Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  The Gift of a Christmas Scandal

  Lady Mariel’s Scandalous Love (coming soon)

  Christmas with That Duke (coming soon)

  The Nettlefold Chronicles

  The Duke and the Spinster

  To Dance with the Dangerous Duke

  A Duke in Autumn (coming soon)

  A Christmas Bride for the Duke (coming soon)

  A Duke’s Daughters – The Elbury Bouquet

  A Spinster for a Spy (Lily)

  A Vixen for a Viscount (Hyacinth) (coming soon)

  A Bluestocking for a Baron (Rose) (coming soon)

  A Diamond for a Duke (Camellia) (coming soon)

  A Minx for a Merchant (Primrose) (coming soon)

  An Enchantress for an Earl (Violet) (coming soon)

  A Maiden for a Marquess (Iris) (coming soon)

  A Heart for an Heir (Thorne) (coming soon)

  The Derbyshire Set

  A Gift of Love (Prequel short story)

  A Devil’s Bargain (Prequel short story - coming soon)

  The Earl’s Unexpected Bride

  The Captain’s Compromised Heiress

  The Viscount’s Unsuitable Affair

  The Derbyshire Set, Omnibus Edition, Volume 1

  (contains the first three books in a single volume.)

  The Count’s Impetuous Seduction

  The Rake’s Unlikely Redemption

  The Marquess’ Scandalous Mistress

  The Derbyshire Set, Omnibus Edition, Volume 2

  (contains the second three books in a single volume.)

  A Remembered Face (Bonus short story – coming soon)

  The Marchioness’ Second Chance

  A Viscount’s Reluctant Passion (coming soon)

  Lady Theodora’s Christmas Wish

  The Duke’s Improper Love (coming soon)

  Other Books

  The Scottish Governess

  The Earl’s Reluctant Fiancée (coming soon)

  The Crew of the Seadragon’s Soul Series,

  (coming soon - a set of 10 linked novels)

  Chapter One

  “Where are your gloves Bob? How many times have I told you to wear gloves when touching family heirlooms -especially that one!”

  Edward Collins, Butler of Blackwood Chase, stood at the bottom of the wide upward sweep of the central staircase, the authority of his voice stopping and fixing Bob half-way up as if by a cord, the ceremonial sword, its silver-studded scabbard, and pommel dizzyingly catching the sun, balanced in his hands.

  “Sorry Mr Collins Sir, it's just... we're all in such a tizzy, what with His Lor'ships's arrival I clean forgot. They're here in my pocket. Shall I...”

  “No, no, Bob, here...”

  Collins covered the distance between them in a few strides and took the sword from the sheepishly grinning Bob with his own immaculately white gloved hands.

  “Allow me Bob.”

  “Thank you, Mr Collins, and sorry... it won’t happen again.”

  “A lapse of memory is inevitable on the always happy occasion of His Lordship's coming home. But do mind yourself Bob.”

  “I will sir.”

  “There's a good fellow, now, go and check that the writing materials in his Lordship's study are all in order - I think he needs some fresh sealing wax - and look sharp.”

  “Don't let him off so easy Mr Collins! Give 'im a smack on his silly rump!”

  Mrs Templeton, the Head Housekeeper, quipped as she passed Collins, heaving her not insubstantial self down the stairs, arms bundled with dirty linen.

  “Maybe you'd like something similar Mrs Temp.”

  “That's no language for a Butler Mr Collins. I'll be letting His Lordship know about it, the moment he appears.”

  Undaunted, Collins aimed a kick at the wide back of Mrs Templeton's starched skirts, which she avoided with a grotesquely girlish wriggle, causing the housemaids polishing the banisters and picture frames in the long gallery above to laugh.

  “Give 'er one for me Mr Collins!”

  Lizzie, worryingly thin and pale, but as excitedly happy as everyone else, paused gleefully in her polishing. But when her laughter broke into a fit of coughing, Collins hurried up, his face full of concern, and patted her firmly, but gently, on the back.

  And so it went, throughout Blackwood Chase. The three-hundred-and-twenty-year-old house was in a state of uproar.

