Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  Pru stood. Her indignation was too strong to allow her to remain seated. “If he wants to send Mr. Pope to an asylum, he knows nothing.”

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Northgate went back to her work, her mouth curved up in a slight smile. “I must say I am surprised that the earl would send his son away. It seems to me that Mr. Nash Pope was always the earl’s favorite. Or perhaps his second favorite, after his heir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Haven’t you asked about the peacocks yet? I thought you would inquire about those right away.”

  The peacocks? Pru stopped her pacing and studied Mrs. Northgate. “I did ask about the peacocks, but Mr. Pope said he would tell me at another time. All I know is they were unveiled at the garden party and Mr. Pope won the shooting contest at the same party.”

  “Is that all?” Mrs. Northgate continued to sew.

  Pru took her seat again. “What else is there to know?”

  “You are asking the wrong person. But I suspect once you find out the story of those peacocks, you will understand the earl far better. He is a man of vanity, a man who cares a great deal for appearances.”

  “I don’t want to understand him,” Pru said. “I want to throttle him.”

  Mrs. Northgate sighed. “The passions of youth,” she murmured. “I am too old for this. Be off. Come back when you can think straight and sew straighter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pru jumped up and started for the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Only if your head is clear!”

  Pru all but ran down the stairs, eliciting a contemptuous look from Miss Northgate and Miss Mary, who just happened to be in the vestibule. “Look at that,” Miss Northgate said under her breath, but loudly enough to be heard perfectly. “Not only does she look like a horse, she sounds like one too.”

  The girls giggled and Mrs. Northgate, their mother, stepped out of the parlor and into the foyer. She gave Pru a passing glance and then turned up her nose. “Into the parlor, girls. No need to waste your time out here.”

  Pru understood the inference. She was a waste of time. She shouldn’t allow it to hurt her. They had said and done worse things in the few months she’d been here, but she was already upset about the asylum threat and feeling particularly vulnerable. She told herself to keep quiet and ignore the barbs, but she’d had all she could stomach of misery for a day.

  “By all means,” Pru said, startling all three ladies. They turned to look at her. “Go waste your time in the parlor. I am sure you need to practice sneering and sniping until you have it just right.”

  Mrs. Northgate’s face went red. “You,” she said, pointing a long finger at Pru. “I would ask you to leave my home immediately.”

  “Gladly,” Pru said. “I have never felt so unwelcome.” Head high, she walked to the door, took her shabby coat from the servant standing there, and marched out the door. Just as she stepped outside, the younger Mrs. Northgate said, “And don’t think the vicar will not hear of this.”

  Pru stumbled. She turned back to say—she knew not what—and the door closed in her face. Pru sighed. She feared she was in for another lecture. Fortunately, even if the younger Mrs. Northgate marched to the vicarage right that moment, she would not be able to speak with Mr. Higginbotham. He was visiting a sick parishioner. Pru went home anyway to collect Mrs. Blimkin. The housekeeper insisted on dusting shelves she had dusted just yesterday before they could leave, but then they were in Mr. Langford’s dog cart and soon on the drive to Wentmore.

  Most of the workmen were in the rear of the house, completing repairs to the kitchens, but she spotted one or two on ladders patching the roof. Stationed at the side of the house, Mr. George Northgate waved at her. He was standing beside his cart, which was full of apples and cider. Any other time, Pru would have found all of the activity fascinating and would have wanted to take a closer look at what was being done. She had always been interested in building things. In Rome she had marveled at the Coliseum, trying to imagine it filled with people and the ancient Romans as they built it. In Cairo, she had gone with her parents to see the pyramids. She had asked far too many questions about how they were built. Finally, her mother had told her to try and act like a young lady.

  Today Pru couldn’t have cared less about the scaffolding around Wentmore. She only cared about its occupant. Was Mr. Pope inside, waiting for her? Was he planning to kiss her again?

  She should not allow him to kiss her. She should not want him to kiss her. She should not kiss him back. Her parents and the vicar would have told her all of these things. But Pru failed to see the harm in it. And perhaps a few more kisses, more human interaction, would do Mr. Pope good. He had been secluded for so long, and if his father had his way, Mr. Pope would be secluded in an asylum forever.

  They waved at the workmen as they went to the back of the house and left the horse and cart with a groom. Pru wondered where the groom had come from as she did not remember there being a groom yesterday.

  Inside the house, the echoes of the work being done reverberated. Mrs. Brown was not in the servants’ dining room, and Mrs. Blimkin shooed Pru out so she could begin what she called “dinner preparations.”

  Pru went upstairs and found Mrs. Brown directing two young men to move furniture in the parlor. Pru blinked in surprise when she saw the room. The curtains were open and the yellow light of the autumn day streamed in. The furniture’s style was outdated, but except for a few broken pieces, it was in good condition. Mrs. Brown was directing the men to move those pieces out.

  “Mrs. Brown!” Pru greeted her with a wave.

  Mrs. Brown beamed. “What do you think?” She waved at the room.

  “It looks so much lighter and airier. Is that a word? Airier? I had no idea it could look like this here.”

