What a Reckless Rogue Needs

by Vicky Dreiling

  She mustn’t fall for his emotional appeal. God help her, she’d done it once before. It had ruined her life and wounded her family. She clutched her sketchbook to her chest as if it were some sort of shield. Why was she even having second thoughts about helping him?

  Apparently, I’m the only one who cares.

  The truth dawned on her. He’d been embarrassed to ask for her help. Because they had never gotten along, he’d probably figured she would turn him down.

  His mother was buried at Sommerall, and so he’d made himself ask, because he had no other choice. She knew more than a little about having few choices.

  He thought no one cared.

  She turned and ran after him. “Colin, wait!”

  He strode onward, but she pumped her legs faster. By the time she caught up to him, she was so winded she could hardly speak. “I-I’m s-sorry.”

  His nostrils flared. “I do not want your sympathy.”

  She knew how it felt to be the object of pity. When she finally caught her breath, she said, “Forgive me for my callous response. I do care for your sake. If you still wish it, I will assist you to the best of my ability.”

  “Why? You clearly are suspicious of me.”

  Something hot welled up inside her. She swallowed hard, knowing she’d treated him as if he were the man who had betrayed her. “I beg your pardon. My suspicions were unfounded.”

  She could feel him looking at her and hoped he would ask no questions, because she still couldn’t speak about the events that made her grieve for her former carefree life.

  “You are not obliged,” he said, his voice rumbling. “No doubt you would prefer to occupy your time with something else.”

  “Such as tea and embroidery?” she said with a huff.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “I suppose those are things ladies enjoy.”

  “It’s a dead bore if you want to know the truth.”

  He smiled a little. “Are you certain?”

  She met his gaze. “Yes, I’m certain.” She would much rather help him than stitch for hours, but that wasn’t the main reason. Regardless of what he’d done in the past, he deserved a second chance. God knew she’d give anything for one, but it was impossible.

  He flexed his gloved hands twice. “Thank you.”

  The gruff tone of his voice said far more than his words.

  While he did not return to the ancestral pile often, Colin knew his father’s habits well. The marquess adhered to the old adage that the early bird got the worm. Colin usually adhered to the mattress and pillow until the sun rose high in the sky. Nevertheless, he had requested Horace, his valet, to awaken him at the ungodly hour of six o’clock. Horace, being no more of a lark than his employer, grumbled as he shuffled into the room and opened the drapes. “God’s toenails,” Horace muttered as sunlight flooded the room.

  Colin groaned. “Go away, Horace.”

  “My lord, you requested that I awaken you for an early meeting.”

  “You are mistaken,” he mumbled as he flopped onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head.

  “No, my lord. You were quite clear last night that I should not allow you to go back to sleep.”

  “I rescind my order,” Colin muttered into the pillow.

  Horace hovered over him. “My lord, you said it was imperative that you meet your father early before church.”

  It was Sunday, the Lord’s day. Colin had forgotten. This was hardly a surprise, given that he had not set foot inside a church since his last visit home for Easter holiday. He knew if he did not catch his father early, he would have to wait until Monday. Colin did not want to delay. He must prove to his father that he was serious and worthy of the property.

  Grumbling under his breath, Colin condescended to allow his valet to shave and dress him for the day. Upon reaching his father’s study, Colin tapped the door lightly. “May I have a moment of your time?”

  The marquess signed a paper and glanced up from his spectacles. “I am not working.”

  Colin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is the Lord’s day. Margaret insists that the family rest on Sunday.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I am officially not working.”

  “Right. You are resting while sitting. It is a marvel your eyes are open.”

  The marquess narrowed his eyes. Then he signed a paper and set his pen aside. “Is this a special occasion?”

  Colin frowned, wondering if this was a trick question. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are up before noon.”

  “I am dressed for church.” So far, lightning hadn’t struck.

  The marquess broke the seal on another letter. “What is on your mind, besides Sommerall?”

  “I wish to inspect the interior of Sommerall House.”

  “Have you found a bride?”

  His father knew damned well he hadn’t, so he ignored that question. “I wish to make an inventory of all needed repairs. Angeline has offered her assistance since she has experience with renovations and architectural…stuff.” His ignorance was appalling. Thank God Angeline had agreed to help him.

  “Well, that is generous on her part,” the marquess said, “but I’m not altogether certain what you expect to gain from this expedition.”

  “I think you know,” Colin said.

  The marquess folded his hands on the desk. “Enlighten me.”

  “I wish to demonstrate to you that I’m concerned about the state of the property,” he said, “and I am willing to finance the majority of the repairs.”

  “But you’ve no idea of the cost,” his father said. “What if you do not have sufficient funds?”

  “If I find more capital is needed, we can discuss the possibility of a loan.”

  “We?”

  “Only in the event it becomes necessary,” Colin said. Desperation made him wild to agree to just about anything, except to marry on a whim.

  “You waste my time,” the marquess said.

  “Father, marriage is a sacred vow. It is not a step that a man should take lightly.”

  “I’m happy to hear you recognize the significance, but you’ve made no attempts to find a wife.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I will apply myself to the business of choosing a bride next spring during the London season.”

  “I’m not inclined to listen to promises you may or may not keep. The answer remains no.”

  He forced himself to stay calm. “I am more than willing to wait to occupy Sommerall until I wed, but meanwhile, I wish to see what needs to be done. Surely you cannot object.”

  “As a matter of fact, I can and I will,” the marquess said.

  “Give me three months to find a bride,” Colin said. It galled him to think of having to make such an important decision so quickly—a lifetime one at that—but he couldn’t let Sommerall pass out of his hands.

  The marquess drummed his fingers on his desk. “Have you requested your stepmother’s assistance to find a bride yet?”

