Married to the Rogue

by Lancaster, Mary

  Deborah could only stare helplessly as her sister vanished into the carriage after their mother. The door was closed and the steps raised, and the carriage trundled off toward the drive.

  Deborah found she was shaking. How could everything have gone so horribly wrong? Only this afternoon, she had been so foolishly content, so hopeful.

  Slowly, she turned and walked back into the house. The footman closed the door behind her, and she tried to compose her features for her return to the drawing room. At least the evening would soon be over.

  But it seemed there was one more hurdle to overcome. As she rounded the corner to the drawing room, she came upon a tableau that seemed to slice straight through her heart.

  Christopher stood in the shadows. Close beside him leaned Frederica Ireton, her hand tenderly cupping Christopher’s cheek. She stood on tiptoes as if they had just kissed or were about to. And Christopher’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist. He was smiling—until he glanced up and saw Deborah.

  “Are you ready to go?” Deborah said somehow. Her voice did not even shake. “I shall just say my farewells to Lady Letchworth.”

  Somehow, she got past them without looking, said everything that was civil to her hostess and Sir Edmund, and collected the others to leave.

  As she left the drawing room once more, Christopher was nowhere to be seen. But Mrs. Ireton stood where she had left her.

  The woman smiled at her. “Don’t be angry, Mrs. Halland. Chris and I are old friends.”

  “He has many old friends,” Deborah said without thought. Only when the smile died on Mrs. Ireton’s face did she realize how her words could be taken. That Frederica Ireton was merely one of many.

  Only Deborah was not.

  *

  She sat opposite Christopher in the carriage, gazing mostly at his hands, ungloved once more. She kept her expression carefully amiable. Dudley was fidgety, and his grandfather watched him sardonically.

  “Well, that was a difficult evening,” Christopher observed.

  The glow from the lanterns on the outside of the carriage flickered over his hands and thighs, emphasizing strange patterns on one hand. He covered it with the other, and she finally understood and raised her gaze to his face.

  “Did you fight?” she asked abruptly.

  He shook his head. “Not really.”

  But he had hit him. It was all that explained the marks on his hand. It was all that explained Ireton’s absence from the drawing room and the farewells. In spite of everything, she wished to bathe the abrasions for him.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said flatly. Not that she minded Ireton being struck. Reprehensibly, she wished it was for the insult to her and not for that given to Ireton’s wife.

  He shrugged. “It was purely for fun. But, yes, I seem to have contributed more than my share to the awfulness of the evening. I shouldn’t have brought Lucy and Letchworth back to you. I just didn’t want to leave you alone with those two.”

  Those two. Was that contempt? Or just his careless way of talking? Impossible to tell, and in any case, Lord Hawfield broke in with, “What are you talking about? It was a very odd evening. Started off very pleasantly, and with some hint of a great event, and then everything seemed to fizzle out. Dudley starts jumping about like a scalded cat, the son-in-law goes to bed, and we’re all in the carriage home by ten! What is going on?”

  “Dudley got word his wife has arrived at Gosmere,” Christopher said. “It’s natural he should want to see her.”

  Hawfield gave a bark of laughter. “Less natural that he’s afraid to leave her alone with his brother.”

  Dudley glared but said nothing.

  Deborah spent the rest of the journey pondering the point of marriage. There seemed to be no trust, no happiness in Dudley’s. There could certainly be none in her own. As for the Iretons, they seemed more interested in other people’s spouses. And Lucy… She was desperate to marry a man who was paltry enough to reject her on the grounds of lies told by a rake about her sister.

  When they eventually arrived back at Gosmere Hall, Dudley strode inside, demanding of George the footman, “Where is my wife?”

  “I believe Lady Bilston has retired, my lord,” George replied. “Immediately after a light supper. She was fatigued after her journey.”

  Dudley seemed to deflate.

  His grandfather laughed. “No need for us to have left early after all. Might as well have stayed!”

  Clearly, Dudley did not think so, for he set off immediately upstairs, going in the direction not of his own and his wife’s rooms, but of his brother’s.

