Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  She had a beautiful, safe place to live, a generous allowance, and a family that cared about her. She was, in truth, a most fortunate woman.

  Even though Dorothea insisted it wasn’t necessary, several months ago Emma had started giving Philip and Nicole drawing lessons. It was an excellent indoor activity for this lively pair during the cold winter months, and the lessons continued now that the weather had begun to warm.

  Emma enjoyed the time she spent with the children and the lessons afforded her a small connection to her former self, prompting her to pick up a sketchbook and paints twice a week.

  It was far from the frantic, driven passion that had ruled her life for so many years. Yet it was better this way, she told herself. Sensible, measured, practical.

  And frightfully dull.

  “I received another letter from Gwen this morning,” Dorothea said. “I do hope that you will consider going to London in a few weeks for the Season. Gwen and Jason are keen to have you with them. It would be a stimulating change from the quiet of the country.”

  “The Season? Surely you are joking.”

  “I’m perfectly serious. You are a social creature, Emma, and we have a limited society here. You barely saw anyone when I was in confinement before Christmas. In the past you always enjoyed the balls and parties and musical evenings in Town.

  “It would be fun for you to meet some new people. Who knows, resuming your weekly trips to the art museum might inspire you to pick up your brushes again.”

  “Meet new people? You mean eligible men, I presume? Gracious, Dorothea, you are about as subtle as a cavalry charge,” Emma said affectionately.

  “I don’t have the time or energy for tact,” Dorothea said with a smile. “Besides, you are my sister. There is no need to walk upon eggshells in our conversations.”

  “I am well aware that there are some who find my life pitiable. Unmarried at my age and well on my way to spinsterhood. Disgraceful.”

  “Hardly.” Dorothea lifted the babe from her breast and propped the infant on her shoulder. She rubbed his back soothingly until he let loose with a loud belch. “I only want your happiness, Emma.”

  “I know. But I don’t need a husband for that, Dorothea,” Emma said gently.

  “Who said anything about a husband?” Dorothea protested, her eyes widening in mock innocence. Then, looking earnest, she leaned forward. “I know you feel that marriage should not be the ultimate achievement of your life, but doesn’t it at least deserve some consideration?”

  Emma winced, ignoring the distressing memories that so swiftly welled up inside her. She had never spoken of her love for Sebastian to either of her sisters—to anyone, actually. The pain had been too raw, the rejection too embarrassing. Instead, she had channeled her emotions into her art, creating paintings filled with remorse and sorrow.

  Those too she had hidden from view, fearing they would reveal too much of her bruised soul.

  “I have no wish to enter the marriage mart at my advanced age,” Emma said honestly.

  “You are hardly in your dotage,” Dorothea protested. “Forgive me for mentioning it again, but your art does not appear to hold your interest as keenly as it once did. I am merely suggesting that ’tis time to look for a new passion.”

  “Perhaps.” Emma tapped her chin thoughtfully with the tip of her finger. “A lover?”

  Dorothea gave a faint shudder, then shifted her head into her shoulder, covering what was obviously a grin. “Cease trying to shock me, Emma. Talk such as this could easily curdle my milk.”

  Emma felt her lips twitch. The notion of taking a lover was completely absurd, but it was fun to tease her sister. “All right then, no lover. But no husband, either,” she quickly added.

  “Oh, dearest, I respect that you aren’t a woman who can easily accept others determining the course of your life, but tell me that you will at least consider marriage,” Dorothea pleaded.

  Emma blanched. This was hardly the first time Dorothea—or Gwen—had broached the subject. Yet Emma’s reply remained the same.

  “If it means so much to you, then yes, I shall consider it,” Emma replied in a noncommittal tone.

  “Marriage is far from perfect,” Dorothea said. “Truthfully, it can be a real challenge sometimes, but there is nothing on earth that can compare to being loved and cherished by a man whom you love in return.”

