The Rogue Who Rescued Her

by Christi Caldwell

  “It is a nuisance,” he muttered. “How is a boy expected to slide past more than six panels when one has to watch for these little tables? And furthermore, how many more tables does a person need? He has…” As he counted, Frederick raced around the room. “One… two… three… four… fi—what would one call this?” he asked, stopping beside a hardwood, marble inset piece.

  “I believe it is a two-tiered stand,” a voice drawled from the doorway.

  She swung her gaze, finding the owner of that deep baritone, and her heart caught at the sight of him.

  “Mr. Malin!” Frederick called out and sprinted over.

  Chuckling, Graham caught her son to keep him from falling. “Graham,” he instructed. “You may call me Graham now.”

  “Graham… I was racing and…” As her son prattled on, Martha freely observed Graham.

  She’d resided in his household for four days, and in that time, despite his professions of love and a desire to be with her and near her, he’d stayed away. It was as she’d hoped and asked of him. And yet, when he’d complied, she’d been abjectly miserable… missing him.

  Until now. Now, Martha looked her fill.

  Everything about the man before her, attired in tan fall-front trousers and a tailcoat with black velvet trim and gold buttons, bespoke his wealth and level of influence. Even the midnight satin cravat loosely tied at his throat served as a reminder of the station divide between them.

  And oh, how she wished he’d just been the stable master. Because then mayhap they could have had a life together. But this? He as he was? And she as she was? They could never be.

  While Frederick continued talking, Graham looked over the top of the boy’s head and winked, before returning all his attention to the small child demanding his focus.

  All over again, she fell in love with him.

  Whatever her son was saying made Graham widen his eyes. “I understand there is a problem with my furniture, madam?” he called out.

  Feeling both pairs of eyes on her, Martha forced her features to reflect a calm she didn’t feel. “Oh, indeed,” she said with mock solemnity.

  “The excess tables?” he put forward. His voice boomed and echoed off the high ceiling. She peered up at the cherubs dancing overhead in an art display that belonged in a museum.

  “I was telling Mr.… Graham that he has too many of them.”

  “I believe the rule is five,” Martha supplied.

  “Is it?” Graham returned, capturing his chin in his hand in mock contemplation. “I was certain it was seven.”

  Martha inclined her head. “It was always five. However, even if it was seven, you’ve exceeded even that.”

  “The two-tiered stand,” he murmured.

  “Precisely.

  They shared a smile.

  Had she ever teased and been teased? Even as a girl? Except, Martha had never truly been just a girl. She’d been thrust into the role of replacement companion for her father, who’d happily and gladly passed on some of the essential roles of running their property to her early, early on.

  “I’ve a solution to the great plank-race dilemma. Follow me.” Not waiting to see if they accompanied him, Graham spun on his heel.

  Frederick instantly ran after him.

  Martha lingered a moment.

  I am weak around him… Nay, I am weak because of him…

  Every instant they were together, she was in greater peril. Reluctantly, she set off after them.

  She found Frederick and Graham waiting halfway down the hall. Arms clasped behind their backs, facing the left wall, they were a study in a matched pair.

  It touched her to the quick, that display of them speaking so companionably they might as well have been father and son.

  He’d entered her life on a lie and given her only falsehoods. As such, she shouldn’t trust him. But how could one so effortless with a child be one to fear?

  But then, mayhap that is why he poses such a danger to you.

  Resolved to keep her defenses up, Martha brought her shoulders back and started for the pair. She stopped just beyond Frederick’s shoulder and studied the painting that they now discussed.

  “His name was Whistlejacket,” Graham was saying of the chestnut memorialized upon the massive ten-foot canvas.

  “Was he yours?”

  “No. He belonged to the Marquess of Rockingham.”

  Frederick scratched at his nose. “He has a peculiar name. The horse, not the marquess.”