  Lord Hawfield shook his head. “They’ll come to blows over this, Chris. You’ll have to stop them.”

  “Don’t you think they’re old enough to sort it out themselves?” Christopher said impatiently.

  “Obviously not,” Hawfield said dryly.

  “Last drink?” Christopher suggested.

  “No, I’m for bed,” his grandfather replied with a sardonic twist of the lips. “I’m sure I’ll need my strength for the morning’s histrionics. Good night.”

  “Goodnight,” Deborah murmured. She barely glanced at Christopher as she made to follow Hawfield toward the stairs.

  He caught her hand. “Wait. I would like to talk, to explain.”

  She forced a smile. “There is no need. I am not offended. The rest of it, the scandal finally catching up with me, its effect on Lucy, we can discuss tomorrow. I am too tired now.”

  His piercing eyes searched hers, and she had to work hard to keep from betraying her distress. She was only too aware of the latent strength in his fingers. God knew she liked his touch, but at this moment, she didn’t feel strong enough to bear it. She could shatter at any moment. Unthinkable to do so in his company.

  “Deborah,” he said gently. “A moment clears up any misunderstanding.”

  She smiled as kindly as she knew how. “There is no misunderstanding, Christopher. I was content to accept this marriage on the terms you offered it. I am still content.”

  A frown tugged at his brow, as though he was either surprised or displeased, but it seemed his mind was not on his own indiscretion. “Ireton is a bit of a loose screw, but he now understands the line he cannot cross. We will get to the bottom of this scandal and reverse it.”

  “Of course,” she said brightly, slipping her hand free. “Goodnight, Christopher.”

  It was, of course, ignominious flight. But she forced herself to tread lightly, without obvious care or hurry. And she thought he watched her with something like consternation. Was there hope in that? Or was she still clutching at straws that would break in the slightest breeze?

  *

  A night of pointless, foolish tears that she could not prevent was not conducive to restful sleep. She woke from an unhappy doze only a little after dawn. Grief for lost hopes she had barely acknowledged lay heavy on her, but she could not bear to wallow any longer. She threw off the covers, and while she washed and dressed without the aid of Anne, she planned her day of work.

  But first, she should check on Rupert’s health and make sure she was available to welcome Dudley’s wife when she should awake. Accordingly, she walked briskly along the passages toward the sick room, trying to thrust from her mind the possibility of encountering Christopher either in the passage or in Rupert’s chamber. Nothing had changed. They were still friends.

  She scratched at Rupert’s door and, receiving no answer, opened it a crack. “May I come in?” she asked, low.

  Since her only reply was silence, she assumed he was asleep and went in to check on his temperature, though she would leave the dressing on his wound until later. But as she walked toward the bed, she realized it was empty. The covers had been pulled back, and a folded sheet of paper lay on the pillow.

  With unreasonable foreboding, she picked up the paper and turned it. It bore no name, no direction. But when she glanced around the bare chamber, she knew he had gone.

  She swallowed and unfolded t
he paper.

  My thanks for everything. I find it necessary to return to the ship at once. Hope you understand. R.

  She frowned at the unsatisfactory words. What did he mean? Why was it necessary to return to his ship? Because Lady Bilston had arrived? Whatever his reason, she doubted his recovery would be aided by careering across the country to wherever the ship was moored.

  Drat, the boy.

  Crumpling the paper, she left the chamber and walked back toward her own, thinking. Should she wake Christopher and tell him? Should they make an effort to bring Rupert back? Whatever the physical risks concerning his wound, he was a grown man, and pursuing him, surely, would only draw attention to him. Besides which, she had no idea where the ship was.

  As she approached the guest bedchambers where Lord Hawfield and Lord and Lady Bilston were quartered, she saw a woman standing by the open door of Lady Bilston’s room. A well-dressed lady’s maid, facing into the chamber, with her hands clutching her cap.

  Deborah walked faster. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked.

