Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  The music flowed around them and Emma felt herself relaxing in his arms as he spun them elegantly around the floor. Trustingly, she followed as he led and soon they were dancing in perfect rhythm, gliding lightly and gracefully past the other couples.

  They were close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, capture the faint smell of his cologne. The strength of his arms and firmness of his hold left her a trifle weak in the knees. She leaned back so that she could look up at him. His eyes were bright with amusement and she felt a surge of joy.

  And she was suddenly very glad that she had agreed to attend the dance.

  * * *

  As they began the journey home the following morning, Jon elected to ride inside the carriage with Emma. They had returned to the inn late from the dance and ’twas later still before they fell asleep.

  The moment they were alone in their chamber, Jon had swept Emma into his arms. She had the most tempting mouth he had ever seen and now that they were finally alone he succumbed to the temptation to possess it. Kissing her ardently, his desire had roared steadily forward, replacing rational thought.

  Pressing her back against the closed door, he had pulled up the skirt of her delicate silk gown, ripping it in the process. She had gasped when he thrust his hands inside her undergarments, but was soon returning his kisses with even greater fervor.

  Lost in mindless desire, Jon had fumbled with the flaps of his breeches, freeing himself. Catching her underneath her knees, he had lifted Emma high in the air, then entered her in a single, deep thrust.

  She screamed with delight and her excited cries had set his already heated blood on fire. Burying his face in the hollow beneath her neck, he had breathed in Emma’s intoxicating scent as his body claimed hers in primitive bliss.

  She had matched him, pushing herself forward, rocking into him with the same frantic rhythm. Her hands had gripped his shoulders, and he had felt her nails digging into his flesh, even beneath the fabric of his evening coat.

  He had thrust faster, harder, deeper, luxuriating in the pleasure he had hungered for the moment she walked down the staircase this evening, a vision in yellow silk and feminine allure.

  He wanted her with an urgency that was almost painful, and Emma had shared that madness, wrapping her legs to his waist and arching her back to bring him closer. She had started to tremble when she was close to fulfillment and that had excited him even more.

  He smothered her cries of passion when she reached her climax, burying himself farther inside her. He had growled—growled—as a haze of pleasure quickly engulfed him and his entire body shook with the power of his release.

  They had remained joined together in the shuddering aftermath, breathing erratically until their senses returned. Slowly emerging from his haze of lust, Jon had carefully lowered her to her feet.

  God, what had come over him? He was turning into an animal, unable to keep his sexual impulses toward his wife civilized. Of course, it was partly her fault for being so damn delectable—and thankfully neither prudish nor delicate.

  He had stared down at the head cradled on his chest and fought to ease his still labored breathing. His hand stroked slowly over her hair and she had sighed contently and snuggled closer.

  It felt natural to hold her so intimately when they took to their bed, to watch protectively over her as she slept. To feel a sense of peace and contentment unlike any other he had ever known before sleep had finally claimed him.

  The carriage hit a deep rut and lurched, pulling Jon away from his sensual memories. Seated across from him, Emma had her nose pressed in a book, a lurid gothic novel she had confessed was filled with distressed maidens, unscrupulous villains, and supernatural occurrences.

  She turned a page and he watched her brow suddenly pucker and her lips tighten together in a thin line.

  “Have you reached a suspenseful section in the story?” he asked.

  Startled, Emma glanced up, then grinned sheepishly. “The heroine has foolishly decided to explore a hidden passageway she discovered behind a bookcase in the library. The candle she carried has been snuffed out by a mysterious gust of wind and the secret panel door has slammed shut, trapping her inside. Bathed in darkness, her fingers are fumbling to find the latch that will release her from this damp tomb.”

  “Is there not a brooding hero who will—”

  Jon’s words were drowned out by the sudden sound of a loud crack, followed by shouts from the coachman and frightened cries from the team of horses. The coach lunged forward, then veered wildly. It shifted and fell onto its side, hitting the ground hard, sliding along the muddy road.

