Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  There had to be a way to get into that workshop without compromising her promise. All she needed to do was find it!

  Thoughtfully, Emma trudged through the woods, clutching at the lower branches as she went. She was slightly out of breath when she came to the clearing. If she hurried, she could be in the breakfast parlor before Dorothea, leaving her sister unaware that she had ventured out this morning.

  Yet returning held little appeal. She needed more time alone with her thoughts.

  Emma turned. Quickening her pace, she decided to head for the main road. Following the road would eventually lead to the manor’s front drive. The tree-lined entrance was imposing, designed by a master landscaper, providing the perfect backdrop for the elegant manor house.

  Perhaps the sight would inspire her muse. Carter and Dorothea would certainly appreciate a painting that captured the grandeur of their home. The piece might not move Emma to heights of delight, but at least she’d once again have a brush in her hand.

  Narrowing her eyes and cocking her head, Emma gazed critically down the long gravel drive. Her attention was so enraptured, it took a few moments to realize the sound she was hearing was an approaching carriage.

  Emma looked up. Could it possibly be? Oh, damn, it is!

  With a distressed squeal, Emma leapt into a nearby bush. Her cloak caught on a bramble, but she tugged hard, hearing the fabric rip as she freed herself. No matter. She crept farther into the foliage, successfully concealing herself.

  The carriage rumbled past, blinding shards of sunlight bouncing off the bright yellow wheels. Squinting, Emma had a clear view of the driver, but it was not Mr. Winthrope’s considerable person that held her attention, but rather the woman who sat beside him.

  She was dressed in a fashionable red cloak that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back like a blanket of delicate wool. Her wide-brimmed bonnet concealed a good portion of her face; however, Emma caught a fleeting glimpse of a delicate nose, high cheekbones, and golden-blond tendrils of hair.

  The woman sat very close to Mr. Winthrope, their knees touching, yet Emma allowed that could have been a result of the deep curve in the road forcing the contact as they slid against each other. From what she could tell, the pair were silent, though Emma supposed Mr. Winthrope needed to concentrate on keeping his horses under control at that fast speed rather than engaging in conversation.

  Emma waited a full minute after they had passed before emerging from her hiding place. Brushing the leaves off her arms, she clutched her sketchbook tightly, pleased with her success at avoiding Mr. Winthrope.

  If only persuading Jon were as simple! Alas, that would require more than luck and a bit of quick thinking. Yet surely there was a way to get him to change his mind about allowing her to paint his machine.

  And whatever it was, Emma was more determined than ever to find it.

  * * *

  Jon was in a hurry. He had just spent the better part of an hour with the blacksmith going over the specifications for three new parts he needed for the reaper thresher. The man had been respectful, even while his honest puzzlement over the order shone through, and had promised delivery by the next day.

  The blacksmith was an honest man and a skilled craftsman and Jon was confident he would produce quality pieces. Yet it remained to be seen if they would work as Jon hoped.

  Frankly, his patience was growing thin. There had been so many setbacks trying to get a successful, working design for his machine that Jon was starting to feel discouraged.

  Head down, moving at a blistering pace, Jon rounded the corner, barely missing a collision with a finely dressed female. At the last moment he caught a glimpse of the lacy flounce at the hem of her walking gown and her bold red cloak, and stepped to the side.

  She let out a surprised gasp and took several small steps backwards. Jon lifted his head to apologize and received the shock of his life.

  Dianna Winthrope.

  He felt as though he’d been hit between his eyes with a brick. He blinked. Twice. But the vision before him remained solid and real.

  “Dianna?”

  “Jon!” She froze, a shocked, helpless expression on her face.

  His heart sped up and he cleared his throat. “I was unaware that you had returned.”

  “We have only recently arrived.”

  “We?”

  She blushed and lowered her chin. “Mr. Dickenson and I. We are married.”

  “I see.” So the rogue had done the honorable thing and married her. Good? Jon was unsure how to react.