  The woman whipped around, expressions of fear and despair and determination chasing each other across her stern-featured face. She gave a grudging curtsey. “Nothing, ma’am.”

  “Are you Lady Bilston’s maid? Is her ladyship quite comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

  Deborah would merely have walked on, leaving the maid to sort out her own problems, except that the woman made an instinctive movement to block the doorway. Deborah paused again, regarding her.

  “If you please,” she said amiably.

  “Her ladyship is asleep.”

  “I don’t think so,” Deborah said, although she couldn’t have said why beyond the obvious fact that the maid was hiding something. She walked forward, forcing the maid to step back, and entered an empty chamber. The bed had been slept in, and clothing was scattered about.

  “What is your name?” Deborah asked.

  “Marvin, ma’am.”

  “Why are you so concerned, Marvin?”

  Marvin’s shoulders slumped. “She’s dressed without me, and it’s too early for breakfast.”

  “Then she has probably gone for a walk, either inside or outside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It crossed Deborah’s mind that Marvin knew something of the situation here, that her mistress had once been betrothed to the other, disreputable brother who was here on a secret visit. Did she doubt her mistress? Or Rupert.

  “Set your mind at rest,” Deborah advised. “Go and ask in the servants’ hall. Mrs. Dawson and Hunter are both helpful and discreet. And your dramatics will do your mistress no good.”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  Once in her chamber, still uneasy, Deborah decided to set her own mind at rest. The gown she wore was an old walking dress that had doubled as a riding habit. Hastily, she found her hat and her cloak, donned boots instead of her indoor shoes, and sallied forth to the stables.

  In the yard, Matthew, the groom, was brushing Nightshade, Christopher’s favorite horse. Seeing Deborah, he came toward her, tugging his forelock. “Morning, ma’am. You come to try out the mare?”

  The mare was a gift from Christopher. She had met and made friends with the animal but not yet had the opportunity to ride her.

  “Yes, I thought I would…is anyone else out at the moment?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am. Seems everyone’s up and about early this morning. Mr. Rupert went out an hour ago.”

  So much for Rupert remaining incognito. She just hoped the servants would be discreet if and when the excisemen returned.

  “And her ladyship with him,” Mathew added, relinquishing his brushes to a boy who trotted back to work on the big horse.

  Deborah blinked. “Her ladyship? Lady Bilston?”

  “Aye. Rode out with Mr. Rupert, happy as a lark.”

  Deborah’s stomach tightened with unease. Dudley would not like his wife riding alone with Rupert. Obviously, Marvin knew that. All Deborah could do was insert herself into the party to dilute Dudley’s inevitable jealousy.

  She blinked, realizing two horses were now being saddled, one for Matthew. “Oh, you don’t need to come, Matthew. I shall do fine on my own.”

  “He’ll have my guts for garters if I let you ride alone, especially first time on a new horse. Don’t worry. I won’t get in the way.”

  It was a fight she was hardly guaranteed to win, and, in any case, she could not spare the time. So, she gave in gracefully and even used the groom’s presence to her advantage. “Which way do you suppose the others went? I would like to catch them up.”

  Matthew pointed laconically westward. Toward the sea where, presumably, lurked Rupert’s smuggling vessel.

  This was not good. Why would Dudley’s wife ride out with Rupert on such a journey? When her husband remained at Gosmere.

  Oh, no. They could not be…eloping?

  Of course not. Rupert would not do such a thing!

  He was angry with Dudley last night. If he’s anything like Christopher—and I think he is—he does stupid things when he’s angry.

  Which doesn’t mean that Lady Bilston does. She has made her choice. She will be saying goodbye to Rupert…

  They rode off along the path, Deborah leading the way, Matthew staying respectfully several yards behind. She urged the mare into a canter, enjoying the animal’s quick response and the powerful movement beneath her. She kept her eyes peeled, peering through woods and over fields, in among grass and rocks, searching for any sign of other riders.

  But they had an hour’s start on her. And after half an hour of riding, she began to worry that there was no sign of Lady Bilston returning.

  Surely, surely, Rupert would not abduct her?

