A Rogue of One's Own

by Evie Dunmore

  “Fortunately, I can be brave. Shall I show you my Victoria Cross?”

  “Now, be serious.”

  “I am. From the moment you galloped at me on an oversized horse when you were thirteen years old, you have been the bravest woman I have ever met. I thought I knew you, but it was at best a long-enduring, boyish obsession, fraught with stung pride and fantasy. The last months have opened my eyes to the woman behind the warrior, and you exceed what my imagination pictured, and I laugh at my stupidity. Your stubborn courage humbles me. Your rage inspires me. You are like a storm moving through, rearranging whomever you touch in your wake—imagine the trouble we could cause if we joined forces. But I digress. When you look at me, I know you look right into me, because it is what you do—you look deeply. You prefer truth over comfort. And believe me, I’m in need of a woman who laughs in the face of ugly, for there is some darkness in my soul. But my heart, blackened as it is, is yours, and only yours, until you stop desiring it. And it shall be yours even then.”

  When she didn’t speak, he cocked his head. “Too purple?”

  “No,” she said thickly. “No. You feel seen by me.”

  “I do.”

  “Despite all the shrewish things I said.”

  “My love, I trust you because of all the shrewish things you say.”

  “I feel the same when I am with you,” she said, her eyes swimming. “Seen.”

  He had seen the vulnerable girl in need of a friend ten years ago where everyone else had seen a scandalous shrew. He had seen her need to dance, to be held, to be challenged and pleasured and teased, and he had provided it. He had never been afraid of her. He had been afraid for his own heart, and for that, she could hardly blame him.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I see you and you see me. So my answer is yes.”

  “Yes?” He sounded wary.

  Her hands framed his face. “I agree to a betrothal until I can be your equal before the law.” And before he could reply: “I must warn you now, married or not, I shall never have the disposition to be an Angel of the House.”

  His hands were on her waist, his smile dark. “You are looking at a man who prefers shieldmaidens over angels.”

  Shieldmaidens.

  Surely not.

  “The poems,” she murmured. “Were they . . . ?”

  He looked resigned. “I suppose, in some shape or form, it has always been you.”

  “I must say,” she said after a breathless pause, “you are a terrible rake—a pretend rake. Next, you tell me you have been saving yourself for me all along.”

  He laughed, and she leaned in. His face blurred and their lips met in a kiss, finally, at last.

  Yes.

  They were kissing still when he moved, and she was floating, literally, her feet lifting off the floor, and she was up high in his arms cradled against his hard chest. His delicious scent curled around her, and it felt so very good to breathe deeply again.

  He looked her in the eye. “Contra mundum?”

  She smiled. “Contra mundum.” Against the world.

  She pressed her nose to the strong warm column of his neck.

  “I should add what a lovely, pocket-sized thing you are,” came his voice, “with very lickable breasts and an arse that fits my hands perfectly, all of which I find greatly arousing.”

  “I see. In the absence of male authority you could lawfully lord over me, you will just shamelessly try and seduce me into whatever it is you want with lewd talk.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She burrowed closer. “Where are we going?”

  He was striding with great confidence toward the side entrance door.

  “Do you know the director’s apartment on the upper floor?” he said. “I suggest we make it a discreet second home for the duration of our betrothal.”

  “Discreet—I gather we are keeping our living in sin a secret?”

  “Yes. I believe Mary Wollstonecraft’s first child was born out of wedlock, but it is also true that the world is not ready for it yet, my love.”

  “An open-ended betrothal, and a secret love nest in our London office building. Blimey, we shall be spending a lot of time in our office.”

  “I hope it is sufficiently unromantic for your taste.”

  “I do like it.”

  He opened the door with his elbow. “The director’s apartment,” he said as he carefully maneuvered the spiral staircase with his arm full of woman. “It has a large settee. I’ll ravish you on it.”

  “Oh,” she said faintly. “Yes, please.”

  “And afterward, when you are soft and in a good mood, I shall try and convince you to let me blackmail a peer or two into supporting the amendment of the Property Act.”

  She sighed with delight. “I insist you do it.”

  Because when a woman happened to acquire a rogue of her own, she might as well make good use of him.

  Epilogue

  The warm, golden glow of the first August afternoon filled Hattie’s drawing room in the Randolph, inspiring a drowsy languidness in the four occupants lolling on various settees and fainting couches.

  “I confess my legs do not feel healthfully exercised,” said Annabelle, her half-lidded gaze idly following the cherubs dancing across the painted ceiling.

  On the divan opposite, Hattie’s head lifted a fraction. “They do not?”

  “No,” came the dark reply. “They feel veritably destroyed.”

  “Ah.” Hattie slumped back into the silken pillow. “I’m relieved to hear it. For a moment, I worried I was the only one whose limbs feel like gelatin.”

  “You are not,” Catriona assured her from the plush depths of her armchair.

  “Still,” Hattie said after a moment, “I’d quite like to ride one again, and soon. A proper Ordinary like Lucie’s, even, not just a tricycle.”