  The frantic cries of horses, curses, and the low growl of men’s voices filled the air. Jon pulled Emma to his chest, cushioning her fall. He landed on his back, the air momentarily stricken from his lungs.

  “Are you hurt?” he gasped, running his hands over her head, arms, sides, and legs, searching for any cuts or bruises.

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “’Twas you that took the brunt of the fall.”

  “I always take advantage of any excuse to hold my wife in my arms,” he quipped, brushing the loosened waves of hair from her face.

  Gripping his shoulder hard, Emma let out a nervous laugh. “What happened?”

  Jon glanced up at the coach door above their heads. “I believe we broke a wheel. At least I hope that’s the cause.”

  “The road is badly rutted,” Emma observed.

  “And our carriage has withstood far worse conditions for many miles,” Jon said grimly.

  “Then what else . . .” Her voice grew faint as her eyes grew wide and round. “Highwaymen?”

  “Damn, I hope not.”

  Dusk was still several hours away. ’Twould be a brazen—and desperate—thief who would attack a carriage in broad daylight.

  Jon noticed some movement outside the window. He reached into the satchel that had tumbled near his head and pulled out a pistol.

  “Jon!”

  “’Tis always wise to be prepared for any eventuality,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  Running footsteps approached. Jon shifted to move in front of Emma and cocked the gun. The door above them opened and a man leaned into the carriage.

  “My lord, are you hurt? And Lady Kendall—?”

  “We are fine,” Jon replied, relieved to see his footman, Stiles. He had a cut above his brow that was bleeding profusely, but appeared to have sustained no other major injuries.

  “We nearly collided with a farmer’s cart,” Stiles exclaimed. “Our driver didn’t see him until we rounded the bend. He swerved to avoid a collision. That’s when the wheel cracked and the coach overturned.”

  “Is anyone else hurt?” Jon asked.

  “The coachman’s dislocated his shoulder and possibly broke his arm,” the footman responded. “The farmer’s cart also tipped. ’Tis lying in a ditch on the other side of the road.”

  Jon tucked the pistol into the waistband of his breeches, scrambled forward, and pulled himself up and out through the open door. He turned back to look down at Emma. She was pressed against the side of the coach, her face pale, yet her eyes were calm, trusting.

  “Wait here,” he commanded, wanting to assess the situation before exposing her to it. “I’ll return shortly.”

  He expected a protest, but to her credit, Emma nodded. “Please be careful.”

  The sight of the accident was worse than he expected and Jon was glad he had told Emma to stay inside the coach. Their trunks had broken free and smashed to the ground. One had split open and the contents were strewn over the muddy road.

  He moved swiftly past the debris, shaking his head when he recognized one of his waistcoats and an extra pair of his boots lying in a puddle of dirty water.

  The farmer was sitting just off the road, clutching a bloodstained cloth to his head. His cheek was bruised and beginning to swell, his body trembling, his eyes unfocused.

  “The man’s in shock. Bring a
blanket or something else warm,” Jon shouted.

  Stiles ran off and returned with a slightly muddy cloak. Jon draped it over the farmer’s shoulders. At the feel of the heavy fabric, the man raised his chin.

  “I swear I didn’t see the carriage comin’, my lord,” the farmer sputtered. “I tried to pull up, but ’twas too late.”

  “It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Jon concluded. “Merely bad luck for both parties.”

  “They said my ox is limping. Please don’t let them put him down.” The man grabbed Jon’s arm, his words desperate. “He’s the only beast I own. If I lose him, I can’t plow my fields or harvest my grain. My family will starve.”

  “We shall examine the animal thoroughly first. If he cannot be saved, we must act humanely. But if it becomes necessary, I will compensate you for the loss.”

  Thankfully, the injuries to the ox were minor and after assuring the farmer that his animal would survive, Jon went to check on his coachman. As he drew near, he could see the man holding his hand against his right shoulder, which was distended at an unnatural angle. Dislocated for certain, Jon determined, knowing it must hurt like hell.