  Mrs. Brown’s chest all but puffed up. “This was how it looked when I was about your age. Lady Beaufort always kept the house in perfect order. Now that Clopdon has hired these two footmen, we can restore it to some semblance of what it was.”

  “Footmen?” One of the knots of concern in Pru’s belly loosened. Mr. Pope now had a valet, a groom, and footmen. Surely that was a good sign. Would it be enough to persuade his father that he did not belong in an asylum?

  Pru would make sure of it.

  She pointed to a couch the two footmen were lifting and carrying out. “What is wrong with that couch? It looks in good condition.”

  “Blood stains,” Mrs. Brown whispered.

  “I suppose the blood wouldn’t come out,” came a voice from behind her. Pru and Mrs. Brown turned around. Pru jumped at the sight of Mr. Pope. She had not even heard him approach, not surprising considering the pounding.

  “Good day, sir,” Mrs. Brown said.

  “Mr. Pope,” Pru said, not able to keep a smile from her face. “You look well.”

  And he did. He was dressed in a dark coat and trousers with a deep green waistcoat and a simple neckcloth. His hair, as usual, fell over his forehead and covered his damaged eye. But he had more color in his face and it looked fuller. Gone was the gaunt man she had first met in the informal gardens. This man was still thin, but he was beginning to look healthy and well.

  “My head is pounding along with the hammering,” he said. “I believe you promised me a walk out of doors today, and if that glare from across the room is any indication, the weather is fine.”

  “It is indeed,” she said. “Mrs. Brown, would you tell Mrs. Blimkin Mr. Pope and I will have our lesson out of doors today? We shall return in about an hour.”

  “Of course, Miss Howard.”

  She put her arm through Mr. Pope’s, guiding him into the foyer and through the front door. “Why is there blood on the couch?” she asked.

  “Slight error in judgment,” he replied. She saw his hand go to his pocket, the same pocket where he kept his pistol.

  “Do you always carry your pistol with you?” she asked as they stepped onto the lawn. She paused, not certain which way he would wan
t to go. She knew where she would like to walk—the informal gardens. She had missed them these past days.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a comfort.”

  “Not to anyone you point it at, but at least you are doing that less often. Do you have a preference for where we walk?”

  “You choose,” he said.

  “The informal gardens?”

  “Lead the way. I can see even less than usual in the sunlight.”

  She did lead the way, and when they were far enough away from the house that the hammering faded and the sunlight was muted by the damp cool of the shadows under the trees, Pru paused and looked at Mr. Pope. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific, Miss Howard.”

  “Pru, remember? And why didn’t you tell me about the asylum?”

  His face, which she had noted he was already quite good at keeping expressionless, went quite blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It’s no use lying,” Pru said. She tugged at his arm, leading him to a large log where they could sit. It had obviously been placed in just this spot for just this reason. It was set firmly in the earth and overlooked a small ravine that led down to the brook. If they kept along the path, they would descend gradually, but at this spot, the drop was steeper. “Mrs. Brown told me.”

  “Mrs. Brown should keep her mouth shut.”

  Pru sat and pulled him down beside her. “She only wants to help you. All of us want to help you. I don’t understand why you won’t take help when it’s offered.”

  “Because I’m not helpless!” he roared, jumping to his feet. Pru grabbed his wrist, afraid he might step too close to the edge of the ravine. He shook her off. “I’m not a child who needs his hand held and his face wiped after eating. I’m a grown man.”

  “And an independent one. You would hate it in an asylum.”

  He went still and his body became rigid. “I won’t be going to any asylum,” he said, voice low.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “We’ll make sure everything is perfect for your father’s visit. When is he to arrive?”

  “I’ve no idea. I doubt he’ll send word, and it won’t matter anyway. I won’t go to the asylum. I’ll die first.” His hand strayed to his coat pocket, and she could see him handling the pistol inside.

  “Mr. Pope, no.”

  “I probably should have done it a long time ago,” he said quietly, sinking to the place on the log beside her. “What do I have to live for anyway?”

  “What do you have to live for? Everything! Why, you have cool autumn days to live for and the sun on your face in the morning, the chirping of insects in the cool of the evening, and the feel of rain wetting your hair. You have plum puddings and apple tarts and mulled wine at Christmas. You have music and poetry and, one day I am sure, a wife and children.”

  Though he didn’t look right at her, his expression was one of disbelief. “None of that seems to matter when I can’t see the colors of the leaves or the first rays of dawn.”

  “Now you are merely feeling sorry for yourself.” She gave him a light punch.

  “I think I am allowed to feel sorry for myself,” he said.

  “Yes, you were. I would have allowed you probably two weeks to feel sorry for yourself after your injury.”

  “Two weeks!”

  “Perhaps three,” she admitted. “But this injury is two years old at least. It’s well past time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself and appreciated what you do have. No, you do not have your sight, but look at everything else you do have. The rest of you seems in fine working order, and you have a country house and an informal garden and a peacock.” She grasped his arm tightly.

  “Not the peacock again,” he muttered.

  “Be very quiet and still,” she whispered, still clutching his arm. “I see him.”

  “Who?”

  “The peacock.”

  “Where?”