  Lucie grinned. Today marked their very first outing on bicycles, or, in the case of Annabelle, Catriona, and Hattie, female-friendly Victor tricycles. It took a formidable effort to capsize these tricycles and Hattie had almost managed it twice—Lord knew how she would fare on a two-wheeled contraption.

  She probingly rotated her right foot, then her left. Her legs felt fine. Surprising, considering she had taken up horseback riding again after Tristan had urged her to set a few hours a week aside for pleasurable activities, not counting those behind closed doors. He rented horses in a stable in Binsey, hardly fiery thoroughbreds, but the stables were sufficiently far from the university crowd and still reachable on foot from Norham Gardens. Every Tuesday night, they took a walk across Port Meadow and then went for a deliciously long ride along the Thames at dusk. Astride.

  “You will need to wear breeches to ride an Ordinary,” she told Hattie. A woman’s split pantalets would cause the scandal of scandals if exposed to the world from the lofty heights of a bicycle.

  “Gladly,” said Hattie, “as long as they go under my skirts instead of replacing them.”

  “I wonder,” said Catriona, “will our morals and fashion have to become more accommodating of bicycles before we are allowed to ride them or will the new technologies force a change in our minds and clothes?”

  “Fashion follows practicality,” Lucie said lazily. “Unless you are wealthy. Then it serves to display wealth.”

  “I dread to say it, but I am beginning to share your cynical views,” Hattie said. “I have been corresponding with Lady Harberton on the matter of my Rational Dress Society article for the Discerning Ladies’, and it appears she harbors quite a rage against the current fashion of trains in female dress. In her last letter, she detailed the relics she found in her niece’s train after a London outing. I don’t recall all the items, but they included”—and there she squinted—“they included two cigar ends, a portion of pork pie, an orange peel, half a sole of a boot, chewed tobacco, hairpins, and
toothpicks. Rather unattractive, seeing it spelled out.”

  Her friends’ horrified groans were still ongoing when she stretched out her arm to angle for the last éclair on the table.

  “You should write a regular column about fashion hazards for the Discerning Ladies’, and how to remedy them,” Lucie suggested. “Officially make a name for yourself as an expert.”

  “I should,” Hattie said, and raised the pastry to her lips. “Harriet Greenfield, discerning art and fashion fiend.”

  “Speaking of which, how was your excursion to London last week, Hattie? Pre-Raphaelites, was it not?” asked Catriona.

  The éclair abruptly stopped its descent into Hattie’s mouth and quivered suspended in midair.

  “It was excellent, thanks.” Hattie’s voice was close to a squeak. “Very . . . educational.”

  Lucie watched her friend’s alabaster throat and cheeks flush a nervous red. Interesting. “What excursion?” she probed.

  Hattie avoided her eyes. “A private art exhibition in Chelsea. About the Pre-Raphaelites.”

  “So I gathered,” Lucie said wryly. “I assume you escaped Mr. Graves to go?”

  “Yes?” Definitely a squeak.

  “How did Mr. Graves cope?” asked Annabelle, possibly planning to escape her own protection officer for an excursion or two.

  Hattie’s answer was to sink her pearly teeth into the pastry with a shrug, a wealthy girl unconcerned about what the staff might think.

  Oh, she was hiding something outrageous.

  But Hattie could never keep her secrets for long. When she was ready, she would summon them and spill it all to the last detail.

  Her own secret, that she was presently sharing her life with Tristan behind closed doors, had been received surprisingly well by her friends. Much more readily, in fact, than the news that she might—one day—marry him, which they deemed worryingly out of character. It had taken a very large engagement ring on Lucie’s finger—courtesy of Lady Rochester’s heirloom chest—for Hattie to approve of the idea. It had taken every ounce of Tristan’s charm to win over the coolly appraising Catriona. Annabelle, still the only one who knew of the clandestine affair preceding the betrothal, had left it at a knowing smirk and a “You do not like him at all, hm?”

  She was besotted with him. Every morning, she woke up feeling light and warm, knowing he was hers. In time, she might even become used to the presence of someone in her life who cared about her needs more than she did. It was also very nice to have his unruffled presence by her side when their report broke. Powerful men were closing ranks behind the editor of the Guardian to defend his choice to publish the findings, but they were outnumbered by other powerful men who accused the paper of waging war on the sanctity of the family. The main point of contention was not the widespread maltreatment of wives in their own homes, but the revelation that middle- and upper-class wives were being maltreated, too. Well. It was to be expected that a tyrant who saw power slipping from his grip would double his efforts to hold on. The rage they now witnessed was proof that they had done more than pull the beast’s tail. They had fired a shot at its very heart: every man’s prerogative to be the unaccountable rule in his home. While the Manchester Guardian hadn’t named names, for the time being, the suffragist chapters across Britain had decided to lay low, and, as usual, had to wait until the dust had settled. Resorting to bicycle rides for diversion was the least a woman could do under the circumstances.

  One welcome effect of the outcry surrounding the report was the distraction from the betrothal. There had been a headline in the Pall Mall Gazette after the announcement: Who Tamed Who? The London Lothario vs The Suffragist Shrew! But since the long-standing connection of their houses was well known, as was their new business relationship, and since Wycliffe and Rochester had issued the announcement in the Times in accordance with the custom, the rumors were not boiling beyond the ordinary. Rochester had resigned himself to keeping mum on all matters for the time being. Since his heir had only barely escaped a full-blown scandal he was not keen to pour water onto the rumor mills.

