Cocky Mister: A Regency Cocky Gents Book

by Annabelle Anders

He was a brute to dismiss her dreams so casually. And his callousness didn’t only outrage her, but it… hurt. His kindness of the night before had been nothing more than an aberration.

  She pinched her lips together. She would not cry.

  He’d never taken her seriously. He hadn’t cared about her feelings. He’d only been fulfilling his promise to her brother.

  Archie pushed out of her arms, leaping to the floor and smartly removing himself from the vicinity of her temper, which was only moments away from erupting.

  The little traitor.

  Ignoring her protesting head and stomach, she threw the covers aside and burst out of the bed, reaching for the lovely night rail draped over the screen and quickly covering herself.

  She stuffed her arms into the sleeves, feeling raw, indignant, and vulnerable.

  And hurt, drat him.

  “You’re a beast! You don’t know anything about what I need or what will make me happy! How could you, Mister Spencer, excuse me, Mister Chester?”

  Stone rolled over to face her, raising his arms and clasping his hands behind his neck. The tufts of hair under his arms looked soft in comparison to the sinewy muscles everywhere else. Why on earth should she notice something like that?

  She forced her gaze up to his face, and seeing that his eye looked worse than it had the day before pierced her with a pang of guilt.

  His hair was adorably mussed, and she almost forgot that she was angry with him.

  Until he spoke.

  “That’s right. Keeping you safe from an irate duke just isn’t the same as keeping you happy. My sincere apologies, My Lady.” The inflection he put on those last two words did not go unnoticed by her.

  Things were not supposed to have gone this way! Didn’t he understand what she’d done? Why did he have to mock the things that were important to her?

  Everything had gone horribly wrong, and he was the only person she could complain to. And wanting comfort from him didn’t make sense but…

  “Argh!” She stomped her foot and then immediately regretted it when the pain in her head exploded. Wheeling around, she caught hold of the edge of the bureau, head bowed, doing her best to not burst into tears. “I’ve ruined everything!”

  “What’s done is done.”

  She sighed and slowly opened her eyes.

  What’s done is done. Undoing what she’d done would be near impossible.

  She stared unseeing but then focused on the grain of wood on the bureau. A single hairclip. The brush she’d purchased…

  And a smudged but official-looking piece of parchment.

  An ornate box framed the document, the top line reading Kingdom of Scotland. It was some sort of certificate. A certificate? She blinked, not quite believing her eyes.

  County of Dumfries. Parish of Gretna.

  These are to certify to all whom they may concern that Hedwig Buckley Spencer from the parish of…

  “Who is Hedwig Buckley Spencer?” She frowned as she recognized her own signature. “What is this?”

  “Where did you hear that name?” He eyed her suspiciously from where he was now sitting on the edge of the bed.

  But her blood turned to ice as she went on to read the following lines: having declared to me that they are unmarried persons, have now been married after the manner of the laws…

  Have now been married…

  Have now been married…

  The words echoed in her head like a cast iron pan landing on a kitchen floor.

  The certificate was signed by two witnesses with the same last name as the man who’d signed as the priest.

  “Who is Hedwig?” But she knew. He’d told her that Stone wasn’t his given name.

  Gripping the document in panic, she spun back around to face him, shock and wrath thundering in her brain.

  “Hedwig Buckley Spencer?” Her head nearly exploded. “And put on some clothes!” An unsettling glimpse of the contours of sinewy muscles and smooth skin only added to her confoundment. In addition to the perfect amount of hair sprinkled across his chest and trailing down until it disappeared beneath the counterpane.

  If she wasn’t decently covered in a delightful pink but slightly too long night rail, her outrage might have had her imagining he’d ravished her.

  Her astonishment was as much at her own behavior as at his near nakedness.

  He had purchased the night rail for her, along with numerous other necessities from the mercantile. She glanced across the room where a handful of packages were stacked in the corner.

