A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  “Fine,” she said.

  Thank goodness for that.

  He bit away the thrum of pain. “We must have broken a wheel. No need to panic.”

  “I do not panic,” Lady Cordelia replied.

  He smiled. She was unharmed.

  “I’ll speak with the driver.” He drew himself up and opened the door. The ground was far too near him, and he stepped onto the mossy stones too easily.

  The driver was gazing forlornly at the very broken wheel, and Gerard soothed the horses, murmuring to them as he brushed his hand over their coats. He checked their legs, but fortunately they were unharmed. When they calmed, he turned his head to the driver. “Can that wheel be fixed?”

  “Only if you have a spare,” the man declared. “Which we don’t have.”

  Gerard’s heart tumbled downward. Perhaps some wheels were interchangeable, but the ton tended to require custom-made wheels for their custom-made, crammed with sumptuous details, carriages.

  “You should have brought one,” Gerard said.

  The man yawned. “Forgive me for not anticipating a journey to Scotland at this late hour.”

  “You should always carry one,” Gerard said. “A poor road is not a novel occurrence.”

  “Next time,” the man said.

  Gerard grabbed the torch and strode to the carriage. He ducked his head inside. “Time to go. Outside.”

  He wasn’t sure what expression flitted across her face at his words, but he didn’t mind. Lady Cordelia held more emotion inside her than ice queens were rumored to possess.

  “Are you going to fix the coach?”

  He smiled. “I’m not that miraculous,” he drawled. “Though it’s nice of you to think it.”

  His eyes flickered to Cordelia’s despite his best intentions.

  Her face was frozen, but he had a strange feeling she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “What do you suggest we do?”

  The question was good. Unfortunately, the answer was not obvious.

  They were on a dark road, and somewhere, not too far from them, was a man who desired to kill him. And if he found Gerard, he’d find Lady Cordelia, and she’d be forever disgraced.

  “I didn’t even leave a note,” Lady Cordelia admitted. “But for this—leaving my family forever—I haven’t even given the same courtesy as I would to a person who gifted me with an unbecoming hat.”

  “You would look bonnie in any type of hat.”

  She widened her eyes, and he averted his gaze.

  He’d long grown accustomed to the habit of charming women, but his chest squeezed as if he’d revealed a secret. “Let’s get some distance from here. Perhaps then you might contact them.”

  She nodded, her expression solemn.

  Her manner contrasted with the absurd feminine attire she wore. Her silk gown was embroidered with beading that sparkled impractically in the torch light, and even her footwear gleamed in a garish manner.

  “You should be dressed more warmly.” He regretted that the butler had packed some clothes for him, but nothing for her. He hadn’t thought to inquire if she’d packed. The thought of a woman showing up at his place without anything was incomprehensible.

  She smiled. “I did not take you to be a man concerned with proper attire.”

  The glossy satin of Cordelia’s slippers was hardly adequate protection against a manor house floor, much less a dirt lane. Mud already stained the flimsy material.

  “I’ll fetch the blanket for you.” He grabbed the plaid fabric from the coach and told the driver to make his way back to the manor house. Lady Cordelia and he would simply have to find alternative transport. At least he’d taken all his coin.

  He handed the blanket to Lady Cordelia, careful to avoid contact with her hands. They seemed prone to sending jolts of heat through his veins that he preferred not to ponder.

  She wrapped it tightly around her.

  Gerard’s lips twitched. Lady Cordelia didn’t seem to know that she’d only succeeded in emphasizing her curves.

  Not that he noticed.

  Not at a time like this.

  “Rather brings out your inner peasant,” he teased.

  “I do not possess an inner peasant.”

  She pressed her lips together, and he laughed. In truth there was something appealing about the manner in which strands of her hair fell loosely around her face. Not that he would tell her that.

  “You don’t have a plan,” she said.

  “I always have a plan,” he declared and increased his speed. “We are going to go to the local friendly public house and ask somebody for a lift.”

