A Rogue's Surrender: Regency Novellas

by Lauren Smith

  Against his better judgment, his gaze fixed on her cat-like, green eyes and lingered on her dark brown mane, dark as Jamaican coffee, that threatened to cascade down her shoulders in a sinuous, tumbling wave.

  No, not heat stroke.

  Just sizzling, hot Mallory.

  He cleared his parched throat. “You’re here now and therefore my responsibility. I will see you safely home and that’s an end to this discussion.”

  She sighed, a soft, breathy sigh. “Very well. If you insist on being nonsensical about it.”

  That she was unaware of her appeal only added to her allure.

  Hell in a handbasket.

  Of all the bloody bad luck. Why did she have to turn out so beautiful? More to the point, why did he suddenly have to notice? He was about to secure himself an heiress, one with a solid dowry of thirty thousand pounds and an annual income of three thousand pounds. There was no other way to dig himself out from under the mountain of debt his father had built, no other way to restore the ducal properties to their former splendor in his lifetime.

  He couldn’t allow Mallory to interfere with his plans.

  No, he was doing it again. Blaming Mallory when he was the one at fault for allowing this unexpected surge of lust to get the better of him. The last time he’d thought with a body part other than his brain, he wound up with a broken arm and three cracked ribs.

  Not making that mistake again.

  He spared Mallory a sidelong glance. She smiled back sweetly, too innocent to understand the effect she was having on him.

  Too bad she wasn’t an heiress.

  Viscount Goodell was a man of more than adequate means, but Lucien doubted his youngest daughter would come with more than two or three thousand pounds in settlement and an income of perhaps five hundred pounds a year. Blast. Why was he even thinking of Mallory in those mercenary terms. She was witty and beautiful, a young woman of worth who should be considered on her own merits.

  She would not need a handsome dowry to attract a man of substance.

  When they reached Charlemagne, Lucien took his reins in hand and turned to assist Mallory. “Here, let me help you up.”

  There was no log nearby, so he put his arms around her waist and waited for her to clutch his shoulders while he lifted her onto the saddle. She made no fuss, for there was an easiness about their friendship that made his actions feel natural, as though he were attending to a younger sister.

  But there was the problem. He didn’t have a younger sister, and Mallory was not evoking brotherly thoughts. No, indeed. If he did not let go of her now, she would know something was amiss.

  He released her almost too abruptly.

  She regarded him with confusion when he started to turn away. “Aren’t you going to climb up, too?”

  Lucien shook his head. “No, I was going to walk Charlemagne to your home.”

  Mallory hastily dismounted and then turned to him with a frown. “That’s absurd. Why don’t you simply let me walk back home on my own?”

  “Put the notion out of your head. You’re on my property and under my care. Don’t be difficult. Just do as I ask.” He tensed, knowing he’d have to feign indifference when he put his hands about her waist again.

  She was at ease and laughing. “Me? Not be difficult? Or stubborn. Or opinionated. You do recall that this is me, Mallory.”

  “But you were never as irritating as you are now.” He couldn’t resist a chuckle. “Do as I ask. I’m not going to let you win this battle.”

  She grumbled but allowed him to lift her back onto the saddle. He’d barely contained himself the first time. His body was now a powder keg and she was the lit fuse about to ignite him.

  He turned away and grabbed the reins.

  Charlemagne was a big, sweaty beast. But the scent that filled his nostrils was Mallory’s apples and cinnamon scent.

  Bah!

  He must be hungrier than he realized.

  Cinnamon and apples, indeed. A freshly baked pie would satisfy his appetite. That’s all he needed.

  Not Mallory.

  Not her sultry lips or her cat eyes or her have-sex-with-me– He stopped himself right there. This was Mallory, not some trinket to amuse him until something better came along. She was the best. Nothing better would ever come along than this girl.

  Too bad she wasn’t an heiress.

  But he’d already found his heiress.

  His plan was set.

  All he had to do was keep to it.

  But Mallory was achingly beautiful.