  They’d not stopped at shopping when they’d gone out. More incredulity followed by an endless string of unspoken recriminations for both of them.

  Unspoken because there were so many, they overwhelmed her ability to speak.

  “What are you in such a state over?” Stone had stepped into his trousers and crept up behind her. Showing no manners whatsoever, he snatched the certificate out of her suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “You did this on purpose!” she finally managed.

  He’d plied her with whisky, and then pretty clothes, and shoes, and even a reticule to replace the one she’d lost… And then… he must have forced her to marry him. He had to have. Because she’d promised her father! She never would have…!

  “Why in the hell would I do that?” But he was scratching his chin, which was hidden somewhere beneath his unruly beard. “Unless…”

  She spun all the way around to glare up at him. “Unless…?” she prompted, annoyed with herself for struggling with the distraction of his bare chest. Although scarred and bruised, his pale skin looked silky and surprisingly touchable, and the smattering of curling dark hairs invited her to follow the trail.

  Which dipped into his trousers. Only half the buttons on his falls had been done up.

  Her fingers tingled with an inexplicable desire to touch the twin indents at the base of his chiseled abdomen.

  The look he sent her was a reproving one. “If I’m remembering correctly, I believe this was your idea.”

  “What?” He was blaming her for this? “How dare you?” She glanced around the room, searching for something to throw. Before she could get a hold of the empty pitcher used for water, however, he’d caught her wrist in his fist.

  “Settle down,” he growled.

  Despite her squirming and trying to wrestle out of his grasp, he didn’t so much as break a sweat but simply squeezed a little tighter, staring at the certificate, scowling.

  “Release me now, you brute!”

  “One of Culpepper’s men was following us,” he explained as though she wasn’t futilely attempting to wrestle out of his grasp.

  His words niggled a few vague recollections in her memory. But…

  “You certainly were quick to take advantage of that,” she accused.

  Upon which, either her strength had taken on Herculean properties or Stone had loosened his hold, but she was able to break free.

  “I want my own chamber!” she demanded, marching across the room. She would locate the innkeeper this instant!

  She threw back the locks and dashed into the hall, slamming the door closed behind her.

  And then immediately realized that a proper lady would never enter a taproom in nothing more than her night rail and dressing gown. She halted only a minute.

  She couldn’t go back to the chamber they’d shared. He’d only insult her some more.

  Was it because he was telling the truth? Had getting married been her idea?

  The door opened behind her, and she twisted around to head for the staircase again. Hoyden or not, she couldn’t spend another second in Hedwig Buckley Spencer’s company!

  Mrs. Hedwig Buckley Spencer? Good God, what had she done?

  “Come back inside, duchess. It’s not as bad as you think. We can work this out.” He stepped into the corridor, one hand outstretched, a pained look on his face.

  “Over my dead body!” What was there for the two of them to work out? Where they would travel for their w
edding journey? How to raise their children?

  No longer caring if she looked like a hoyden, she gasped on a sob, lurching toward the stairwell intent on one thing only—escaping the maddening creature she’d married.

  A second sob escaped at the same time she lowered her foot to the first step. Only instead of landing on the wood of the stair, her bare foot landed on the hem of her gown.

  Feeling like she was underwater, both feet now caught in her night rail, the bodice of her gown jerked down on her shoulders, tipping her forward and disrupting her balance. Her hand barely grazed the banister when she realized in horror that this was not going to end well.

  “Tabetha!”

  She turned her head and the last thing she saw before the world slipped away was Stone diving forward to keep her from falling.

  For a moment, his fingertips pinched the fabric of her sleeve. But only for a moment. The material tore, and Tabetha went careening down. Sharp pain, much worse than what she’d woken up with that morning.

  And then everything went black.

  Chapter 9

  And Married too…

  “Tabetha!”

  Stone’s fingertips barely grazed her gown as her terrified gaze beseeched him. He reached, but he wasn’t quick enough. The delicate fabric ripped, leaving him holding nothing more than a silken scrap.

