A Rogue to Avoid (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 2)

by Bianca Blythe

  Cordelia blinked. “You arranged that just now?”

  He tilted his head, and she fought to resist the urge to rearrange the dark lock that fell over his brow. The space between them narrowed. “Some of us are sociable.”

  She attempted a smile, but her lips felt heavy. She wasn’t sociable. He hadn’t said it, but his words still rang loud in her mind.

  Lord Rockport brushed his shoulder against hers, and his baritone voice rumbled against her ear. “I told them we were married.”

  Cordelia followed him toward a coach. It looked far lighter than even the van had.

  A handsome, dark-haired couple stood before them. The woman wore a carmine redingote trimmed with fur and a bonnet lavished with a flamboyant array of feathers, and Cordelia felt self-conscious in the brown, oversized dress the marquess had found for her.

  “Please let me present Mr. MacGlashan,” Lord Rockport said, “And this is his wife.”

  “Mrs. MacGlashan,” the woman interrupted before diving into a curtsy. Her dark eyes remained on Lord Rockport, and some sultry quality in her gaze struck Cordelia as inappropriate. Cordelia stiffened, but when Mrs. MacGlashan rose, she directed her gaze at her. “Are you Scottish too?”

  “English,” Cordelia said.

  “Pity,” Mrs. MacGlashan replied.

  “It is impossible for everyone to have the good fortune of being Scottish,” Mr. MacGlashan murmured.

  His wife shrugged and her bracelets jangled as she waved a hand loftily. “We should have taken a ship from London instead of trudging through this scenery. England has no concept of the proper height of hills.”

  Cordelia’s eyes widened. “I’ve never found them lacking.”

  Mrs. MacGlashan flickered her hand in an irritated fashion. “Likely because you have not had the good sense to visit the Highlands. I’ve heard even Wales has been more successful in creating hills than England.”

  “I don’t think England can be blamed for its scenery.”

  “Spoken like an Englishwoman,” Mrs. MacGlashan said.

  “I thought it best to don my kilt before approaching the couple,” Lord Rockport whispered to her.

  Cordelia’s lips twitched. “You are a wise man.” She raised her voice. “Thank you for letting us travel with you.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” Mr. MacGlashan beamed, and he lingered his gaze on her cleavage

  Mrs. MacGlashan’s pleasant expression shifted, and she murmured to her husband, the sound not masked in the quiet district, “She looks young. Did they say they wanted to go to Gretna Green? That’s where people go to elope. I won’t have anything untoward on my coach.”

  Cordelia’s smile tightened.

  “Nothing untoward, I can assure you,” Lord Rockport said smoothly.

  “It is odd to choose the particular spot,” the woman said skeptically.

  Her husband cleared his throat. “Perhaps I was hasty in letting you travel with us.”

  “I can assure you that we are married,” Cordelia lied.

  “And why are you traveling to a place famous for eloping?”

  “Horrible coincidence,” Lord Rockport said. “I hate that I am taking my dear, sweet wife to a place of such notoriety. The thing is that—”

  Lord Rockport swallowed hard, and Cordelia wondered if he’d thought of what to say.

  “I’m looking for farm work there,” Lord Rockport said.

  “There are farms outside Scotland too,” Mr. MacGlashan said.

  “My husband is embarrassed to say,” Cordelia said, “but in fact, he already has a job.”

  “Aye,” Lord Rockport said. “A man like me would be in much demand.”

  “Those broad shoulders,” Cordelia said. “And muscles. All quite desirable features.”

  “You still notice my muscles?” The marquess’s voice seemed to ripple with amusement.

  Fire blazed over her cheeks, but she forced herself to shrug. “It’s an essential feature for a farmer.”

  Mrs. MacGlashan nodded. “Well this one certainly is fully endowed with them.”

  “I for my part,” Mr. MacGlashan said, “do not need to worry about that.”

  “My husband uses his mind,” Mrs. MacGlashan said.

  “Indeed.” Mr. MacGlashan pushed out his chest, emphasizing his flaccid, unmuscular body. “I am a merchant.”