  “He is at the bottom of the ravine, near the brook. He’s probably getting some water or perhaps looking for insects to eat. Shall I describe him to you?”

  “If you like.”

  “I can see now that he is an old fellow. The bright blue of his face and neck is turning white. His feathers are not as grand as they once were. Some of his feathers are broken and drooping. Even laying across his back, I can see they are not as fine as they once were. He’s lost some of his former grandeur but none of his pride. He still moves as delicately and haughtily as he probably did in his youth.”

  “I can relate,” Mr. Pope said under his breath.

  Pru released his arm. “No, you can’t. You are still in the prime of your life, and if you don’t mind me saying so, your feathers are not broken or drooping.”

  He laughed, the sound quiet but unmistakable. “Is feathers supposed to symbolize a part of male anatomy?”

  “No. That was not at all what I meant.” Pru could feel her face heating. How did she manage to find herself in these situations? “I only meant you are still a handsome man. But I told you that last night.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of which, we should begin where we left off, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Good. Then we were discussing the third line of Monsieur Barbier’s chart, were we not?”

  “Actually,” he said, turning toward her. “We were doing this.” He reached for her, his hand finding her waist, and pulled her close.

  Twelve

  He thought she might hesitate or argue when he touched her, but she went willingly, almost—if he was not mistaken—eagerly into his embrace. He’d been wanting to do this since the moment they’d been parted the night before. She felt so good pressed against him. Her body might be reed slim, but it held an unmistakable strength. She would not buckle or bend easily. She could withstand storms.

  The flare of her hip, just below her waist, where his hand strayed was not generous. There was no question she was a woman, with a woman’s curves, but her charms were not easily apparent. She was like a treasure to be explored and discovered.

  He’d begun that journey with a kiss the night before, and the lure of her now was too much to resist. He wanted to taste her again, feel the way her body melted into his.

  Her mouth brushed against his, and he couldn’t stop the smile.

  “You’re smiling again,” she murmured. “It makes me nervous.”

  He leaned close until he inhaled her scent. The smells of pine and oak, moss, and late-blooming flowers permeated the air, but underneath all of them was Pru Howard. He would know that scent anywhere. “You think I have a diabolical plan?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “I smiled because you seemed impatient for me to kiss you.” He found the curve of her neck and nuzzled it lightly. Her hands, which he’d barely felt under the wool of his coat, gripped his shoulders tightly.

  “A lady would never admit to being impatient for such a thing,” she said, shivering when he pressed a light kiss to a spot just below her ear.

  “No, she would not,” he murmured against her skin.

  “Thank God I am not a lady.” She turned her head, and his lips met hers. The kiss was hot and deep and not at all what he’d been expecting. His body reacted immediately to the heat that flared between them as their lips tangled, their mouths seeking and finding and seeking again.

  She was the first to flick a tongue out and taste him, but he was the one who cupped the nape of her neck and twined his tongue with hers. She stepped back and then back again. He followed, and a moment later, he felt her bump up against a tree. He put his hands out, the rough bark behind her anchoring him. He needed the stability as his head spun and his entire body was screaming for release.

  They broke apart, and she leaned forward and kissed the spot just above his cravat and to the left of his jaw. She was tall enough that she had easy access, and he allowed the exploration, even as his body burned hotter. When she r
eached his ear, she took his lobe in her mouth and bit him lightly. A flash of savage desire ripped through him, and his hands fisted on the tree bark as he fought to gain control.

  “Where the hell did you learn that?” he asked, gritting his teeth to maintain composure.

  “You didn’t like it?” she asked, but her voice was not full of concern. She knew he’d liked it. In fact, she leaned forward and swirled her tongue over the spot aching from her love bite.

  “I thought you were the daughter of missionaries,” he said, sliding his hands over her hips and then up her ribs, pausing just below her breasts.

  She sighed. “I’m afraid I’m something of a disappointment to them. There’s a reason they left me behind in Milcroft.”

  “Thank God they did,” he said, finding her lips again with his own and kissing her until they were both breathless. “I want you,” he said when they parted.

  “I can feel that.” She shifted her hips slightly, and he knew she felt his erection against her belly. “But you sound surprised.”

  “Because I didn’t think I could feel like this,” he admitted. “I hadn’t felt anything but numbness in so very long.”

  “You just needed a good shake,” she said. “That and people around who care about you.”

  She was right. He’d thought secluding himself while he licked his wounds would give him time to recover and heal, but it had only made him feel more isolated and alone. He’d withdrawn further, his injuries multiplying. It was only now, when he’d been forced out into the world and forced to confront the things he disliked—loud noises and people about him he could not see or predict—that he was beginning to reclaim parts of the man he’d been.

  “Do you intend to move your hands higher?” she asked. “Or are you just teasing me?”

  He realized his hands were still paused just beneath her breasts, his fingers resting on the fabric covering her delicate rib cage. He could feel the light stays she wore, feel the way her breaths came in and out at a rapid pace. “May I?” he asked.

  She shook her head and he felt her blow out a breath. “Such a gentleman,” she said in a tone that indicated it was not a compliment. “In all the ways I don’t want you to be. You ask permission to touch me, and yet you have no qualms about pointing a pistol at someone.”