  This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chapter Three

  “Mallory, stop dawdling,” her mother said, shaking her head and tsking when she caught her daughter staring out the window, studying the tufts of white clouds floating across the azure sky. “Most of the guests have arrived for your party. I’m sure the last carriages will be rolling up the drive right now.” Her mother’s mouth pursed in disapproval as she inspected Mallory. “Oh, dear. This will never do. Your hair is already coming undone.”

  “It must be the damp weather, Mama. There’s nothing to be done about it.” Mallory’s maid had attempted to sweep it up atop her head in a fashionable twist, but all her hard work was to no avail.

  “What are you talking about, child? There’s no sign of rain, no hovering mist to curl your impossibly unruly hair. It’s a delightfully sunny day. Now, get away from the window and finish dressing.”

  “Very well, but I was– never mind, what’s the use?”

  Her mother gave another tsk. “Are you still searching for a star to wish upon?”

  Mallory stuck her chin in the air. “Perhaps.”

  “Time to stop dreaming, my girl. I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately. You’ve been distracted and forgetful all week, floating about in a fog. Stop it at once and put your fanciful notions aside. The stars belong in the sky, not in your eyes.”

  “Ah,” Mallory said with a knowing nod. “I forgot. Marriage is a business to be taken seriously if I’m to secure my future. However, I’m not to be shopped on the marriage mart for another year, so why should I not enjoy my dreams a little while longer?”

  Her mother’s expression softened, but only a little. “Dreams do not put food on the table or place a sturdy roof over your head. Remember that, my girl. You’ve lived comfortably up to now, but all that can change in the blink of an eye. Your father is not a young man. There will come a day when–”

  “I know, Mama. I’ll keep my wits about me when the moment comes to choose a husband. I just wanted today to be carefree and filled with fun. Is there anything wrong with wishing for that?”

  “I suppose not, my dear.” After a moment, her mother reached around her to shut the window, a signal that her reverie was now at an end. “Sit down and I’ll stick a few more hairpins in that thick coil of yours to hold it fast. And why are you wearing the amber silk when I distinctly recall setting out the new pink gown upon your counterpane? I thought we had decided you ought to wear the pink.”

  Mallory groaned. “No, Mama. That gown has too many frills and bows. It makes me look twelve.”

  “It makes you look stylish. The amber gown is too simple.”

  “I like simple.”

  Her mother shook her head and tsked yet again. “Mallory, you are a beautiful girl. But yours is more of a quiet beauty that one might not notice upon first glance. Therefore, you need to be noticed. I will not have my youngest daughter sitting among the wallflowers.”

  She gave her mother’s suggestion serious consideration, but she truly detested that pink confection that passed for an elegant gown, and knew she would never appear more sophisticated in it than her eighteen years. Why was this gown so important anyway? She doubted Lucien would notice what she wore or ever stop thinking of her as the naive innocent that she unfortunately was.

  Her mother persisted. “But we decided–”

  “You decided, Mama. This party is in honor of my birthday. Can’t I choose what I am to wear thi
s one time?” She hurried to the mirror and gave herself a final inspection. Her hair would hold up, she hoped. Besides, she detested those London styles that were all the current fashion, springy curls that were pulled back tight and made her look like a startled pigeon. “Has His Grace arrived yet?”

  Her mother frowned. “The Duke of Hawthorn? Honestly, Mallory. Is this what your distraction is about? He’s handsome, for certain. But you must give up this ridiculous dream of yours. He will never notice you.”

  “Why not?” She sounded defiant, but her mother’s words had wounded her. “I know I’m not as pretty as Alicia or Dierdre, but not every man’s taste runs to petite and blonde.” Although she cared for her sisters, she was different from them in many ways. Appearance. Temperament. Her hopes for a love marriage.

  Indeed, her sisters were quite content with their marriage bargains. Alicia was now a countess, for she’d married a wealthy earl and boasted of keeping two carriages, a townhouse in Mayfair, and a monthly allowance that would keep a hundred orphans clothed and well fed were it applied to them and not the jewels, silk gowns, and gaming tables that she spent it on.