  Emma felt a surge of emotion seize her throat. If only Dorothea knew the truth. That was exactly what she had wanted with Sebastian. He had been the man she had dreamt of sharing her life with for so long.

  Even now, though she knew and accepted that Sebastian was forever lost to her, it was impossible to imagine sharing her life so lovingly and intimately with another.

  She had tried to change her thinking, ignore her feelings. Admittedly, not as intently as she should, but she discovered, as so many before her, that love is impossible to control. No matter how hard one wished it, you could not turn it on and off like an oil lamp.

  “Please, do not fret over me, Dorothea,” Emma exclaimed, smiling brightly to emphasize the point. “I am fine on my own.”

  Dorothea’s fervor seemed to fade into acceptance, but Emma was not fooled. This battle might have been a victory for her, but the war was far from over. Dorothea was bound to bring up the Season in London—and marriage—again.

  The mantel clock in the nursery struck the hour.

  “Goodness, is that the time?” Dorothea shifted the now sleeping babe from her shoulder and cradled him in her arms. “I promised Philip and Nicole that I would watch them ride their ponies this afternoon.”

  “I’ll care for Harold until Nurse arrives,” Emma offered.

  Dorothea nodded gratefully. She crossed the chamber and gently placed her son in the ornately carved wooden cradle—the same one that had housed her husband and his father before him.

  Harold’s nurse entered a few minutes later. As Emma quit the room, she noticed the older woman gently adjusting the babe’s blanket before settling herself in a chair next to the cradle.

  Emma wandered downstairs, trying to decide how best to spend the afternoon. She should write to her sister Gwen and politely decline her invitation to visit London, but that task held little appeal. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and cloudless, beckoning her out of doors.

  She took a shawl and went outside. She started walking toward the lake, then continued beyond the water to the Grecian folly. Though it had no practical purpose, Emma appreciated the classic lines and unusual architectural elements of the building. Carter was always threatening to tear it down, but it had sheltered many a wayward walker during an unexpected rainstorm—including Emma and Dorothea—and for that reason alone it remained standing.

  Emma’s usual route often included a stop at the folly to catch her breath before turning east and making her way to the formal gardens closest to the house. Today, however, she decided on a different course. Invigorated by the fresh air and pleasant temperatures, she went west, following a previously unexplored path through the estate’s forest.

  Emma felt her heartbeat accelerate as she walked farther and farther into the woods, navigating the various twists and turns. The path became narrow and overgrown, attesting to its lack of use. Logic told her she should turn around and head back, but a sense of daring emboldened Emma to continue moving forward.

  She pushed her way through the thickest of the underbrush and burst forth into a clearing, pulling up in surprise. Looming directly in front of her was a structure unlike any she had ever seen. Completely square, devoid of windows on the front and sides and made of dark wood, it rose in the clearing like a vision from a fairy tale. All that was missing were trailing vines and a look of abandon.

  A barn? Nay, it was too wide and tall and the location was too far from any of the working or grazing fields. Its purpose must be to store items for the estate. But what?

  Curious, Emma approached.

  The large, heavy door was unlatched and open just eno
ugh for her to poke her head inside. She saw a sharp, stark burst of light in the distance of the cavernous chamber, given off by a long string of lit lanterns hanging from the rafters in the center of the room.

  Emma blinked repeatedly, gasping when her vision cleared as she beheld a most astonishing . . . contraption? It looked to be a machine of some kind, massive in size, overwhelming in majesty. There were drums, gears, cogs, wheels, shafts, and pulleys jutting out at odd angles, and metal chains hanging from the top that dragged on the ground.

  A man, with his back toward her, stood on a ladder, attempting to fit the gears of two large wheels together while a second man was positioned below him, tugging on a lever attached to a large drum. Each was so engrossed in their individual tasks, they took no notice of her.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  The two men froze. The one working on the lever straightened and swiveled his head to stare at her, his expression hard.