  The servants rushed about, arms laden with all manner of things, seeking to get the house completely in the most perfect order possible before the return of its owner, Peregrine Stapleton, the Earl of Blackwood.

  Such was the state of things, that, even in the village of Woodsbridge, quite some distance away, occasional sounds reached them – the thwack of rugs having the dust beaten out of them, and the rattle of carts coming and going through the village, and up to the big house, delivering all of the provisions that they expected to need.

  The village people paused in their work, and stood in the sun for a moment, listening and watching. Everyone smiled – for Lord Blackwood was well liked by his tenants.

  ~~~~~

  “These damned servants! They should be whipped! Papa's far too lenient with them. Do you know I had to wait for nearly ten minutes – TEN WHOLE MINUTES! - before one of the upstairs maids brought my tea just now! Five minutes! Damn their eyes!”

  Lady Amelia Stapleton had just burst into her eldest sister, Clara's, room and was, as usual, venting her outrage against what she doggedly referred to as 'the lower orders' – when she was in a good mood.

  In a bad mood, as today it looked as if she was ready and willing to work herself up into, they were 'walking butcher's offal' 'brewer's barrel-scrapings' and 'the laziest dregs of humanity.'

  No one knew quite where Amelia had picked up such vividly colourful language, though Collins and her father, the Earl, both agreed that the sheer inventiveness of it was driven by her splenetic temperament, a temperament which, if not tamed, or at least calmed to some degree, would guarantee her spinsterhood.

  “Do stop swearing Amelia, you sound like one of the lower orders yourself, and how many times have I told you to knock before bursting into my room this way?”

  “I did knock!”

  “You most certainly did not knock. And please don't contradict me, it's tiring and a colossal bore and I'm enduring an agony of boredom this afternoon.”

  “I knocked Clara, you know I did!”

  Lady Harriet Stapleton's eyes, almost as green as their father's, blazed with anger at the disruption caused by her sister’s appearance. Lady Clara Stapleton, affected a nonchalant tone, as usual, but fifteen-year old Amelia's volatile and irritable nature made everything feel worse, as it always did. The skin at the back of her neck itched, and she clenched her teeth with annoyance.

  It would be a mistake to goad Amelia further Clara knew – and almost anything said at this point would have that effect. But with their father being so hopelessly indulgent toward his youngest child, it was up to her, Clara, to at least attempt to instil a modicum of discipline.

  “Please go out, close the door, knock again and then you can come in and say your piece.”

  “I did hear her knock actually Clara.”

  “Hush Harriet.”

  “Well, it was the merest mouse-dropping of a knock, but I did hear it.”

  “I said hush. Well Amelia?”

  “I am not a child! You're only three years older than me Clara, you're not my mother. You're not a real Lady yet, you haven't come out yet, and you're almost nineteen!”

  “I'm not 'almost nineteen' I'm eighteen and a half and...”

  “And Papa still hasn't made any arrangements for your coming out yet.”

  “Papa is busy you little fool. He's been closeted with the Prince Regent almost every day for the past month. Phoebe Althorpe heard her father say that Prince George would rather have him as Prime Minister than Lord Liverpool.”

  “Yes, yes I know as much about Papa's reputation as you and that bean
pole Phoebe do. But his being busy shouldn't stop him from arranging his eldest daughter's coming out, should it? He's just embarrassed, he knows you'll make as much of a splash in Society as a frog in a garden pond.”

  Here Harriet tried to stifle a giggle, unsuccessfully, and though Clara glared at her fiercely, the middle sister's juvenile laughter broke the mounting tension.

  “A 'frog in a puddle?' Look who's talking you ugly, warty little toad.”

  Amelia ostentatiously ignored the last comment, and sat down on the silk-upholstered chair nearest the door.

  Clara continued her search for the lace shawl Harriet had come to her room to borrow, and soon all three were united in disgruntlement at their position and their lack of every civilised amenity.

  “I simply have nothing whatsoever to wear for Papa's arrival!” Clara stood, hands on hips, in her fine Egyptian cotton chemise, looking exasperatedly at the heaps of dresses of every cut, material, and colour strewn across the bed and chaise-longue as Harriet and Amelia clucked in sympathy. “I feel like we've been abandoned since Mama died– we're like castaways in the country.”

  “I agree Clara, though perhaps if you tried to go out riding more, you'd feel less trapped.”

  “I ride as well as you do Harriet. I just don't share your passion for horses... and stables.”

  “Why are you so rude to me whenever I try to help you, Clara?”

  “Riding may help you, it doesn't help me.”

  “I'm not talking about riding... Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “It's all very well Papa having the ear of our King-to-be but what's the point if it doesn't result in us having lots of delicious parties at Blackwood House in London and meeting lots of eligible young men, or even being introduced to Lord Byron.”

  Amelia's timely interjection united her older sisters in amused contempt.

  “Lord Byron! What do you know of my Lord Byron? He'd spit you out like a used toothpick you silly thing.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn't mind... At least I wouldn't be as bored as I am here.”

  Resumption of the sisters' despondency was interrupted by a rap at the door, and the news of their supposedly neglectful father's imminent arrival.