  She increased her speed. Anyone under the threat of ruin through no fault of their own deserved her sympathy and her help.

  With a surge of hope, she spotted a horse among the long grass on the side of the hill. She urged the mare off the path, over the uneven slope, and without warning, a huge man loomed up out of the grass, causing the mare to whinny in fright. With some effort, Deborah held the mare in check.

  “Lummy, it’s yourself!” exclaimed the huge man, clutching his heart.

  “Joshua?” she said, staring at the smuggler over whose head she had once broken a bottle. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Came to fetch His Nibs back to the ship. Something came up.”

  “He’s gone,” Deborah said blankly.

  Joshua was looking despairingly at the sun. “I know. I’m late. I was meant to catch him up an hour ago at Branwell.” He loped further up the hill to catch the horse Deborah had seen from the path.

  Branwell was a small but busy coastal town. Surely Rupert had not moored his smuggling vessel somewhere so public? But then, he had told Joshua days ago that it didn’t matter if the ship was searched. Perhaps this wasn’t as reckless as it seemed.

  “Wait!” She urged the mare after him. “Joshua, why are you not with him?”

  Joshua grinned and heaved himself awkwardly into the saddle. “He wanted time alone with the lady.”

  Her heart plummeted once more. “Oh, no. Did she go with him, Joshua?”

  “They left side by side.”

  “Oh, the devil! Was he compelling her? Did he constrain her?”

  “’Course not!” Joshua said indignantly. “She seemed happy as a lark to me.”

  Deborah rubbed at her forehead in an effort to think. She wished she had slept better. Then she straightened in the saddle. “Very well. You must take me to the ship.”

  “Can’t do that, ma’am!” Joshua said, shocked.

  “You can, and you will. One moment.” She turned the mare carefully on the uneven ground and rode back down to the path to where Matthew was just catching up. “Matthew, ride back to the house as quickly as you can, and speak alone to Lady Bilston’s maid, Marvin. Put her in a carriage—discreetly—and send her to Branwell,
where she is to meet her mistress and me. Do you understand?”

  “’Course I do,” Matthew said affronted. “But, ma’am…”

  “No time to argue, Matthew, just do it!” She wheeled the mare around and cantered off, catching up with the bewildered Joshua.

  A quick glance behind showed her Matthew galloping off for home.

  She could save this. She could, and she would. It wasn’t just a determination to preserve her husband’s family name when her own had been dragged so unfairly in the dirt. It was something to do with an expression in Dudley’s face, a deep and all-consuming love for his wife. And her own barely acknowledged belief that Rupert, if he had ever loved Georgianna with such intensity, no longer did. If he was eloping with her, he did so from mere anger, and both his brother and sister-in-law would pay the price.

  She couldn’t allow that. Not if she could possibly prevent it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christopher woke with a fuzzy head, which wasn’t surprising since he had resorted to the brandy once Deborah had rejected his company.

  She had never done that before, and he hadn’t expected it to hurt. Certainly not when it was done with civility and grace and everything he had asked for in his wife. A complacent spouse who would follow her heart as he did his. A civilized marriage of convenience with the agreeable addition of the friendship forming between them.

  Alcohol was not known for bringing clarity of thought, but after two glasses, he had realized there was more than friendship on his side. She made him comfortable, laughed with him, indulged him, behaved exactly as he wished when other women flirted with him. And yet he was ungrateful.

  He hadn’t wanted her to be hurt by Frederica pawing at him as she had. For that reason, he had been anxious to put the matter right. But she had seemed to care more for her sister’s disappointment and simply wasn’t interested enough to discuss anything with him.

  During the third glass, he had wondered what it was he did want of her. By the time he’d poured the fourth, his imagination was full of ever-changing scenes in which she laughed up at him with her beautiful, shining, grey eyes, which sometimes clouded in the warmth of passion as she lay writing and naked in his arms. She walked at his side, rode with him, talked with him, told him her troubles, and supported him in his. She kissed him with those soft, yielding lips and cried out with joy.