  Lord Rockport nodded. “Most admirable.”

  “Something which not everyone can aspire to, unfortunately,” Mr. MacGlashan said. “It does require a certain amount of intelligence.”

  Mrs. MacGlashan eyed the marquess. “Perhaps intelligence is overrated.”

  She tucked a strand behind her ear. “I heard farmers can do quite well.”

  “You are kind to say that.” Lord Rockport bowed with a flourish that Cordelia doubted the words required, and Mrs. MacGlashan’s eyes flared.

  “My husband is poor,” Cordelia squeaked. “Not impressive at all.”

  Three pairs of eyes stared at her.

  Perhaps she had been somewhat excessive in downplaying the marquess’s strengths.

  “My husband is just a farmhand,” Cordelia continued. “He aspires for more, but that’s all he knows. He’s hoping to assist one of the pig farmers here.”

  “Pig farmers?”

  “Just as an assistant of course. He wouldn’t be intelligent enough to work with any other animal. All that counting. Pigs don’t wander much. Give them some food and some mud and they’re happy.”

  “Unintelligent, that’s me,” Lord Rockport said, brightly, and then he scratched his head as if to get better in character.

  “He enjoys it so much,” Cordelia said. “He fancies pigs know what they’re doing. They don’t waste all day to get a blade of grass.”

  “Gotta admire them for that,” Lord Rockport said cheerfully.

  Mrs. MacGlashan ceased scanning Lord Rockport’s features, but Mr. MacGlashan smiled and said magnanimously, “You can come with us. Clearly you’re not eloping. Nobody but his wife would admit that the man works with pigs.”

  “I see you’re jealous of Mrs. MacGlashan’s attentions,” Lord Rockport whispered.

  “Nonsense,” Cordelia replied. “Quite ridiculous.”

  But as they followed the couple into the coach, she had a horrible feeling he was absolutely correct. Certainly, it could not be proper that she regretted that she’d no longer spend the journey perched on the man’s knees and that she could still feel the sensation of their kiss on her lips.

  *

  The landscape flattened once they exited the Pennines, and the coach barreled easily past the scattered taverns and cottages.

  Gerard brushed his arm against Lady Cordelia’s and pointed at a thin gray line stretched over the dark green grass, the color richer and more vibrant than any he’d seen in the southern counties. “That’s Hadrian’s Wall.”

  “That the Romans built?”

  “Aye, lass.” Pride pulsated through his voice, and she smiled up at him.

  “We do have Roman things in the south,” Lady Cordelia said. “In fact Winchester is a Roman name.”

  “He is proud because we do not have many Roman things in Scotland.” Mrs. MacGlashan’s nose ascended farther in the air. “The Romans found us far too intimidating to invade.”

  Perhaps he had been overeager to deride the arrogance of the ton to Lady Cordelia. Perhaps even Scots might suffer from some of the same faults of hubris.

  Mrs. MacGlashan leaned toward him, and her eyelashes swooped up and down with a startling speed. “I am sure Mr. Jones must be very eager to be so near decent people. Do you not find, Mr. Jones, Scottish women far superior to their English counterparts?”

  “I am only fit to judge the merits of pigs,” Gerard croaked. He shifted his legs, and they clattered against the bottom of the seat.

  The sound boomed in the narrow coach, and Mrs. MacGlashan gave a disappointed huff.

  Lady Cordelia’s lips twitched, but she squeezed his hand.

 
; Clearly he’d misjudged her acting abilities. Her gesture appeared as natural as that of any loving wife. Her smile seemed so genuine, and he found himself beaming down at her.

  “The Duchess of Alfriston would love to visit,” he murmured to her. “His Grace is talking about bringing Miss Carmichael and her younger sister as well.”

  “How wonderful,” Cordelia said.

  She wouldn’t be there of course.

  She would be in Kent, far from him and his family, just as he’d intended so he could continue to lead his roguish life with no interruption.

  Yet tupping bonnie lasses was not what he had in mind.

  Even tupping his wife-to-be did not interest him.

  No, he wanted to spend the entire night with her. He wanted to worship her, to beg her forgiveness that he’d misjudged her. And he had the feeling that one night would not do.