  He had thought of her constantly for months after their wedding debacle, wondering how she was, where she was, what she was doing. ’Twas only recently that he no longer lay awake at night with the image of her lovely face haunting him, wondering how she felt about him, how she had so easily walked away from the future they had planned.

  The questions that had swirled in his head, the words he had anticipated saying to her if they ever met again, crowded his brain. Yet he spoke none of them.

  Dianna appeared fragile. Behind the sweetness of her smile was a hint of despair. Why? Did she regret leaving him? Would she do things differently if given the chance?

  Did he even want to know? It no longer mattered now. She was married—to another man.

  “Are you here to visit your family?” Jon finally asked.

  “Heavens no. Papa has refused to speak to me. I believe that my mother might have relented and allowed me in the house, but she would not go against my father’s wishes.

  “I did briefly see my brother, Hector, this morning. He took me for a ride in his new curricle.” Dianna’s brow furrowed into a deep frown. “It was a most unpleasant visit. My brother remains as angry as my parents and vows that it shall be years before he can forgive me.”

  “Then why have you returned?”

  Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Mr. Dickenson has come into an unexpected inheritance that he is here to claim. He is the new Baron Brayer, a noble title which includes a sizeable amount of property.”

  Jon racked his brain, trying to recall precisely when the older Lord Brayer had passed away. It had to have been at least four or five months ago. Why such a delay in their return? Had it truly taken that long to locate Dickenson?

  “I was unaware of a lineage relationship between Dickenson and Lord Brayer,” Jon mused.

  “As was I. From what I understand, ’tis a rather distant connection. But a valid one all the same,” she hastily added.

  Jon cleared his throat. “Does this mean that you will be living here?”

  “Apparently. The land is entailed, so we must remain for at least part of the year. I’m sure my husband will also enjoy staying in London, though I am uncertain if he will bring me with him when he goes to Town.”

  Dianna bit her lower lip and Jon felt his heart skip a beat. He had always found that nervous habit of hers impossibly endearing.

  He looked away. This was madness. He had no right to find anything about Dianna the least bit appealing. Jon spared a glance across the street and noticed that they had attracted considerable attention from the local villagers. A few brave souls ventured closer, obviously hoping to overhear any conversation, while most gawked from afar.

  “We seem to be causing a bit of a commotion,” he remarked to Dianna beneath his breath.

  “They will look and gossip from afar, fearing they will be tainted if they dare to approach or speak with me. I have quickly learned that I am universally scorned,” Dianna said, her voice quivering with sorrow. “Even my husband’s widowed aunt takes great pleasure in looking through her lorgnette at me as though I were a nasty bug.”

  “Then you should act like one and bite her,” Jon suggested, his heart twisting at her pain.

  Dianna’s laughter rang out sweetly, the sound knotting his chest. Oh, how deeply I loved this woman.

  “You always could make me laugh,” she said wistfully.

  “Sadly, that wasn’t enough, was it?” he asked, not bot
hering to conceal his expression of irony.

  “Attempting to make amends with your former love in a public square, my dear? How vulgar.”

  They both turned in surprise. Gerald Dickenson’s indignant tone was matched by an expression of disgust as he stepped beside his wife. He possessively grabbed her arm and Jon noticed Dianna momentarily flinched before regaining her composure.

  “Goodness, you do love to tease, Gerald.” Dianna smiled nervously and patted her husband’s shoulder. He shrugged her off in annoyance.

  “Dickenson.” Jon nodded his head, attempting a politeness he was far from feeling.

  “It’s Lord Brayer now, or haven’t you heard?”

  “Oh, I heard,” Jon replied lightly.

  Dickenson faced him with a belligerent stance, his lips curving down in disdain. A scruff of whisker shadowing his face gave him a swarthy, almost menacing appearance. He was a few inches shorter than Jon and a year or two older. Women often labeled Dickenson handsome, with a brooding quality they called romantic. Witnessing it firsthand, Jon thought it appeared more childish than anything else.