  She nodded curtly and marched down the lane, unfazed by her inappropriate footwear. He followed her, but he wished he could expel the unease that prickled through him.

  The hedges, usually filled with flowers, were shrouded of any color, and they blocked the stars above. Wind rushed through the branches, not hampered by the still sparsely distributed leaves and blossoms of spring. It was easy to imagine carriages approaching, easy to imagine the steady trot of horses, and the slide of wheels over the dirt lane.

  Amber light glowed in the distance, and Gerard traipsed toward it. He could kiss whomever had decided to put a pub there. The Old Goblet should be called something else entirely. Like Brilliant Beacon or just Hope.

  It was still open, thank goodness. Bless these Yorkshiremen and their propensity for drink. He would go in and ask someone for help and—

  He frowned.

  The pub was open.

  Even though it was well past midnight. Definitely not prime public house time, no matter the alcoholic desires of its members.

  Voices wafted from the windows of the public house.

  Strange.

  Carriages lined the drive, some with horses still attached to them.

  Very strange.

  Gerard halted.

  “Keep on going,” Lady Cordelia said.

  “Shh . . . ” He hushed her and peered into the distance. Golden beams swooped over the trees.

  Not the normal amount of light. Not when it wasn’t Twelfth Night, wasn’t the Fifth of November, wasn’t supposed to be anything special at all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Energy thrummed through Gerard’s body, and he flexed his hand.

  “Let’s walk in the other direction.” Gerard forced his voice to retain a jovial note and brushed his fingers against the place he’d put his pistol.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on.” He flashed Lady Cordelia one of his broad smiles, the kind that normally made women abandon whatever they were doing. But his new fiancée continued toward the tavern, striding in perfectly paced steps, even as the hem of her gown sank into the muddy road.

  He looped his fingers around her hand. Her fingers were smooth, delicate and icy-cold.

  She freed herself from his grasp and continued in the direction of the tavern and its over-abundance of lights.

  “Lady Cordelia! It’s not safe to go there.”

  She halted and stared at the pub. He prepared himself for a tirade. Instead, her shoulders drooped. “There are too many people there.”

  “Aye, lassie.”

  They weren’t supposed to be here. The woman had risked everything to warn him, and there was no way he would allow some search party to find them both and haul her back to her father in disgrace.

  Perhaps Oggleton would seek to make an example of him, but Gerard would be a fool to think that Cordelia’s already fallen position would ever improve if word got out that she’d been seen traipsing about the countryside with one of England’s worst rakes.

  “Look,” he said. “If you’re seen with me—before the marriage—it wouldn’t do anything favorable to your reputation.”

  She smiled. “Are you lecturing me on etiquette, my lord?”

  His cheeks warmed, and when he spoke, he was conscious of a strange gruffness. “I just meant that you’re dressed too fancily. You might make yourself noticeable.”


  “I have never looked worse.” Warmth wafted through her voice as if she were swallowing a laugh.

  “That might be, but this is far too ostentatious.” He brushed his fingers against her earrings. Some spark jolted him, and he removed his fingers, replacing them on the sparkling stones of her necklace.

  Hovering his fingers over her décolletage did not ease the strange surge of energy that thrummed through him. He yanked his hand away from the jewels as if he’d been touching hot coals and not sapphires.

  “Better remove that.” His throat was hoarse as if he’d spent the last hours in the Sahara, and not in wet, soggy Yorkshire.

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened, and her arms moved to her neck. “Indeed.”

  He gritted his teeth and swiveled his gaze to the road, and away from the suddenly alluring bare skin and the hints of cleavage as she removed her necklace. Her arms jangled, and he spotted more sparkles. The woman exuded femininity, and he firmed his jaw. “Remove the bracelets too.”

  Horse trotting sounded on the road.

  “Hide,” he whispered. “In those trees.”

  Lady Cordelia’s cheeks seemed to darken, and her eyelashes swooped downward. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to speak to those gentlemen. We need transportation.”