  “No!”

  Stone flew behind her, taking three steps at a time, ignoring both the pain in his ribs as well as his own safety, knowing he had to break her fall.

  But he wasn’t fast enough.

  A sickening thump sounded—her head slammed on the hardwood of the landing at the same time self-loathing slammed into him.

  “Tabetha.” He was on his knees, his hands cradling her face. He was supposed to protect her!

  She lay perfectly still, her lashes fanned in perfect arcs beneath her eyes, her lips soft and slightly parted. Was she even breathing?

  “Send for a doctor!” he shouted at the startled innkeeper and the woman standing over them.

  “Wake up, duchess.” Moments before, her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes shooting daggers. How had she turned so pale so quickly? “God damn it!” He swallowed around the huge lump in his throat. “You little fool.”

  He held his face near her mouth, terrified to only feel the slightest whisper of breath against his cheek.

  The coppery scent of blood met his nostrils before he spied the pool of shining liquid forming on the floor.

  Delicate strands of golden hair floated on the surface.

  Blood had never bothered him before. But none of the blood he’d seen before had been hers.

  He was a man of action. If something was broken, he fixed it. If someone needed punishing, he meted it out. But when this tiny person he was supposed to protect lay on the floor, bleeding and still, he felt powerless.

  “Oh, dear.” The innkeeper’s wife lowered herself to the floor beside him and touched her fingertips to the smooth skin of Tabetha’s forehead. “My husband will return with the doctor shortly. His house isn’t far, just on the edge of town.”

  Stone merely shook his head, dazed.

  Terrified.

  “Let’s get her off the floor, why don’t we? Wilma! Bring more linens and hot water to Mrs. Chester’s chamber!” The woman hollered at the maid over her shoulder.

  Off the floor. Off the floor. It was something he could do. He adjusted his position and gingerly slid one arm around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. As he lifted her into his arms, rapid and steady drips of the scarlet liquid dripped from her hair. He froze.

  It was too much blood.

  “Let’s get her to your room, shall we, Mr. Chester?”

  “Yes. Yes.” He blinked. Sick with himself, he eyed the stairway. He shouldn’t have allowed her to leave the room in the first place. He stepped around her blood and, conscious of the new drips forming on the floor, exercised the greatest of care as he climbed back to the second floor. “Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured when she held the door wide for him.

  “I’m Mrs. Hettrick.” She hurried to the bed and drew the covers back. “Give me a moment here. I do hope these linens protect the mattress.”

  Stone tightened his grip on Tabetha protectively, watching her face for any indication that she might be waking up. She felt soft and fragile in the folds of the night rail she’d held up and declared the loveliest thing she’d ever seen when they’d been shopping in the mercantile.

  He didn’t mind holding her. He didn’t mind at all.

  “There now.” Mrs. Hettrick moved aside and Stone lowered Tabetha’s limp form onto the bed.

  “I’ve brought more linens, Mrs. Hettrick. And hot water.” A mob-capped maid rushed into the room. Stone edged away as the innkeeper’s wife went to work wiping away some of the blood and the maid pressed a dry cloth to the back of Tabetha’s head.

  “She’s such a pretty little thing,” the maid commented.

  “And newly married too,” Mrs. Hettrick cooed. And then to Stone, “Pardon, Mr. Chester, this is my sister, Wilma. Now don’t you worry about your bride, she’s going to be just fine. My oldest boy fell off a horse last winter, and there was so much blood you’d have thought he was a goner. But sure as I’m standing here, he was right back on that horse the next day.”

  Stone nodded. She was right, of course.

  But this was Tabetha!

  Her eyelashes fluttered, and his heart lurched.

  “Thank God!” He raised a hand to her cheek, stroking the soft skin along the corner of her lips. “I thought—” His voice caught.

  Because, despite all their bickering, this minx was growing on him, and he couldn’t imagine a world without her plaguing him at every turn.