  “I suggest that you leave at once, Kendall,” Dickenson said coldly. “The last thing that any of us need is a fresh scandal, as it would surely put Dianna firmly beyond the pale of respectability with no chance of ever recovering. ’Tis bad enough that she is vilified by one and all.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Jon challenged.

  “Hers,” Dickenson promptly replied, a flash of anger springing to his eyes. “Dianna lacked the moral fortitude to resist my charms and fulfill her promise to marry you. She is, however, merely a weak woman, so I suppose one is forced to make allowances.”

  What a brute to attack his wife so viciously and assume none of the responsibility for her predicament! Jon glanced covertly at Dianna, trying not to feel any sympathy for her, but that was impossible. She was staring beyond her husband at a fixed point in the distance, her expression blank.

  Jon wasn’t given to impulsive gestures, but the need to reach out and comfort Dianna was so strong he almost acted upon it. The only thing that prevented him from extending his arm and pulling her close was the worry that Dickenson would somehow make her suffer for it.

  “Should we return home or do you wish to stroll through the village?” Dianna asked her husband.

  Dickenson preened, momentarily appeased. “A walk is a splendid idea. Being seen is the first step toward forcing them to accept you. I cannot have my wife be on the receiving end of so much outright animosity. It reflects badly upon me and my position among the local society.”

  “I am sorry, Gerald,” Dianna said quietly.

  “We must present a united front or else your scandalous behavior will never be forgiven or forgotten and my good name will be forever tarnished,” Dickenson stated brusquely.

  He then bestowed a barely civil nod of farewell at Jon and pulled Dianna away. It took Jon a few moments to believe that the meek, subservient creature who walked beside her husband with her shoulders hunched and her eyes downcast was the vibrant, teasing, vivacious woman he had once loved.

  What the hell had happened to Dianna?

  Chapter Six

  Emma was lost.

  The burning feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had so staunchly tried to ignore for the past hour was persistent and telling. Her mood had alternated between hope and dread and there was little doubt dread was becoming far more dominant as the reality of her situation took hold.

  She was lost.

  She thought she had taken careful note of her surroundings as she walked, assured she would be easily able to return home if she failed to accidentally encounter Lord Kendall. However, recognizing the cluster of trees with the low bush that leaned noticeably to the right, Emma conceded that she had already circled past it.

  Three times.

  Things were not going at all according to plan. She had spent the day in her room, sketching the tree-lined drive and manor house, desperately hoping for a burst of artistic inspiration that never came. The project had kept her hands busy, but failed to fully engage her mind.

  Time and again she had turned to the image of the gears on the viscount’s machine, yet she held to her promise and refused to put her ideas to paper. Knowing that she would be unfit company, Emma had taken an early dinner in her room. Dorothea had stopped to see her, quickly retreating when she saw that Emma was working. Yet the smile of delight on her sister’s face had made Emma feel like a fraud.

  The manor sketch was no resumption of her art. It was an activity merely marking time until she could get to what she really wanted to sketch and eventually paint: the viscount’s glorious machine.

  Frustrated, Emma had restlessly paced her chamber, sifting and discarding numerous plans, convinced she had to do something. Perhaps a chance meeting in the woods near Lord Kendall’s workshop would remind him of her request and prompt him to change his mind and graciously extend an invitation for her to view his work?

  Emma now admitted it was far-fetched and a tad desperate. Trouble was, she had a tendency to do foolish things when she was so intent upon achieving a goal, and this evening was a prime example of how that could get her into situations like this one.

  And thus she stood, stranded and lost in the viscount’s woods, with darkness approaching and no one aware of her predicament. Dorothea had no idea Emma had left the house, nor did any of the servants. No one would be looking for her, at least not until the morning.

  The distant rumble of thunder added yet another layer to her anguish. Emma shivered, unable to control the chills that raced through her.

  Could it get any worse?