  Dierdre had done almost as well for herself, snaring a baron whose elegant townhouse was in Belgravia, who kept a carriage and a sporty phaeton, and whose generous allowance would have allowed Dierdre to keep fifty orphans fed and clothed had she the slightest desire to be generous, which she hadn’t.

  “The problem is not your looks, but the size of your purse,” her mother said. “The duke is in desperate need of an heiress to clear away the substantial debt his father placed upon his estate. Your dowry, while ample enough to entice many suitable gentlemen, is not nearly enough to meet his requirements.”

  Mallory nodded, yet it did not seem fair to her that notions of love had to be discarded altogether. But what did she know? Even if Lucien fell in love, it wasn’t likely to be with her. He was handsome, experienced, and sophisticated. He was all the things that she would never be. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Besides, his betrothal to Lady Heloise, the Duke of Digby’s daughter, will be announced any day now. It’s the juiciest on dit. The match of the year, or so it has been declared in all the papers. He’s been seen escorting her around London these past three months. Exclusively. What else can it mean but a marriage in the offing?”

  Mallory furrowed her brow in thought. “If he is about to propose to this Incomparable,” she remarked, unable to hold back her sarcasm which might have been tinged with a good dollop of jealousy, “then why is he back home now? At the height of the Season, no less. Should he not be staying close to her side? Marking his territory, so to speak.”

  Her mother sighed. “You’ve been reading those animal stories again by that man.”

  “Sir William Maitland is a renowned naturalist and explorer. His books are not mere animal stories. They are of scientific and historical importance. His daughter, Joanna Maitland, travels everywhere with him. And now he has several scholarly women–”

  “Bluestockings,” her mother said with a disdainful huff. “Spinsters, no doubt. With nothing better to do than to concentrate their efforts on books since they’ve been overlooked by all men of marriageable age and good reputation.”

  Mallory rolled her eyes. “They are intelligent and talented women. Did you know that the Duke of Melbourne’s wife is assisting Sir William with his illustrations of the various flora and fauna...”

  Her voice trailed off as her mother turned away, muttering under her breath as she ignored Mallory and started for the door. “Where have I gone wrong with you, child?”

  “You haven’t. I’ve been well educated in the art of trapping a suitable bachelor. But I wish to marry someone I can love. Lucien–”

  “Oh, it is Lucien now, is it?” Her gaze suddenly turned keen and assessing as she studied Mallory. “Has he given you permission to call him that?”

  “No, but it’s how I like to think of him. I wouldn’t presume to–”

  “Enough.” Her mother emitted a sigh of exasperation and held up a hand to stop her protests. “I’ll hear no more talk of him. He showed little interest in either of your sisters, both of whom were far more proficient at moving about in Society than you are. Alicia was declared a diamond by all who met her, and still, he showed her no interest.” She gave a small harrumph. “Mark my words, the duke will be marrying Lady Heloise. He is only here to attend to urgent matters at Hawthorn Hall and will hie himself back to London and Lady Heloise’s side as soon as he’s dealt with this latest problem.”

  She locked her arm in Mallory’s and bustled her downstairs to greet their guests. “I do wish you had worn the pink.” But her mother said no more about it as she sailed her toward the parlor where her father, Viscount Goodell, was already holding court.

  He cast her a disapproving nod. “Ah, finally. Mallory, it isn’t good form to be late to your own party.”

  She paid him no heed, for her heart was already sinking into her toes. Casually leaning his muscled form against one of the doors that opened onto their terraced garden was her very own, magnificently handsome, Lucien. Of course, the sun chose just that moment to emerge from behind a passing cloud, casting its rays upon the golden waves of his hair and wrapping him in its glorious illumination as though he were a warrior angel descended from heaven or a majestic Greek god.

  His eyes were a bright, sparkling blue as he spoke to the beautiful appendage hanging on his arm. Lady Heloise.

  What was she doing here?

  That little dollop of jealousy swelled to behemoth proportions. There could be only one reason for her unexpected presence. She was marking her territory, namely Lucien, and making certain no other young woman of marriageable age came near him.