  ~~~~~

  In Woodsbridge village, Mrs Constance Leslie sat across the uneven table from her mother-in-law, Mrs Margaret Leslie, a concerned look on her face. Her husband, Margaret’s son, was more than two years dead, gone, like so many others, on the field at Waterloo. Since his death, Constance was all that Margaret had, of family.

  “You’ve been overtaxing yourself again, Margaret – that cough is getting worse. You really must allow me to deal with the chores.”

  Margaret gave a half nod, but a mulish expression crossed her face.

  “I’ll survive, Constance. You worry about finding a position, so’s we’ll have some money for the things that can’t be grown or made by us.”

  Constance sighed. Margaret was right – she needed to find a position. Before George had gone off to war, she had worked as a companion to an older lady – but that had barely lasted nine months, before the gentle old woman had simply died in her sleep. After that, when George was away fighting, she had been a maid, and left that position when the son of the house made inappropriate advances.

  Then, she had found a delightful position, as a governess, for two girls on the cusp of adulthood. Her excellent education had been put to use, and she had enjoyed the work – but they had, of course, grown, and within twelve months, had come out into society. In the end, the timing had been good, for, just as that work had ended, she had received the news that Margaret was ailing. Taking the most generous payment that her former employer had given her, Constance had left London, and come to Woodsbridge to care for Margaret.

  She had thought, perhaps naively, that she might get work as a governess or a companion at one of the houses of the nobility in the area close around Woodsbridge. So far, that had not come to pass. And now, the money was running out. She would have to take whatever work she could get, wherever she could get it, to keep them both fed and housed.

  Tomorrow, she would ask about the village, and see if anyone knew of any work, of any kind, which might be coming available. If she was to be a housemaid, or even a scullery maid, so be it – she was not afraid of hard work.

  “You’re right, and I’ll be off seeking work in the morning – but that’s not a reason for you to let yourself get worse. That cough has to go – I’ll not have you half killing yourself, doing work around the house and the garden that you’re not fit to do.”

  Margaret eyed her, obviously wanting to claim that she was fit for everything, but then she sighed again, and nodded slowly.

