Married to the Rogue

by Lancaster, Mary

  His smile was meltingly tender. “I know.”

  She blinked, wondering if she was still dreaming. “You do?”

  “Well, yes, you told me many times as you drifted into sleep. I’m afraid I gave you a pretty stiff dose of Mrs. Briggs’s laudanum for the pain.”

  “Then, if I had died, you would have known,” she said pleased.

  “Yes, but that’s no reason to die,” he said firmly.

  “Oh, no,” she agreed. With her free hand, she sought the source of the nagging pain in her side. “Did he really shoot me?”

  “I’m afraid he did. And if your siblings hadn’t deflected his aim, I’m afraid the damage would have been considerably worse.”

  “Then they really were there,” she said in wonder. She frowned. “But I don’t understand any of this. Why were they there? Why were you there?”

  “Ah, well, they were there because they had seen you leave the inn after your morning meeting with Barden, and they could see you were upset, so they decided to find out what he was up to by—er—watching the inn. I understand they involved several friends in a shift system.”

  She took that in. “And you? Did you follow me from Gosmere?”

  “No. Just from the edge of Coggleton. I was already there visiting your family.”

  “Why?” she asked blankly.

  “To discover, if I could, the cause of your unhappiness. I was afraid the mysterious stranger was someone from your past, for whom you regretted marrying me.”

  “Oh, Christopher, I would never regret that, not even if you hated me.”

  He kissed her fingers. “Why the devil would I hate you?”

  “Because I kept things from you after saying I would not. Because I didn’t say I loved you when you said those words to me.” She flushed. “Because I wouldn’t let you come to me tonight.”

  “Last night,” he said, “It’s midday, now.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean I have slept all that time?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said wryly, “Georgianna hasn’t gone to Chester without you.”

  “I never intended to go to Chester.”

  “I know. You were only embezzling money from me for Barden.”

  “Oh, don’t say it like that!” she cried, distressed.

  “There, I am joking,” he said at once, stroking her hair, and leaning forward to kiss her brow, and then her lips. Her mouth clung to his, extending the kiss. “I love you,” he whispered.

  The weak tears started to her eyes again. “And I love you. With all my heart.”

  *

  Dr. Nairn, who had apparently dressed her wound in Congleton, before Christopher had brought her home, returned toward the end of the afternoon to change her dressing and have a good sniff at the wound.

  “The ball really just grazed you rather than entering your body,” he told her as he bandaged her up once more. “I think you’re doing well.”

  “Do you think I shall be fit enough for my garden party on Thursday?”

  “If the wound heals cleanly. If you have family and servants to do the running around,” the doctor said wryly, “and don’t play pall mall.”

  She smiled. “I think I can comply with that. I hope you and your wife will be there.”

  “My wife will insist upon it.”

  When Dr. Nairn was shown out, Deborah regarded Christopher, who stood at the window, looking down at the gardens.

  “It just struck me,” she said worriedly. “Will I have to speak to magistrates? Did you? What will happen to Barden?”

  “I spoke to them already. I’m afraid I was not quite truthful, for a quarrel of this nature at midnight in a public inn would not be good for your reputation. Or that of the other ladies linked to you in this scandal. I said we were walking in the village when a thief attacked us. His pistol went off while I fought back, and he ran away.”

  The story kept Giles out of events, and she was grateful for that. “But Mr. and Mrs. Briggs know that is not true. She was in the stable with us at one point. I remember that.”

  “And they don’t want it known that a shot was fired on their premises. Bad for business. They will tell the same tale.” He smiled sardonically. “I paid Barden’s account.”

  “Then he gets away with it again,” she said, frowning.

  Christopher came and sat on the bed. “This time. Not forever. I think you have to write to the other ladies. Barden needs a very public fall. Oh, and speaking of the other ladies, I brought this up to show you.” He picked The Morning Post up from the bedside table. It was open at the marriage announcements. “Lady Juliet is married.”

  “Well, that is good news,” Deborah said eagerly. “I am glad Mr. Catesby was not deterred by this nonsense.”

  “She has not married Catesby, but a Mr. Daniel Stewart.”

  “Hmm. We all seem to have married quite unexpected people. Very suddenly, too. I will write to them.”