  “But that’s—” She pointed at the dim object. “That’s not even a coach. It’s a van. Merely a lightweight covered wagon. Who drives vans?”

  “Locals.”

  Hopefully not locals who were looking for them.

  Lady Cordelia nodded, and he grasped hold of her wrists, pulling her closer to him. “And if anything should happen—well, see my brother. You can do that, right?”

  “Yes, yes.” Her eyes widened, and the carriage wheels seemed to thunder.

  “Now,” he whispered.

  If the wrong person was behind the wheel—

  Cordelia vanished, and he turned toward the road and his fate.

  Fate was evidently approaching in the guise of a van and two bushy-faced drivers.

  Not Oggleton.

  Not the Duke of Belmonte.

  Not the magistrate.

  Gerard stepped forward and waved his arm.

  The van halted, and Gerard strode toward the two drivers. One was sturdy with the sort of figure that only came after toiling away in fields, and the other one was wirier, though his lack of muscles could also be explained by his obvious advanced age. White hair curled around his face, and his beard covered the place where he would keep his cravat.

  “Evening, good sirs,” he called out, tipping his hat.

  A white-headed man beamed back at him. “Aren’t you a pleasant chap? Stopping us just to greet us.”

  He smiled. “I was wondering kind sirs, whether you could be of assistance.”

  The white headed man’s bushy eyebrows didn’t budge. Instead he gave a serene smile. “I thought you might ask that.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Ah, yes,” the man continued. He flicked his hand against his frock coat. “I’m rather an expert at helping people.”

  “Then I’ve found the right person. My carriage has broken its wheel, and I am in a rush to travel. Do you know someone who might be able to assist?”

  “At this hour!” The driver chuckled. “Doubtful. We ain’t got anybody in this ‘ere village who can help. Everybody’s needed.”

  “Ah…” Gerard nodded. He hadn’t really hoped that the solution could be so simply solved. “Well then, I would like to purchase this—er—delightful van from you.”

  “You want this ‘ere van?” The man’s eyebrows shot together.

  “Aye, aye.”

  “Right.” The man shifted his lower half, and the van creaked from un-oiled joints. “Ain’t never had anyone want to buy this ‘ere from me before.”

  “But then, you’ve never encountered me before.” Gerard tapped his fingers against his purse, and the sizeable amount of coin he’d brought.

  “It’s probably a trick,” the man’s companion said. “Some things are too good to be true.”

  “And we are riding in the van,” the driver said. “Can’t give up our transport.”

  “Even for this?” He held up some coin.

  “Never met a man who wanted a van quite so much. My name is Nicholas by the way,” the white-headed man said. “And this ‘ere is Potter.”

  “My name is—er—Jones,” Gerard lied, and cleared his throat. “It’s a mighty fine van. Covered in the back and—er—lighter than a wagon.”

  “Rather like all vans,” the man said suspiciously.

  “Perfect for people who want to buy vans,” Gerard said cheerfully. “I trust you will agree to the sale.”

  “We’re not supposed to stop . . . ”

  The two men conferred. Lights still shone from a-not-far-enough-distance, and Gerard stepped into the shadows. Water dripped from the leaves and dabbled his attire.

  Nicholas scrutinized him. “Seems right suspicious that a strange man on the road wants to buy a van.”

  “I don’t consider myself strange,” Gerard added hastily.

  “Yet it is past midnight,” Potter mused.

  Gerard gave a languid shrug, even as his heart raced. “The urge to buy transport never ceases. I’m sure, as a man, you understand.”

  Potter nodded with vigor. “Oh, yes. I understand.”

  Gerard smiled. “So will you—er—assist?”

  “For that coin, we’ll drive you to wherever you’re going!” Potter declared.

  “Thank you,” Gerard said. “I’m most appreciative. And I’m thankfully quite capable of driving.”

  The burly man smiled. “It’s a masculine trait.”

  Gerard nodded and darted his gaze to the tree. Lady Cordelia was being very quiet. “I’m traveling with my—er—wife.” The word felt strange on his lips. “I would like her to travel in some style.”