  “You’re right too. No matter how much I wish it, I’m not able to do half of the things I used to do so easily.”

  ~~~~~

  Peregrine Stapleton, Fifth Earl of Blackwood, decorated veteran of the Peninsular Wars, previously confidante of His Majesty King George the Third, and now of his son, the Prince Regent, was one of the very few endlessly sought-after favourites of London Society. But, at this moment, he was not feeling the benefit of his accomplishments and station as he stood, smiling ruefully in his study, waiting for his daughters to make their appearance. His Lordship's character was a byword for stoicism – a well-thumbed copy of Marcus Aurelius was never away from his bedside table – but he alone knew how ill-deserving he was of his reputation for fortitude.

  Behind the deep sea-green eyes that glittered under his dark brows, his mind was often a hornet's nest of familial worries, concerns about his vast estate, and political anxieties, but today it felt as though the whole nest had been violently poked with a stick.

  Still, he joined his hands behind his back, continued smiling ruefully, checked his watch and sighed at the tardiness of his three motherless daughters. But who was to blame for their petulance, tardiness, and other more unpleasant, forbidding characteristics but him? He'd spoiled them since his darling Lydia's death, not consciously, but out of simple, irremediable weakness! Weakness he was beginning to greatly regret!

  When it came to the offspring of his and Lydia's love, he had no heart for correction or discipline, leaving that – a mere modicum of that! - to an endless parade of governesses. And how was he to find decent husbands, rather than clever fortune-hunters, for them? Clara's need was the most pressing, but Harriet was now seventeen, and Amelia – savage little Amelia! - at fifteen was close behind.

  He rather thought that what the girls needed was a governess – although, God knows, all of the previous ones had barely lasted a week – but a governess who knew how to get through to them, how to help them prepare for their entry into society. But he had begun to believe that such a person did not exist, at all. As if all of that wasn’t enough for him to deal with, once again his mother, the Dowager Countess of Blackwood, was urging him to meet yet another 'perfect wife and helpmeet’ for himself.

  Couldn't she see, couldn't anyone understand that he had given his heart once and always to Lydia, and that her death had set the seal on that joyous gift forever? When would his mother leave him be? When would every lord and lady of his acquaintance stop conniving at ending his widowerhood? And – where were his girls!

  He was just about to pull the door open and call for Collins, when Collins himself appeared, carrying a silver tray laden with the dainties favoured by the voraciously sweet-teeth of his daughters, while Mrs Templeton brought up the rear with all of the accoutrements for tea.

  “Lady Clara, Lady Harriet and Lady Amelia will be joining your Lordship in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Collins. Mrs Temp, shall I help you with that?”

  “Your Lordship is far too kind, as always. But the weight of the tea things is nothing but feathers, my Lord.”

  The Earl waved them in, and was closing the door when he saw his daughters trooping slowly down the stairs. There they were. The three prongs embedded in his Achilles Heel.

  He stood back to hold t
he door open for them, ignoring the protestations of Collins, and offered his cheek to each of them in turn.

  “Hello Papa. You didn't happen to notice what Lady Westerley was wearing at the Alexandria House Ball did you?”

  “I seem to recall something far too low-cut and perilously close to the red-end of the spectrum.”

  “Oh Papa, do speak English! And I do wish I could've gone, instead of being stuck here, starved of food and company.”

  “My darling Harriet, you look anything but starved. You look the picture of fulsome health.”

  “Fulsome! What a crude word, Papa. It must be this awful dress I've been forced to wear - it is that which makes me look very 'fulsome’.”

  “Yes Papa, I'm afraid none of us are fit to be seen, that's why we took so long to come down. We desperately need complete new wardrobes.”

  “I seem to recall a whole troop of dressmakers that I brought up from Covent Garden. Not a month ago I think.”

  “For someone at the pinnacle of society you have no idea of how quickly fashions change Papa. We've had to throw most of those things out.”

  “You had to… throw most of... those... 'things' out?”

  The Earl turned his head slowly toward Collins, dazedly seeking confirmation of this mass culling of their expensive finery. His eyes were met by the raised chin and the old, steadfast, professionally opaque look in the grey eyes of his butler.

  Collins gave a single slight nod. Taking a deep breath, the Earl retrieved his fallen features and, straightening his back, followed the girls to the fireplace where they deposited their weary bones gingerly and fussily all over the best chairs and footstools.

  “I shall bring your Lordship a chair from the library.”

  ~~~~~

  “They need a mother, badly. Someone to set them an example... are they not prodigies in their own way though, Edward?”

  “'Prodigies' your Lordship?”

  “Perry if you please, Edward, when we are alone, and do help yourself to a large brandy while you're at it.”

  “I'll have a small one, if your Lordship pleases.”

  “Edward! I realise that you take your position with commendable seriousness, but as I've said countless times before, when the two of us are behind the closed study doors, all considerations due to rank and station are to be forgotten. We are man and man – friend and friend. And by God I have need of a friend's advice.”