  “Oh, look. There now. Didn’t I tell you? Welcome back, Mrs. Chester. You took a bit of a fall—gave your dear husband quite a fright.”

  Tabetha stared up at him, confusion swimming in her eyes. “My dear… what?”

  “Your husband, m’ dear—poor Mr. Chester.”

  “Husband?”

  “You hit your head at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Chester,” the maid added helpfully.

  “Lay back and rest until my husband returns with Doc Finch.”

  If anything, Tabetha looked even more perplexed. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Hettrick. And my husband is Mr. Hettrick—we’re the owners of The Tartan Scarf. Don’t you remember checking in yesterday?”

  Tabetha blinked but then focused her eyes on Stone again. “Chester?” she murmured.

  “Rock. Your husband!” Mrs. Hettrick announced happily. “I think I hear Doc now. Yoo Hoo! Mr. Hettrick. We’re up here!”

  Stone edged his way onto the bed beside her, concerned at the panic in her eyes. “Are you in pain?”

  “My head,” she answered. “What’s happening?” She made an attempt to sit up but closed her eyes just as abruptly and fell back onto the pillow.

  “Shhh… Give yourself a moment, duchess.” She seemed to calm down at his words. “Let the doctor take a look at you. You’re going to be just fine. Trust me, all right?” Stone may have failed thus far but from here on out, he would protect her—even if that meant protecting her from herself.

  She could have died on those stairs.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” he vowed just before a bespectacled man entered carrying a black leather case—presumably, Dr. Finch. Tufts of hair stood out from the sides of his head and loose jowls swung beneath his chin as he glanced around the room. “I understand the patient is in here? Good God, what’s that?” The man’s bushy eyebrows flew up.

  Stone followed the doctor’s gaze and then waved a hand through the air. “That’s… my wife’s… er… gerbil.” Stone really didn’t want the presence of Archimedes to get out. Hairless cats were hardly common in England, let alone in northern villages.

  “A gerbil, you say? I can’t say I’ve ever encountered such an… unusual-looking creature.”


  And now Archie had caught Mrs. Hettrick’s attention as well. “Does his hair grow back before winter? I can’t imagine an animal like that surviving the cold.”

  “Ah, yes. Come November he’ll look like a small… er… bear.”

  The innkeeper’s wife nodded but then turned her attention to more important matters. “Wilma, will you watch the front desk? I’ll remain with Mr. and Mrs. Chester in case Doc finch needs anything.”

  Mindful of the promise he’d just made, Stone glanced at the door that was being opened and closed more than the entrance to the inn itself. He needed to keep an eye out for either the duke or any of his men. To imagine they were out of Culpepper’s reach would be foolish.

  Because now that he was fully awake and reminded of the events from the night before, he distinctly remembered one of Culpepper’s thugs tailing them as they’d wandered through the village.

  Marrying had been Tabetha’s idea, and at the time, he’d thought it was the safest course of action himself. Perhaps some other time he’d stop to examine if he had had any other motivations—motivation that had been compelled by a shapely figure, lush lips, and far too much whisky.

  Stone moved off the bed and took half a step back. “She fell down the stairs and hit her head.” It seemed like the doctor would need to know something like that. “And she lost a good deal of blood.”

  The doctor removed the now-bloodied linen that Mrs. Hettrick had placed at the back of Tabetha’s head and examined the wound. He glanced over at Stone somewhat suspiciously. “I see.”

  “I can’t remember my name.” Tabetha’s eyes were open again. Stone hated the panic that had crept back into them.

  “Likely temporary, my dear. Does this hurt?” the doctor asked. Tabetha flinched. “Ah. Nasty cut. The bleeding has almost stopped though. Did you hurt yourself anywhere else?”

  Stone watched her expression as the doctor ran his hands down her arms and then poked at her side.

  “I’m a little sick to my stomach.” Her lips were pale.

  Stone didn’t know if that was from the night before or her fall.

  “Taking a blow to the head tends to do that sometimes. ”