  The white-headed man laughed. “First time anyone’s called this ‘ere van stylish.”

  Gerard turned toward the trees and extended his hand outward. “Come on—er—darling.”

  Rustling sounded, and Lady Cordelia appeared. Leaves clung to the dampened blanket that covered the entirety of her evening gown.

  He bowed low, the better to mask his smirk. “This way my dear.”

  Nicholas and Potter scrambled down, still scratching their heads and muttering words of astonishment.

  They were safe.

  Gerard led Lady Cordelia to the van. There weren’t any stairs, even the rickety kind, to help her onto, and he swept her into his arms.

  “I should ask,” Potter said. “You ain’t happened to have seen the Duke of Belmonte’s daughter?”

  Lady Cordelia tensed in his arms, and Gerard’s heartbeat thundered.

  Finally he chuckled, and Cordelia joined him, though their laughter verged on the hysterical.

  “Course they ain’t seen her,” Nicholas chided Potter. “Those don’t look like posh folks.”

  Gerard was supremely grateful for his preference for casual attire and his failure to see his hairdresser in recent weeks. Cordelia shot a stony glance at him.

  “My wife’s not fancy,” Gerard declared, and Lady Cordelia’s face tightened. Her breath grew uneven as if her she desired to speak but was valiantly resisting the temptation.

  He almost felt sorry for her. He shoved her onto the van and hauled himself up beside her.

  “We should be searching for her too,” Nicholas said, “But we felt sorry for you. Not a good night to be out with a broken coach.”

  “Thank you for selling to us.”

  “Aye, aye,” Potter said. “We’re helpful chaps, us two. Last year I helped match together the Duke of Alfriston with one of the young ladies here.”

  Lady Cordelia’s old fiancé. Gerard frowned and scrutinized her rapidly paling expression.

  “Poor darling wanted us to chase after him,” the white-headed man mused. “Told us some nonsense about being married to him. Who pretend
s to be married to someone else? Called herself Mrs. Percival. Quite fantastic.”

  Gerard glanced at Cordelia, but her face didn’t reveal any emotion.

  Then again she seemed focused on gazing into the sky. She’d probably noticed it was the one place where she could look without her thoughts being marred by gazing at the shabby carriage and the even shabbier drivers.

  He sighed. He didn’t like seeing her appear so forlorn. “I’m afraid my wife is tired.”

  “Oh, well!” Nicholas said. “Better get going, shouldn’t we Potter? It was nice to meet you, Mr. Jones and—er—”

  “Mrs. Jones,” Lady Cordelia stammered.

  Gerard clamped down his teeth to hide his smirk. “She’s very fond of announcing it.”

  “Must be true love,” Nicholas mused. “I never asked—where are you going?”

  “Just looking for work,” Gerard said, stretching his legs out. “Drifting around.”

  “Ah, yes. Right casual life style. Nice that your wife is so easygoing.”

  “Aye, she’s a keeper.” Gerard squeezed Lady Cordelia’s arm. Heat flew up his body, but in the next moment she’d pushed his hands away.

  Right.

  Perhaps the lassie didn’t understand the concept of acting. Evidently she hadn’t had time to sacrifice from all her needlework and French skills.

  “Good to have an easygoing woman,” Nicholas pondered. “My missus, she’s very simple too.”

  “I’m glad you share in my good fortune,” Gerard said.

  “Not like some women,” Nicholas continued. “Like that Lady Cordelia.”

  Gerard forced himself to retain a nonchalant expression, and for some inexplicable reason he found himself squeezing her hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “From everything I’ve heard,” Nicholas said, “she’s a demon disguised as a beauty.”

  Cordelia frowned. They were speaking about her. These men were discussing her, even though they hadn’t even met her. They’d never even seen her before. And these weren’t members of the ton who perhaps had friends who’d met her. They weren’t even servants of the ton.

  And yet they still felt comfortable coolly dissecting her, passing on any gossip they had about her.