  “Whistlejacket was named after a cold remedy containing gin and treacle. He was magnificent. See the coloring…” Graham pointed to the canvas, moving his finger close, but not touching. “This flaxen mane and tail? Some believe they are the original coloring of the wild Arabian breed.”

  Frederick craned his head down, stretching his neck, to see the handful of paintings lining the hall. “They’re all horses. I should think a nobleman would have portraits of crusty lords and ladies about.”

  Nearly everything I told you, Martha, has been in truth. About my love of horses and my relationship with my father and my brothers.

  Just then, Graham looked up.

  Martha schooled her features and hurried the remaining steps to join them.

  “Mama, look. He has horse pictures.”

  “I see.”

  “That isn’t what I wished to show you,” Graham murmured, urging them on. He shortened his stride so Martha could keep pace.

  “What is it?” Frederick pressed.

  “You’ll see.”

  They turned at the end of the hall and continued on to the lone doors in the hall, a pair of white, double panels. Simultaneously pressing both gold handles, Graham drew them wide.

  Martha’s breath caught.

  “Oh, my stars in heaven,” Frederick whispered, echoing her wonderment.

  Six crystal chandeliers lined each end of the sweeping ballroom, Doric pillars strategically placed throughout to highlight the gilded archways inset with intricate floral paintings.

  Dumbfounded by the splendor, Martha wandered off. Her boots fell silent on the white marble floor, and she took in the majesty of it.

  She stopped at the center of the room. Tipping her head back, she gazed at the ceiling, painted in pale shades of blue interspersed with fluffy white clouds. A gold trellis, painted the whole perimeter of the mural, had been accentuated with flowers, the artist having created a masterful illusion of a summer’s sky. “It is…breathtaking.”

  “Oh, that is not even the best of it,” Graham called, his voice echoing.

  Glancing over, her brow furrowed in question, she widened her eyes.

  Propping his hip against one of the floor-to-ceiling columns, Graham wrestled off first one boot. He tossed it aside. Martha’s brows shot to her hairline as the next followed.

  Frederick giggled. “What are you—?”

  Graham was already sprinting forward, then gliding in his stockinged feet.

  A laugh burst from her as she watched the slippery path he raced. She covered her mouth to stifle the mirth, but it bubbled out and echoed around the ballroom.

  Frederick’s applause blended with her laughter. “That must have been… one… two… three… well, at least ten floorboards in the other room.”

  Graham cupped his hands around his mouth. “Have a try,” he encouraged, and while her son took time to get himself into a ready position, Graham looked to her.

  The intimate look stretched into her soul and stole her breath. The same glance they’d shared over the top of Frederick’s head, two people—nay, a man and woman—connecting with a shared love and regard for the little boy now rushing headlong toward Graham.

  Martha rested her back against another of the massive columns and watched the pair of them, first measuring each other’s sprints across the marble and then racing each other. Until time melted away, and there was just light and laughter and joy in this place… in her heart.

  Panting and breathless, Graham glanced over, and even with the
ten paces of marble flooring between them, she caught the boyish glint in his eyes, and she melted inside. “Never tell me you aren’t one for racing, Miss Donaldson?”

  “She’s not,” Frederick supplied before her. “She’s a dancer.”

  “Frederick,” she chided, her cheeks going hot.

  “A dancer?” Graham echoed, so much curiosity in that query that her blush burned all the more.

  “I’m not—”

  “Oh, yes.” Her son spoke over her. “She made us all learn to dance. Papa didn’t know how to, so I always had to partner the girls.” He stuck his tongue out in brotherly distaste.

  “You don’t like it?” Graham asked her son, giving Martha a brief look.

  “No.”

  “You do not know what you’re missing, then.” Graham started forward in his stockinged feet and then stopped in front of her.

  “What are you—?”

  Graham stretched his arms out, sketching a bow. “May I have the honor of this dance, Madam Donaldson?”

  She swatted at his sleeve. “You’re making light.”