  “Viscount Kendall?”

  It took Emma a few moments to recognize him. Gone was the elegant nobleman she remembered; replaced by a man with a rough, raw edge, who viewed her now with an unmistakable glint of displeasure in his eyes.

  “Miss Ellingham?”

  “Yes. Hello.” Emma curled her toes, pressing them against the inside leather of her boots. She should leave, of course, for it was clear that he was annoyed, but the allure of the behemoth thing in front of her was too strong.

  She had thought about him now and again this past year, wondering how he was faring. Before Dorothea entered her confinement, they had visited Lady Sybil often. The older woman had confided that her son was improving, yet still struggling to come to terms with his aborted wedding.

  Lady Sybil had mentioned how solitary the viscount had become and Emma was aware that there had been talk about Lord Kendall in the village. He had all but withdrawn from society, becoming something of a recluse, even appearing only sporadically at church services on Sundays, which raised brows and set tongues wagging.

  Was this what had been occupying his time? How fascinating!

  “You have caught me at a most inopportune moment, Miss Ellingham.”

  The viscount slowly released the lever and took a step toward her. The last time she had seen him he had been decked out in his wedding finery. Today he was far more casually dressed—or rather undressed. He wore no coat, and his gaping white linen shirt showcased a wide view of his naked chest, which glistened with sweat.

  His shirtsleeves had been rolled to the elbow and Emma’s eyes caught sight of his hands. They were sturdy, strong, and marked by the calluses of physical labor.

  His hair was longer than fashionable, caressing the nape of his neck, and his face sported several days’ growth of whiskers, emphasizing the cut of his jaw. He smelled faintly of leather mingling with a spicy, male scent that sent her nose twitching with interest.

  “I apologize for trespassing, my lord. And for disturbing your . . . your . . . business?”

  “Business? Ah, yes.”

  He gazed at her suspiciously before taking her gloved hand and making a short bow over it. At least it was an attempt at manners, no matter how insincere.

  “I took a different path through the woods,” she explained. “I was unaware that your lands so closely bordered the marquess’s property.”

  The viscount briefly looked away. “This is my acreage. There is no disputing that my workshop is built on my land.”

  “I never implied that there was any impropriety.” Emma turned her head and slowly perused her surroundings. “So this is your workshop? Most impressive.”

  “Yes, this is where I spend the majority of my waking hours, often starting my work before dawn.” He stiffened. “Surely you have heard the rumors about me? How I’ve become a recluse, a man so heartbroken he cannot bear to face the world? How my very sanity is in peril?”

  “I believe I once told you that I do not listen to gossip,” she replied, tilting up her chin. “And, I shall add, nor do I believe it.”

  He tugged down his sleeves and covered his bare arms, then reached for his coat and shrugged into it.

  “It must be disappointing to find me here, alert and engaged, instead of raving like a madman in an asylum, bitter and drowning in self-pity.”

  “I would never believe such a dreadful tale,” Emma declared defensively. “Though anyone with compassion in their heart would not deny that you had a right to grieve the loss of your marriage.”

  “It’s been nearly a year.” His expression changed, seeming to focus inward. “Self-indulgent, prolonged pity is remarkably boring. For oneself as well as those around them who are forced to witness the suffering.”

  His words struck a chord. Emma too had hidden her grief over Sebastian for much the same reasons. Being sunk in a cloud of melancholy was hardly something to share with the sisters who loved her.

  “This magnificent machine is proof that you have moved far beyond pity,” Emma said. “Did you design it?”

  “There is no need for you to feign an interest in my work for the sake of being polite,” he said bluntly.

  “Lord Kendall, did you just say work?” Emma favored him with an exaggerated eye roll. “The ton will be scandalized if they discover a gentleman working. With his hands, no less. Oh, the horror.”

  The hostility in his eyes slowly drained away. “I trust that you will keep my secret?”

  “I might.” She pursed her lips in thought. “But only if you show me your creation. What is it?”