  A fat raindrop splattered on the tip of Emma’s nose and she silently cursed herself for once again tempting fate.

  A rustle in the bushes drew her attention away from her misery. “Hello! Is anyone there?”

  The noise repeated, louder this time, indicating it was closer. Yet why no response to her calls? Was it an animal of some sort? A vicious animal?

  Steeling herself, Emma faced the source of the sounds, trying not to let her imagination run wild. She had walked through other sections of forest many times, seeing deer, birds, rabbits, and squirrels. Surely any other woodland creatures who lived in this area posed no great threat, being far more afraid of her than she need be of them.

  The rain began falling at a steady pace, quickly soaking her bonnet and the shoulders of her cloak. Emma stood dripping, holding her breath, waiting. And then he was there, riding down the path, through the rain, his horse kicking up clumps of mud with each step.

  Viscount Kendall.

  Emma stepped out of his way. His hat was pulled low over his brow, his shoulders hunched forward in an attempt to evade the raindrops. For an instant Emma worried that he would not see her standing off the path, but then he lifted his chin and their eyes met. She saw the surprise there—and the irritation.

  Thankfully he was too much of a gentleman to simply ride past her. She took a deep breath and spoke, letting her voice carry through the pelting wind and rain.

  “I fear that I’ve gotten myself lost. Would you be so kind as to lend me some assistance, Jon?”

  One brow rose, but he didn’t speak as he pulled his horse beside her. Instead, he steadied his mount, leaned forward and extended his arm. Emma gulped. Surely he didn’t expect her to vault onto his horse?

  “Give me your hand,” he commanded.

  Emma raised her head, judging the high distance and swallowed again. “I’m not an acrobat,” she croaked.

  “Neither am I. Give me your hand.”

  Heart pounding in her chest, Emma did as he requested. Their hands met and she felt the strength of his fingers tighten around hers. Her feet left the ground and she noticed the muscles in his arm rippling through his coat as he lifted her.

  Gracious, he was strong!

  Emma scrambled onto the back of the slippery horse, miraculously managing to keep her seat. The moment she was se
ttled, Jon commanded his mount to move forward.

  Emma wrapped her arms around the viscount’s waist and kept her head burrowed against his shoulder. He felt warm and solid, an anchor of strength and safety against the perilous weather. With her head down, she could make out little of their route, but she trusted that Jon knew the way.

  The rain continued pelting them with a steady stream of cold water. Emma sniffled, preparing herself for a miserable ride home, but they suddenly drew to a stop. Were they already home? Had she been so ridiculously close to the manor house and not realized it?

  Jon dismounted, then reached up and pulled her down. Emma felt her half boots sink into the mud when she landed, but she thankfully kept her balance. Blinking, she looked up at the plain façade of the viscount’s workshop looming before her and thought she should feel a jolt of pleasure.

  Instead, she felt guilty.

  “Why have you stopped here?” she asked, shouting to be heard above the howling wind.

  A muscle in the viscount’s jaw flexed. “’Tis the closest shelter. We’ll wait until the storm passes and then I’ll take you home.”

  He unlocked the door and ushered Emma inside, pulling his horse in behind them, as it would have been cruel to leave the animal exposed to the harsh weather. The workshop was dark, but it took only a moment for Jon to light the lanterns. Soon a golden glow spread over the space. Sparing her a quick glance, the viscount secured his mount in a corner and then began rummaging through the items laid out on a workbench in the far corner.

  “What are you doing?” Emma asked through chattering teeth.

  “Looking for Norris’s bottle.”

  “Oh.” That explained nothing, of course, but he was so intent upon his task, Emma felt it was unwise to pester him.

  “Ah-ha! Found it. Now all I need are some glasses.” He cocked his head questioningly toward her. “Or we could take turns swilling from the bottle. No? Yes, well, I agree ’tis far too uncivilized. I’m sure if I keep looking I’ll find something more appropriate.”