  Graham staggered back, an indignant hand to his chest. “I’d never do something as presumptuous as to make light of dancing.” Placing his arms in a ready waltz position, he simply waited.

  He, Lord Sheldon Graham Malin Whitworth, ducal son, who’d had countless tutors and lessons and had likely been schooled by the finest French dancers.

  “If you are worried after your toes, I’ve had numerous lessons,” he shared. “My parents insisted upon it.”

  Of course they had. “That is… reassuring,” she drawled.

  More than that, he’d had the finest ladies as his dance partners. Graceful, delicate creatures who’d likely glided like swans and shared the same dance instructors as Graham. “I don’t really formally dance. I’ve not had any lessons.”

  He grinned. “They are overrated,” he said, not missing a beat. Graham waggled his fingers. “Well?”

  Glancing about, she made one more desperate bid. “There’s no music,” she protested. You want to take his hand, though. Before he’s gone from your life, you ache to know his arms about you as you waltz around this mythical ballroom.

  “I’ll sing,” Frederick piped in.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  “There you have it.”

  Martha emitted a little squeak as Graham caught her hand and tugged her along. “You’re incorrigible,” she said, faintly breathless… with laughter? Anticipation? Mayhap both.

  “I told you as much myself,” he said, guiding them to a stop in the middle of the dance floor. “See? Few lies. Very few of them.” Graham looked over to Frederick and snapped once.

  Her son cleared his throat and broke into a discordant rendition of “The Valiant Lady.”

  “It’s of a brisk young lively lad

  Came out of Gloucestershire,

  And all his full intention was

  To court a lady fair.

  Her eyes they shone like morning dew,

  Her hair was fair to see…”

  Graham spread his arms wide again. “Music,” he announced, a proud glimmer in his eyes.

  With a sigh, Martha place her fingertips on his sleeve. “I’m not very good, you know.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  He lowered his brow close to hers. “Then that is all that matters.”

  With that, he spun her around the ballroom, the crystals twinkling overhead like artificial starlight.

  Martha closed her eyes and let herself feel… him and this moment, turning herself over to all of it. They moved in graceful time, and she went where he led as he guided her back and right, moving her through the steps.

  Feeling his stare, Martha looked at him. “I forgot how much I missed dancing,” she whispered. She’d forgotten how much she’d missed simply the joy of living.

  He moved his lips close to her ear, and her body trembled. “May I tell a secret?” he tempted.

  “Y-yes.”

  “I lied.”

  Martha tried to follow his words through the daze cast by this moment, and then his admission penetrated. “What?”

  “To Frederick,” he clarified. “I never enjoyed dancing.” Graham swept her in a wide, looping circle. “Until now.”

  “Cried she ‘Since I have found him,

  And brought him safe to shore,

  Our days we’ll spend

  In old England,

  Never roam abroad no more!”

  Frederick’s song came to an end, and Graham continued twirling them through the empty ballroom, and then he stopped.

  They stood there, locked in each other’s arms still.

  Graham was the first to break away, and she ached at the loss of his embrace. Slow-clapping, he saluted Martha. “Your mother was being modest. She could teach any of the instructors I suffered through.” He turned the light applause on Frederick. “And you’re a fine performer. Splendid. Capable enough to replace any orchestra.”

  Frederick laughed. “Do you know what else my mother would enjoy?”

  “Frederick,” she chided, rushing over to her son.

  “Oh, fine,” he mumbled. He flashed a devil’s grin. “Do you know what I would enjoy? A visit to”—Martha pressed a palm over his mouth—“Hymph Parph.”

  She was shaking her head. “No, Gra—”

  “Splendid idea.”

  “It’s not,” she insisted. Releasing her son, she rushed back to Graham. “Lord Exeter indicated it was best that I remain indoors until… until…” She could not bring herself to say it.

  “Christmas is nearly here. Every last lord and lady of London has gone on to their country estates. The rogues and rakes and scoundrels who remain behind are all abed at this hour.”