  The only one besmirched had been Cecily, and, by extension, the House of Wycliffe. And there, too, had been a development to remedy the situation.

  Lucie propped herself up on her elbows. “I forgot to share the latest news.”

  Three drowsy faces turned toward her.

  “My brother is engaged to be married.”

  Three brows creased with confusion. She had not the habit of talking about her family nor of being interested in weddings.

  “To our cousin, the Lady Cecily.” She grinned at the collective gasp. “Who would have thought Tommy had it in him. He’s a prig, but at least he is a proper prig—denting his own reputation and pride to restore the family’s standing. I do salute him, truly I do.”

  “Oh, but it was sly of him,” Hattie said. “He was plainly pining for her at the house party and now Lady Cecily will forever be in his debt and devotedly adore him.”

  “That, too,” Lucie said after a small pause. “Hattie, are you certain you don’t wish to tell us about the Pre-Raphaelite Art Exhibition in Chelsea?”

  “Very,” Hattie said promptly, and Lucie knew the next scandal was already waiting in the wings.

  Author’s Note

  Lucie’s story was inspired by a Victorian verse and a letter I had come across during my research for Bringing Down the Duke, the first book in this series.

  Below, some of the stanzas of the verse:

  Woman’s Rights

  The right to be a comforter

  Where other comforts fail

  The right to cheer the drooping heart

  When troubles most assail.

  The right to train the infant mind,

  To think of Heaven and God;

  The right to guide the tiny feet

  The path our Saviour trod

  The right to be a bright sunbeam,

  In high or lowly home

  The right to smile with loving gleam,

  And point to joys to come

  Such are the noblest woman’s rights,

  The rights which God hath given,

  The right to comfort man on earth,

  And smooth his path to heaven.

  By M.C.M.R.

  The following excerpts are from a letter by Mrs. Anne Brown Adams, daughter of U.S. American abolitionist John Brown. It was addressed to Canadian abolitionist Mr. Alexander Ross, sometime between 1870 and 1880. For A Rogue of One’s Own, I took the liberty to repackage it into two letters that had been sent to Lucie by British women:

  “. . . The struggle for a married woman’s rights will be a longer and a harder fought battle than any other that the world has [inserted: ever] known. Men have been taught that they are absolute monarchs in their families, (even in a republican country,) ever since the world began, and that to kill a wife by inches, is not murder, women are taught from infancy that to betray [inserted: by look or word] or even to mention to an intimate friend the secrets of their married life, is worse than disgraceful, There in lies the power of the man, He knows that no matter what he does, the woman will keep silent as the grave [2]

  I could tell you things that have come under my observation, that would make the blood boil in your veins (. . .)

  Women are taught that their only hope of heaven, is to ‘endure to the end,’ (. . .) I know a man who tells his wife ‘I own you, I have got a deed (marriage license and certificate) to you and got it recorded, I have a right to do what I please to you,’. . . .”

  I found the contrast between the poem and a real woman’s private thoughts rather startling. Clearly, the Victorian cult of domesticity had a dark underbelly—behind closed doors, it was the luck of the draw for the Angels in the House: wives had very little legal recourse if their husbands mistreated them, and they cou
ld not just discuss matters with their friends, either.

  I wondered how a woman like Lucie who had her eyes wide open would fall in love under such circumstances. What would make her say “I do” to effectively being owned?

  I took a closer look at real-life Victorian couples, such as Millicent Fawcett, who led the British suffrage movement, and Harriet Taylor Mill, who influenced John Stuart Mill’s famous essay “The Subjection of Women.” Both women were proponents of women’s suffrage before they got married, neither had acute financial pressures, and both decided to give their few rights away anyway. I made the wild guess that they had fallen in love and wanted to be with their husbands, come what may. It is well documented, however, that their husbands were at the forefront in the fight for women’s rights in Parliament.

  Lucie would have married Tristan in 1882, when the Married Women’s Property Act was amended, though women in Britain were not allowed to vote until 1918. The Property Act still exists in British legislation; it was last amended in 2016 to allow a widow in her own right to enforce her late husband’s life assurance policy.

  All policies mentioned in this novel existed at the time. Unfortunately, so did the collection of debris that Lady F. W. Harberton, head of the Rational Dress Society, detailed in her battle against the train in female dress.

  Tristan’s character was inspired by the artists who were part of the British Decadent Movement, which was led by Irish writer Oscar Wilde.

  I took artistic license with some timings: the poem “When You Are Old” by Yeats was first published in 1889. The excerpt from Millicent Fawcett’s lecture at the LSE dates to the 1870s. Ruth Symthers’s advice for new brides was not published until 1894 and is widely considered a hoax in any case.

  Acknowledgments

  Finishing any book is a challenge, but second books are special beasts. I’m lucky—a whole crowd of wonderful people supported me during A Rogue of One’s Own. A huge thank-you to:

  Matt—my love.