  “We’ll pull that shoulder back into place once you’ve had a few stiff drinks,” Jon said.

  “It all happened so fast, my lord,” the coachman muttered.

  “Don’t fret,” Jon insisted. “Your quick thinking and skill with the reins saved us all from serious injury.”

  “Lord Kendall!” Stiles approached. “The farmer told us there is an estate but a few miles from here.”

  “Are you well enough to ride, Stiles?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Take my horse and go for help.”

  Jon returned to the carriage and helped Emma climb out, hugging her tightly when she had both feet on solid ground. Emotion tugged at his throat. If any harm has come to her . . .

  “Is everyone all right?” she asked.

  “A few bumps and bruises. Our coachman’s shoulder is dislocated. Thankfully that’s the worst of it. We were very lucky.”

  Emma went to sit with the farmer while Jon and the other footman sorted through the debris. He found one of Emma’s freshly washed chemises, and she insisted upon tearing the garment and using it to bandage the farmer’s bleeding head wound. Once she had performed that task, she joined the rest of them in trying to salvage what they could from the wreckage.

  As the light began to fade, Stiles returned with several manservants from the nearby estate. One was driving an old-fashioned coach. ’Twas tall, boxy, and black, with a coat of arms painted distinctly on the carriage door. The gold, white, and blue crest was unfamiliar to Jon.

  The driver spoke briefly with Jon and he conveyed his thanks for their assistance. One of the liveried footmen jumped down from his perch at the back of the carriage. He opened the door, pulled down the steps, and held out his hand to assist Emma inside.

  Jon turned his attention toward his coachman, knowing the man was too proud to ask for the assistance he would need to climb upon the box. Predictably, the coachman protested the help, but at Jon’s insistence accepted it.

  “We can depart for the manor as soon as you are ready, my lord,” the driver said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jon noticed Emma had not entered the carriage. Face pale, she stood in front of the open door, so still and stiff he wondered if she even drew breath.

  Jon reached out to hold on to her, fearful she might faint. ’Twas not an uncommon reaction after experiencing a trauma—the shock often hit minutes, sometimes hours, after the actual incident.

  “Are you fearful of getting inside so soon after our accident?” he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard and causing her any embarrassment. “Would you prefer to be on my horse? You can ride astride, or I can ask for a sidesaddle to be sent for you.”

  She didn’t reply. She was taking shallow breaths, as if trying to gain control of herself. He took her hand, concerned at how cold and lifeless it felt.

  “Emma?”

  “I recognize the coat of arms. It belongs to Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton,” she squeaked. “Are we going to his home?”

  Jon scratched his head. “No. The driver said the estate is owned by an earl. I’m sorry, in all this confusion, I didn’t pay much attention to the name.”

  She turned to him and he was startled by the haunted, almost jittery look in her eyes. “Would you ask the driver? Please?”

  Worried by her agitation, Jon did as she asked.

  “The Earl of Tinsdale’s lesser title is Viscount Benton,” the driver explained.

  Emma’s face flushed red. Jon reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. “We can wait until you feel calm enough to get inside the carriage. There is no rush. The very last thing I want is to cause you any more distress.”

  She didn’t reply, but stood, frozen in place.

  “A few minutes, please,” she finally muttered. “I just need a few minutes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A distant ringing echoed in Emma’s head. Viscount Benton. Nay, surely, she had misheard.

  Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton, Earl of Tinsdale.

  They were going to Sebastian’s estate.

  Fighting the trembling that shuddered through her, Emma took a deep breath, forcing herself not to panic. Perhaps she could yet devise a way to avoid seeing the man she had once loved so utterly, whose memory still had the power to twist her heart.

  “Shouldn’t we go directly to the village?” Emma asked, trying to keep her voice calm, to hold the distress at bay. “If our carriage cannot be immediately repaired, I’m sure we can find adequate accommodations for the night.”

