.

  Peter’s hands fell and she stepped back smiling, her colour high and her eyes bright.

  Drew’s stride lengthened.

  Mary looked his way, and opened her mouth to speak – she did not.

  Peter turned too, at the moment Drew reached them.

  Drew shoved the heel of his palm into Peter’s chest. Peter stumbled back and Drew thrust a satisfying punch. The impact reverberated up his arm as it hit Peter’s jawbone, knocking him off his feet.

  A chorus of screams rang about Drew along with disapproving masculine tones.

  Peter moved to rise. Drew struck his shoulder with his heel of his shoe. “Yo
u bastard!” The words echoed in the almost silent ballroom.

  Mary’s fingers gripped his arm. “Andrew stop! Please stop!”

  Peter lay sprawled on the floor leaning on one elbow.

  Drew was not done with this. “Leave my wife alone! Do you hear?”

  Drew dropped to one knee, to throw another punch, but Peter caught his wrist.

  “I was doing you a favour,” Peter growled in a disgusted voice, his other hand lifting to wipe blood from his mouth.

  “I don’t care what you were doing! Don’t touch her! I told you not to call on her. She’s mine, do you understand?”

  “Bloody hell, Drew! I only danced with her.”

  “Do you understand?”

  “For God sake Drew, don’t be ridiculous!”

  Drew’s vision flared red. He gripped Peter’s cravat in his fist and twisted it as his knee came down on Peter’s chest, and his other hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “Enough! I say enough!” A yell rang behind Drew. Marlow. Someone gripped Drew’s arm and pulled.

  Drew’s grip on Peter’s cravat lifted Peter a little, then Drew shoved him back and let go.

  “You’ve made fools out of both of us.” Peter growled as Marlow dragged Drew up onto his feet.

  The Duke of Wiltshire helped Peter up.

  “More importantly you’ve embarrassed my daughter.” Marlow, growled in Drew’s ear in a low pitch. “What the hell is this, Framlington?”

  Gripping Drew’s arm, Marlow started walking him away from the scene. “The show is over,” he growled at the crowd who watched them.

  Drew yanked his arm from Marlow’s grip.

  “Have someone send for our carriage, Ellen.”

  Drew turned. Mary’s mother had her arm about Mary’s waist but Mary had not turned to her mother. She looked at him her skin so pale it was grey, and one hand rested over her stomach the other over her mouth as though she would be sick.

  Hell and the devil. He’d done it now – she’d lost all feeling for him.

  But she’d let another man escort her…and dance with her… Peter had been in Drew’s rooms with her! Drew’s whole being revolted at the thought.

  “We are going, anyway.” he said in a low voice, looking at Mary, denying Marlow’s order.