  “Tomorrow is time enough,” he said, helping her to sit up. “You must rest that wound till it heals.”

  She was more than happy to do nothing if it meant being cradled gently in his arms, his lips among her hair.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered suddenly. “Please don’t ever frighten me like that again.”

  “I shall try not to. Do you think I could get up for dinner?”

  “No. You have to rest and recover. How else will we hold our party? And travel to Europe via London?”

  *

  The day of the party dawned fair and dry. Deborah’s wound was healing, and she could move without pain, providing she did nothing strenuous. It seemed very odd to merely sit and watch while the servants and Georgianna ran around arranging furniture, food, drinks, sunshades, garden games, and so on. At least her family came early to help and were soon roped in to various duties.

  She had hired a trio of musicians from Chester, and they set up under an awning on the terrace.

  “Well,” Deborah observed as everyone finally sat down some ten minutes before the guests were due, “that was a lot easier than I imagined. I shan’t care now if no one comes. We shall have a lovely day.”

  “They will come,” Georgianna said confidently. “Being shot by a robber makes you twice as interesting.” She regarded Deborah critically. “You look very well! The gown is ravishing.”

  It wasn’t new, but it had been her best day gown for the princess’s more formal days, and Anne had added a delightful lace trim that softened it.

  “Where is Dudley?” Georgianna said suddenly.

  “In the library with Christopher and his lordship,” Deborah replied. “Christopher’s man in London has found the doctor who attended Rupert’s duel, and he isn’t a doctor at all. They think he fired the shot.”

  They weren’t quite sure why he had, but although he hadn’t yet admitted it, the doctor had probably been hired by Barden, whom Dudley had secretly paid to “look after Rupert”. It seemed likely that either Barden had misunderstood what Dudley had actually meant, or that the “doctor” had misunderstood Barden. Either way, neither of them had valued the life they had stolen.

  Deborah continued, “Also, after the tragedy, the dueling pistols were put away untouched by Mr. Harlow’s family. On examination, both of them are still loaded and unfired. So Rupert never fired the shot.”

  Georgianna clapped her hands. “So, he can come home?”

  “I imagine they’ll sort all that out in London next week. Listen,” Deborah added nervously. “Is that a carriage on the drive?”

  “More than one!” Stephen called from the side of the house. “Two! And another turning in!”

  She had tried to convince herself she didn’t fear the humiliation of no one coming. She had not received many replies to her invitations, possibly because of the short notice, but it soon became apparent that everyone had come, from the Letchworths and the Copsleys to Miss Figgis and Dr. Nairn. As they all spilled into her garden, curious, friendly, and festive, Deborah felt a huge surge of gladnes
s, mostly for Christopher’s sake, because his marriage had not disgraced him, at least not locally.

  But as the afternoon went on, she found herself quite beguiled by the atmosphere of good cheer. Charming music mingled with the chatter and laughter of her guests, and the tinkling of champagne and punch glasses. Some of the young people were playing pall mall on the lower lawn. Her siblings were playing tag with other children, for she had let it be known the party was informal and families were welcome.

  She had flitted from group to group, making sure everyone was comfortable, performing introductions, and generally doing all that was expected of a hostess. At some point, she realized she was enjoying the company and that people were seeking her out.

  Then, as she sat down to rest her dully aching side, she observed Lucy and Sir Edmund walking away together from a game of pall mall. Her heart lifted further, for they were both laughing, and she had never seen them look so natural before.

  They parted half way to the terrace as Lucy went off to quiet the children’s game, which had become a little too boisterous. Deborah smiled to herself, enjoying her moment of solitude among the pleasant, happy throng.

  Lucy sat down beside her. “Your party is a success.”

  “I believe it might be.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “Thank you,” Deborah said in surprise, “but in fact, the success is more due to you and Mama and Georgianna while I sat around pretending to be injured.”

  “You weren’t pretending,” Lucy said. She swallowed. “I have never been so frightened in my life.”

  Deborah held her gaze. “I never thanked you for being there. With the children.”

  “They would have come without me. And I owed you a debt after being so awful at the Letchworths’ dinner. And the following day. In fact, ever since you came home.”

  “You were upset.”

  “I’ve always used that as an excuse for ill-behavior. You never do.”

  “Well, not everyone is as perfect as me,” Deborah said flippantly.