  “Are you sure you really want to go to Gretna Green?” Mrs. MacGlashan asked him. “I’m certain that there must be pigs in our area as well.”

  “That’s very kind,” Lord Rockport said. “But it’s probably best to remain near the border. Given my wife’s heritage and everything.”

  “Poor thing.” Mr. MacGlashan said mournfully. “She doesn’t know the extent of her deprivation.”

  “Oh, she’s turned out well,” he said. “Perhaps we underestimate the merits of the English.”

  “Doubtful,” Mrs. MacGlashan scoffed. She turned away and Gerard took the opportunity to squeeze Lady Cordelia’s hand again.

  Finally the coach pulled over, and the driver opened the door. “Gretna Green!”

  His heartbeat quickened, and he smiled at Lady Cordelia. “Splendid.”

  “Let’s stop here, my dear,” Mr. MacGlashan said to his wife. “Get some grub and have the horses changed.”

  “That’s it!” Mrs. MacGlashan pointed her finger at a building. “That’s the blacksmith’s shop. The blacksmith officiates all manner of weddings—mostly elopements. Men take their English brides there who have not yet turned twenty-one and who have not secured parental consent. Completely shameful.”

  “How interesting,” Lady Cordelia said, but her voice wobbled and she peered at the tiny dusty buildings.

  Gerard hadn’t felt sick during his journey, but now his stomach tightened uncomfortably. Perhaps she was regretting their elopement.

  “You can still change your mind,” he whispered, though his words did not seem to lessen the anxiety on her face.

  “Let’s proceed,” she said. “I—I was just wondering what would happen after the marriage. I mean, would you hire a carriage to bring me to Kent? Or buy a stagecoach ticket? How—how would that work?”

  Lord, the woman was brave. He would never make her travel without at least a companion, even if that couldn’t be him.

  “Let’s discuss it after,” he said. “It will be fine. I promise.”

  She nodded, and he succumbed to the urge to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her blue eyes widened, and he was desperately, delightfully conscious of their closeness and the memory of their kiss yesterday.

  “Look at you lovebirds,” Mr. MacGlashan said cheerfully. “One would think you really were about to marry!”

  Lady Cordelia laughed weakly and stepped away.

  “Come on, darling.” Gerard extended his hand to her, and he smiled as Lady Cordelia’s face scrunched into a familiar expression of distaste. The woman still flinched whenever he called her intimate names, and somehow the sight of her cheeks pinkening and her eyelashes swooping down, compelled him to continue teasing her.

  Wagon tracks and horses’ hooves crisscrossed the muddied road. Cottages squatted underneath the grey sky. The blacksmith’s shop, slick with a likely never ceasing rainfall, sat in the center of the haphazardly arranged buildings.

  “Destiny,” Gerard murmured.

  Lady Cordelia’s lips extended into a wide grin, and somehow, for some ridiculous, absurd reason, it made his heart constrict.

  He shook away the strange feeling. He knew he needed to avoid any excessive sentimentality. He had spent too much time with Marcus and the man’s besotted bride. Love was not for everyone.

  Keeping a clear head was important in moments like this. If his father had been less sentimental, maybe his bout with bronchitis wouldn’t have killed him. Maybe his spirits would never have been so low that he’d succumbed to the sickness to begin with.

  Lady Cordelia placed her hand in the nook of his arm, and they headed toward the blacksmith’s.

  “We are being watched,” Lady Cordelia murmured.

  He veered away from the blacksmith’s shop. He lifted his head in something he hoped resembled nonchalance.

  After all, Mr. and Mrs. MacGlashan believed them already married.

  They couldn’t just get in line to marry with those two staring at them.

  And yet they needed to do so.

  “Are you pretending to admire the view?” Lady Cordelia’s lips twitched.

  “That shade of gray is beautiful.”

  “I would have thought you would have tired of it now.”

  “Nonsense. Gray is the loveliest color,” he said.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Fraught with adventure,” he continued. “Will it rain or won’t it?”

  “It will,” Lady Cordelia said.