  Lucien looked up just then and their gazes locked.

  Heat rose in Mallory’s cheeks.

  Not a gentle blush, of course. No, she wouldn’t be that fortunate. Her cheeks were flushed and her forehead began to sweat.

  Lady Heloise cast her a cold, imperious sneer which turned into robust laughter when Mallory accidentally backed into a passing footman and knocked over the tray he was carrying. On the tray had been a dozen crystal glasses filled with champagne that were to be used to toast her special day.

  Perhaps they ought to have waited until she turned nineteen to celebrate.

  “Stanfield, I’m so sorry.” She knelt to assist the footman in gathering the shards of glass before any of their guests accidentally stepped on them. As she did so, her knees sank into a puddle of champagne.

  Her father came to her side and unceremoniously lifted her to her feet, at the same time whispering, “Mallory, get up at once.”

  Although her father maintained a stiff smile on his lips, she could tell that he was humiliated and furious. Indeed, seething. After all, he was a viscount and had high hopes for his youngest daughter. Hopes that she had just dashed to bits along with their finest, ancestral champagne flutes. “And change out of your soiled gown.”

  As her guests stared at her in shocked silence, she made polite apologies and bussed her father’s cheek before retreating from the parlor. She held back her tears as she hurried up the stairs, but her humiliation and sorrow were overwhelming. She released a flood of them once she’d made it to her room and closed the door behind her. “Oh, Bridey,” she wailed, collapsing onto her bed and calling to her maid who had been tidying up in her absence, “I’ve made a complete fool of myself. He’s here with Lady Heloise. Why didn’t my parents tell me that she’s staying with him at Hawthorn Hall?”

  “Are ye referring to His Grace? I’m sure they didn’t mean to keep it from you. But Lady Heloise and her aunt, and I do believe a few friends of theirs, only arrived late yesterday.” She lumbered over to Mallory to wrapped her in her beefy arms and give her a motherly hug, something Mallory’s own mother ought to have done, but rarely did. “Your mother sent word to His Grace this morning that his friends would be welcome.”

  “She knew?” And ye
t, she’d kept the news from Mallory while admonishing her moments earlier.

  “It was the neighborly thing to do. But they sent their regrets.”

  Mallory sat up and wiped away her tears using the back of her hands. “Not all of them declined. Lady Heloise is here with him.”

  “Of course, she is. She ain’t lettin’ that man out of her sight.” Bridey gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder before releasing her to cross to her bureau and withdraw a handkerchief from the top drawer. “Here, dry your tears.” She withdrew another handkerchief and moistened it with water. “Put this one over your eyes. I won’t have ye marching down there with yer eyes all red. Ye’re going to change out of that gown and put on the one yer mother laid out for ye earlier.”

  “I can’t.” Mallory’s heart beat faster and her stomach began to churn violently. “Lady Heloise is wearing that color. I can’t compete with her.”

  “Ye can and ye must.” Bridey frowned at her. “I didn’t raise a coward, did I? Besides, I hear she’s a snooty one and deserves a good comeuppance.”

  Mallory shook her head and laughed at the stubborn Yorkshire woman who had been in service to her family since before Mallory was born. “How do you know all this? Lady Heloise and her party have been here less than a day.”

  “News travels fast. She insulted Hutchins and–”

  Mallory’s hands balled into fists. “What could she possibly have to say about that dear man?”

  “He took too long to bring up her trunks.”

  Mallory grinned. “Did he do it on purpose?”

  Bridey arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps. She complained about Mrs. Clarke, too. Apparently, she put Lady Heloise and her aunt at the opposite end of the hall from His Grace. The grand lady wasn’t happy about that, but I think His Grace was relieved.”

  “Why would he be relieved?” Mallory permitted herself a moment’s satisfaction before her grin faded. “His staff must be careful about vexing her. She’ll soon be duchess at Hawthorn Hall. I’d hate for them to be discharged and she seems petty enough to do it. She sneered at me when I walked downstairs.”