  Jon shook his head. “The farmer told us a fire last month has closed the inn. Our only choice is to proceed to the estate. If we are lucky, they have a blacksmith in residence that can repair the wheel for us. If not, I’m hoping they have one that will fit so it can be replaced. If that also isn’t possible, we will ask for the wheelwright in the village to make us a new one.”

  Emma glanced over at the fractured pieces of the carriage wheel. It wasn’t all that bad—was it?

  “Will the repairs take long?” she asked. “Surely we’ll be able to depart before nightfall?”

  “The sun is setting. Darkness will soon be upon us, Emma,” Jon said gently. “As there is no other place for us to stay, we will have to impose upon the earl’s hospitality. Hopefully only for this one night, but it might take longer.”

  Emma’s heart began beating too hard and too fast. She smoothed the skirt of her gown in an attempt to calm herself.

  “Yes, you are right of course.” She gave a nervous laugh, hoping it didn’t sound as hysterical as she felt. “I shall ride in the coach the earl so graciously sent for us.”

  She took her time climbing inside the vehicle. Jon followed her. The carriage lurched forward and Emma brought her hand to her forehead, trying to stave off the light-headedness that attacked her.

  Should I put myself out of this torment and tell Jon all, before we arrive? Will that lessen the shock? But where to begin? Where to end?

  This had always been a private matter between her and Sebastian. She had never spoken of it to anyone, including her sisters. And she had every reason to believe that Sebastian had also been silent.

  Perhaps there was no need to say anything at all. Perhaps she could enact this charade without anyone being the wiser. Without revealing to her husband that she had been deeply, passionately in love with Sebastian for years.

  The coach rounded a bend and turned down the long drive. The sun was just setting behind the rise where a structure of solid gray stone loomed. Clearly built centuries earlier, the main structure was a medieval castle that had been added to over the years.

  It was stately, elegant, and traditional—three things that Sebastian worked hard at never becoming. A small smile escaped Emma’s trembling lips. He always acted the carefree rogue, the flirt and charmer, the ma
n who had the power to both tantalize women with his good looks and frighten them with the air of danger and mystery that clung to him.

  Sebastian never did things by half.

  And now she was about to see him, to relive the years of longing and loneliness that had driven her close to despair. Emma took a long, deep breath as she felt a fist tighten around her heart.

  The carriage halted. She heard footsteps approaching, crunching loudly on the gravel stones of the drive. The blood pounded at her temples and her throat felt so constricted she could barely swallow.

  I can do this. I will do this!

  She swayed when she stood, her knees shaking. Jon’s arm slid around her waist. His tender concern deepened her guilt and enforced her resolve to do whatever was necessary to conceal this secret from him, as she firmly believed no good would ever come from him knowing.

  Emma walked forward, up the stairs, through the door, into the foyer, her eyes glued to the ground. She glanced up once from the black-and-white marble floor and caught a fleeting glimpse of a man and woman waiting to greet them.

  Sebastian and his wife—a woman whom he married out of love and by all accounts still loved deeply.

  Emma couldn’t breathe at all. She hugged her arms around herself and raised her chin, meeting the eyes of an elegant man with silver hair. He stood proud and tall, his jawline distinctly sculpted, his eyes dark and piercing.

  Her brows knit together in confusion. Who was he? She looked again, taking in his attire and realized that he was a servant, the butler. Beside him stood a woman, the housekeeper most likely. They were not the same pair that had served Sebastian years ago. The servants she knew must have retired from service, or perhaps moved with him to his new estate when he became an earl.

  “Welcome to Chaswick Manor, Lord Kendall. Lady Kendall. I am Mr. Everly, the estate’s butler, and this is our housekeeper, Mrs. St. Giles. We were very sorry to hear of your accident.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Everly. It has been a most trying afternoon,” Jon replied. “We appreciate the earl coming to our rescue and opening his home to us.”