  He spoke entirely too much as one who knew. “And I trust you speak from experience.”

  “Oh, out of an abundance of it.” Graham winked, setting loose a wave of flutters in her belly.

  “I said no.”

  “Mother!” Frederick cried.

  “You don’t want to?” Graham asked, his tones those of one who sought to understand.

  If she told him she didn’t wish to, he’d never force her. But it would also be a lie, and she the greatest hypocrite for expecting only truths from him. Martha caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It isn’t that.”

  “What is it, then?” he murmured, stroking his knuckles along her jaw.

  She shook her head. How to explain that she wanted that visit more than anything? But that she, as a mother, wasn’t permitted to allow her wants and desires to come first. That other people’s—her son’s and daughters’—well-being came first.

  “Mother?” Frederick asked haltingly.

  Graham sighed. “Very well.” At that easy capitulation, regret filled her. You are a contrary creature, Martha Donaldson. “We shall put it to a vote.”

  “A v-vote?” Martha sputtered. “That is preposterous.”

  “Those in favor of remaining behind?” he put forward. Martha shot her hand up. “And those all for going to visit Hyde Pa—” Frederick had his fingers in the air before Graham had finished the sentence. Graham added his. “It is decided.”

  A short while later, she, Graham, and Frederick were carriage-bound for Hyde Park.

  And being honest with herself, she conceded that she was so very glad to have lost.

  Chapter 21

  Graham had sneaked off many a Hyde Park riding path. As a young rake out of college, there’d been something wicked in meeting equally wicked ladies at those trysting spots. There, just beyond the view of respectable society’s eye, but near enough that it had lent a forbiddenness to the exchanges.

  Now, he used one of those paths for entirely different purposes… with a woman completely engrossed in something that was most certainly not him.

  Martha sat with her knees close to her chest and a sketch pad upon them in a makeshift desk. Her fingers flew
over the page with a once whole, now a nub of gray charcoal. Periodically, she glanced up from her work, looking at him and then out to where Frederick played in the snow, before resuming her sketch.

  “May I see it now?” he murmured.

  “Shh.” She lifted a silencing finger and then used her hand to balance the book once more. “Not yet.”

  The winter wind gusted over the river, battering at her hood and whipping at strand after strand of crimson curls. And not once did she stop, not even to so much as brush those tresses away.

  He’d never before witnessed someone so attuned to any task. As a man who’d found it a struggle to maintain focus in nearly every aspect of his life, he sat in awe of Martha’s ability to shut the whole world out and tunnel into just that page before her.

  Another wind stirred the branches around them; it set the corner of her page to flapping. Martha quickly caught it, pushing it back into place.

  She glanced up briefly and offered a distracted smile. It was a new smile from her that crinkled the corners of her eyes and dimpled both cheeks. Of a sudden, Graham wished he had a jot of her skill so he could capture her as she was in this instant.

  He returned that grin, but she’d already resumed sketching.

  “Graham!” Out of breath, Frederick came crashing through the narrow pathway that led into the remote sanctuary. “Is it frozen?” Martha’s boy motioned to the river. “Can I step on it? I want to walk the length.”

  With that, Frederick managed that which had previously appeared impossible. Martha quit attending her work. “It’s not safe.”

  “I walk across the one at home.”

  “Because it is five feet at the deepest, and we know when it is or is not frozen,” she said with finality.

  “I can check if it is safe.” Gathering up a handful of stones, Graham tossed one through the barren branches, testing the ice.

  “That’s h-hardly—” Martha’s protestations ended on a gasp as Graham came to his feet and started a slow, exploratory walk across the river. “Graham,” she called out, jumping up. “Come back here now.”

  Graham paused in his trek. She was worried about him. Doffing his hat, he executed a flawless bow. “Rest assured, I’m entirely too skilled in the art of ice skating to find myself injured.”