  Lucy smiled. “You come close.”

  Rendered speechless by this accolade, Deborah could only gaze at her sister.

  Lucy said abruptly, “I do like Edmund. I like getting to know him.”

  “Do you still want to marry him?”

  “I don’t know. We’re leaving that alone for now. I think we are surprising each other. In a good way.”

  “Then I’m glad,” Deborah said warmly.

  Christopher placed three glasses on the table, presenting one to each lady, and sat down on Deborah’s other side. “Thank you,” he said, raising his glass to Lucy, and then to Deborah.

  “I think you should employ a nanny for your next party,” Lucy returned, rising to go and negotiate a truce between Stephen and one of the Copsley children.

  For a few moments, Deborah and Christopher sat in pleasant silence, watching the happy scene before them. Beneath the table, his hand found hers and clasped. She smiled.

  “Well?” he said at last. “Do you think you will like being Mrs. Halland?”

  Without caring who saw, she rested her head on his shoulder and answered quite simply. “Yes.”

  Epilogue

  Two months later…

  There was a faint chill of autumn in the air as their post chaise pulled up at the front door of Gosmere Hall.

  “Home,” Deborah said happily. “I thought I would never want to come home again, and yet now I’m so glad to be here!”

  As the steps were let down, and Christopher handed her out of the carriage, she reflected that she was really glad to be anywhere by Christopher’s side. The wedding trip had been wonderful, full of beauty and excitement. From Paris to Florence, she had been delighted by art and history and custom, appalled by the poverty she had glimpsed and the signs of devastation left by decades of war. But it had all thrilled her. Travel was everything she had dreamed and more, and Christopher assured her they could do it all again when she wished to go wherever she liked.

  Of course, Christopher had been an integral part of the happiness she had found. Those weeks alone with him had brought knowledge and joy and a new closeness she had never imagined. So much so, that she wondered now how she would cope when he went to London.

  In the meantime, there was huge pleasure in entering their home together. She only just stopped herself from throwing her arms around Mrs. Dawson, who would probably have given notice if she had.

  She found herself rushing up the staircase to her bedchamber, and she sang as she washed and changed from travel-stained garments into something more suitable for tea. Unfortunately, her new gowns were all in the coach behind with the servants and the rest of their luggage. But she felt comfortable in an older gown which she had left behind.

  Christopher wandered through the connecting door and obligingly laced up her gown. “You don’t have to stay behind,” he said. “You can come to London with me.”

  They had already decided that he would go alone, catch up on parliamentary business, and find them a suitable residence. She would join him in a few weeks.

  She thought about it now. “No,” she said at last, only half-reluctantly. “There are things to attend to here, especially now that the school is opened. And I would like to be here for Lucy’s wedding. But I’m afraid I shall write to you every day.”

  He laughed, tugging her gently to her feet, “Why afraid?”

  “You will be bored with my rambling and feel obliged to write back.”

  “I am never bored with you.”

  The faint puzzlement in his voice made her smile. She took his arm, and they walked together down to the library, where they had asked for tea to be served.

  “You are right, you know,” he said, looking around him in a contented manner when the tea had been cleared away. “This is our best, private room.”

  As if to prove it, he threw himself sideways on the sofa and stretched out with his legs across her lap and smiled. “What a convenient wife you are.”

  “And ever shall be,” she replied lightly.

  She laid her hand on his knee, idly caressing. When her fingers strayed a little further, she heard the catch in his breath that always thrilled her. She glanced up and met his glinting eyes.

  “Perhaps this is not quite our best private room,” she said huskily.

  His smile was wicked. “Anywhere can be private if one locks the door.” His feet slid to the ground. He sprang up and strode to the door, and her mouth went dry as she watched him deliberately turn the key.

  He turned and seemed to prowl back toward her. Her heart drummed in reaction, in sheer anticipation.

  “I trust this is convenient,” he said, sweeping her into his arms.

  “I believe it is,” she said breathlessly, throwing her arms around his neck. “I never imagined a marriage of convenience to be quite like this.”

  “I trust you approve.”

  “Oh, thoroughly,” she said with fervor, just before her train of thought vanished into sensation.

  She was home.

  About Mary Lancaster

  Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids and a small, crazy dog.

  Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the popular Blackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.

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