  “A threshing reaper.”

  “Ah. A most auspicious name.” Emma tried going around him to get a closer look, but he blocked her path. “What does it do?”

  He smiled grimly. “Nothing of substance just yet. My hope is that it can be used by farmers to harvest wheat instead of performing this arduous task by hand with a sickle. The thresher will then separate the grain and seed from their chaff and straw. I’ve read of other apparatus performing similar work, but my design is different, unique as it will do both.

  “If Norris and I can get it to function properly, the current harvesting and threshing methods will be obsolete.”

  Her brow rose. “And the workers who now perform these tasks. What of them?”

  His eyes widened at her question. “The reaper will do all the physical work, but the men will need to walk beside it and rake the wheat stalks into piles. They will then pitch the bundles into the feeder of the thresher.

  “Again, the machine will do the work much faster and more efficiently than the current threshing method of beating the stalks by hand with a flail or trampling them with animal hooves. This will allow us to plant and produce more wheat, hopefully making the possibilities of food shortages less likely. A benefit for all, I believe.”

  Emma shook her head in puzzlement. ’Twas an odd occupation for a noble gentleman—inventor. Yet it appeared the viscount was committed to it. Her eyes swept about the workroom and she noticed a large rectangular table set off to the side with huge sheets of parchment spread over it.

  Plans for the reaper thresher? Emma angled herself, attempting to see those, but found her way obstructed by a solid wall of male flesh. Frustrated, she blew out a breath and confronted him.

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, my lord?”

  The viscount tilted his head, his dark eyes sparkling in the lantern’s glowing light. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Jon waited for a show of temper. A flash of anger in her eyes, the stomp of her foot, a haughty toss of her head. Or instead, would there be a blush of embarrassment, downcast eyes and a stammering apology?

  No, the anger seemed more in character with what he knew of Miss Ellingham, and he had a most peculiar anticipation of it.

  But she fooled him utterly and instead laughed with genuine glee. The sound drew Jon’s attention to Emma’s mouth and he was surprised to realize how dainty it was, how sweet, soft, and inviting her lips looked. Clearing his throat, he shifted his gaze from her lips
to the graceful curve of her neck, then lower to the bare gleam of her creamy white skin, peeking over the shawl that hung low on her shoulders.

  His breath hitched and he felt a sudden, unwanted heat. Why? He had seen far more delectable skin on other females who favored the current fashion of low-cut bodices with breasts nearly spilling forth. Emma was dressed in a modest day gown, with a neckline that hardly plunged. It scooped, stopping a good three inches before reaching her breasts.

  However, it did allow a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth, white flesh of Emma’s upper chest. A most enticing sight.

  Jon drew in a deep breath and pulled away, red-faced to realize he had been leaning forward and leering at her. Her brows knit together in puzzlement.

  “I mean no offense, Miss Ellingham, but my assistant and I have a considerable amount of work to do,” he said bluntly.

  “Ah, and I am in the way.” She nodded, then tilted her head as if a thought had just occurred. “If I promise to sit quietly in the corner and ask no questions, may I stay? I confess to being fascinated by your creation.”

  “I . . . uhm . . .” He struck at the ground with the toe of his boot. He had been working on this design for months, in hopes of obtaining a patent once the machine was perfected.

  Given the current propensity among inventors for stealing parts of each other’s designs, Jon and Norris had agreed to keep their work a secret until it was perfected. ’Twas ridiculous to think that Miss Ellingham would abscond with any proprietary information—then again, one never knew.

  Besides, her sparkling eyes and lovely appearance would provide a distracting presence that he did not need.

  “Perhaps another time,” he compromised.

  “I assure you, my lord, that I can take a not-so-subtle hint.” She laughed lightly and held out her elegant hand. He took her gloved fingers in his and brushed his lips over the knuckles. “I shall leave you and your assistant, Mr. . . . ?