  “Now don’t be too sure,” Gerard mused. “Plenty of times it looks like it’s going to rain, and never actually does. There could be a gray sky here, but it only means it’s raining a while away. All quite complicated.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Lady Cordelia asked.

  Damp sprinkles fell on them.

  “I believe the mystery is rather lost,” Lady Cordelia said.

  “Hmph.” Gerard scrunched his eyebrows together. “Ready to get married?”

  *

  This was her wedding day. This was it. The day she’d dreamed about since she was a little girl. The day that she and the other debutantes had pondered, debating on where was best to hold the service. They’d discussed the merits of Canterbury Cathedral or St. Paul’s Cathedral. They’d pondered the propriety of having a wedding in a country manor house.

  She crossed the dirt square as rain continued to fall on her. Mud from past rainfalls still sullied the square, and she concentrated on avoiding the puddles. She stared at the murky water, wondering whether the shade could be described as green or brown.

  Horses neighed and stomped, and pigs grunted in the street.

  Other wagons stopped with other couples appearing equally furtive. This was where people went to marry who hadn’t gotten authorization to marry. Peasants and farm hands seemed to swarm around her. Some people seemed excited, but others looked quiet and withdrawn.

  No families were here. No friends. No acquaintances to remark on the fineness of the wedding dress or the elegance of the flower arrangements.

  This was truly occurring.

  They were getting married.

  And not before all the ton, not in an immaculate jeweled gown that Beau Brummel could extol for months after, and not with the Archbishop of Canterbury before them.

  Some Scotsman would take that prominent man’s place instead.

  Lady Cordelia would have chosen the nicest wedding dress. She would have looked immaculate, worthy of being depicted in the newspaper drawings. Perhaps she would have chosen a white gown, as was becoming fashionable, or another, brighter color. White dresses were for debutantes after all. But it would have been elegant, should have been elegant, something for others to marvel about her consistently exquisite, immaculate taste.

  She sighed.

  Clearly that vision had been absurd.

  “Let’s go in,” Gerard said. “There’s bound to be a long line.”

  That hadn’t been an understatement. She gazed at all the other couples around her. So many seemed so happy, joyous, even though nobody was there to witness their wedding.

  Just a wedding.

  It did
n’t matter. Not really.

  They settled on a wooden bench and pretended it didn’t creak beneath them.

  A woman approached them. “Please give me your names for the wedding. There are many couples here.”

  Cordelia and Gerard assented.

  This place could not be further from that dream, but that was not the reason her chest squeezed. For some reason she was beginning to wonder what it would be like to elope for love, and not for an utterly rational, ton-approved, marriage of convenience.

  “This place must make a fine business,” the marquess mused.

  Cordelia scanned the window outside and flitted her gaze from one dirty-attired plebeian to an even more dirty-attired plebeian to—

  She swallowed hard. A man traipsed over the mud. The man had not made any attempt at dressing in formal attire. He wore no rumpled waistcoat and no half-way glossed boots.

  This man—this man was attired in a frock coat so wrinkled, it must have been rained on greatly. But more remarkable than his obvious lack of fashion, was his face.

  It was a face she could never forget.

  She didn’t turn to Lord Rockport. She didn’t want to draw any attention to themselves. Instead she tugged the marquess’s sleeve.

  Chapter Twenty

  Gerard fixed his gaze on the new visitor. Oggleton. The village, which moments before had seemed swarming with people and an overabundance of livestock, seemed to constrict.

  The bastard had tracked them down. They’d been so close to marrying.

  “He must have known we were eloping,” Lady Cordelia said miserably.

  Gerard jerked Lady Cordelia to her feet. “We’re going.”

  “But—”

  “I wouldn’t trust him around you if I were gone. That man threatened to cut off my finger, but has obviously moved on to just blasting me to bits.” Gerard swung open the door to the blacksmith’s shop, still clutching Lady Cordelia’s hand.

  The couple in line looked startled, and Gerard pulled Lady Cordelia into the room.

  “What are the chances that Oggleton won’t come to the shop to see if we’re here?” Lady Cordelia whispered.