  “No, but—”

  “You have not made any efforts to abide by my conditions for gaining the property. The answer is an unequivocal no.”

  Colin would not give up easily. “Very well, I will consult Margaret.” How she would find him a bride mystified Colin, but he had to make the effort.

  The marquess stared at him, his eyes piercing into Colin’s. Colin wanted to shift and look away, but he refused to let his father win.

  The clock chimed, and the marquess rose. “It is time for breakfast.”

  “Father, if you will give me a few more minutes, I will explain my long-term plans.”

  “I’ve made myself clear and have no intention of rescinding my decision.” The marquess rounded his desk. “Shall we repair to the dining room?”

  Colin thought about strangers trampling over his mother’s grave, and it made him ill. He had nothing to remember her by except a grave, one that ought to be revered. All these years, he’d taken for grant
ed that the property and his mother’s resting place would be there when he was ready to face them. He’d thought he had all the time in the world. Now he was in danger of losing what little he had of his mother.

  His hands fisted. There were things he needed to know, things that no one had ever spoken about since his mother’s death. He would not give up, no matter what, because she deserved more than to be forgotten. She deserved to be remembered.

  Colin made a point of walking alongside Angeline to church. His father had suggested they walk since the weather was clear. Colin slowed his pace so that he could speak to Angeline privately. “You will no doubt be delighted to know that my father refused,” he said.

  Angeline glanced at him. “Why?”

  “The same reason,” he said.

  “Do not give up,” she said. “We will think of some way to change his mind.”

  He wagged his brows. “You don’t happen to know any respectable single lady friends who might wish to wed me?”

  She’d not heard from any of her friends since her broken engagement, but she would not tell him that. “Do you think I would recommend a friend marry a notorious rake like you?”

  “Perhaps I could reform.”

  She snorted.

  Once they reached the church, both families filled the pews in the front, designated for the marquess, his family, and his illustrious friends. Colin would have preferred sitting in the last row of pews where he could close his eyes and nap through the sermon. Alas, he was out of luck and found himself jerking to attention after Angeline thrust her elbow into his side.

  He leaned closer to her and whispered, “I will exact revenge.”

  “You may try.” She regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I would not advise it if you wish me to assist you.”

  Why was his only hope of help coming from the shrew?

  After a nudging from the marchioness, the marquess invited Reverend Quimby and his wife to dine at Deerfield that evening. Colin escorted Angeline and sat between her and Mrs. Quimby. That lady continually tittered about her good fortune to be seated next to such a handsome gentleman as Lord Ravenshire. Angeline reminded herself not to roll her eyes, but it was difficult when Mrs. Quimby monopolized all of Colin’s attention. Meanwhile, Angeline was stuck making polite conversation with Reverend Quimby, who spoke at length and in minute detail about his plans for a spring garden. By the time the trifle arrived, Angeline was fighting the urge to yawn.

  At long last, the marchioness led the ladies to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoyed their port. Angeline smiled when Bianca persuaded Penny to play a duet with her on the pianoforte while Bernadette turned the pages.

  Mrs. Quimby approached with clasped hands. “Lady Angeline, we have yet to have a coze. Shall we repair to the window seat?”

  “Of course.”

  After they were seated, Angeline turned to Mrs. Quimby. “I understand you are new to the neighborhood. I assume Mr. Quimby came into the living recently.”

  “Yes, we have been here only three months,” she said. “We were in Hampshire previously. Mr. Quimby’s second cousin has a lovely property there. Are you acquainted with Baron Overton?”

  Clearly Mrs. Quimby wished to brag about her connections. “No, I am not,” Angeline said, tapping the toe of her slipper.

  “Harwell is a very fine property, indeed,” Mrs. Quimby continued. “In fact, I just had a letter from Lady Overton this week.”

  Now would be a good time to excuse herself, but when she attempted to speak, Mrs. Quimby interrupted her. “There is another property near Harwell, though not as grand. Do you know Woodham Hall?”

  “No, I do not.” The woman’s conversation was boring in the extreme.

  “A young man has inherited the property. Lady Overton said he is quite handsome or so I have heard. Oh, dear, his name is escaping me. How could I forget?”

  “There is no need to fret,” Angeline said. “I’m sure it will come to you.”

  The marchioness hurried to the window seat. “Angeline, will you play for us?”

  “Of course.” She would do anything to escape Mrs. Quimby’s dull conversation, but she must be polite. “Thank you for the coze, Mrs. Quimby.”

  As Angeline walked away, she looked at Margaret. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Mrs. Quimby means well, but she has a tendency to prattle,” Margaret said.

  Angeline thought that an understatement as she sat at the pianoforte. Tonight she was relaxed, and as a result, she made fewer mistakes. She’d never had the discipline to practice and had never concerned herself about it. Ladies were expected to have accomplishments such as playing, singing, sewing, and dancing. She’d never taken any of it seriously. Instead, she’d delighted her father by playing chess with him and discussing philosophy, but those days were over. Each time she thought of it, another little piece of her heart crumbled. She wished there were a way she could redeem herself, but she held little hope of that.

  At least in one respect, she’d proved her mother wrong. No amount of strict adherence to proper womanly behavior would ever land her a husband. Her mother would swoon for the first time in her life if she knew Angeline’s plans for the future, but a spinster existence was preferable to becoming dependent upon her parents or her brother and his wife. She could well imagine her family’s reaction, but it was her life. Eventually, they would reconcile themselves to her decision.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies, Angeline willingly abandoned the pianoforte. She grew a bit alarmed upon seeing Mrs. Quimby hurrying in her direction. Once again, Margaret intervened by inviting Mrs. Quimby to exhibit her musical skills. The reverend’s wife exclaimed at some length over the great compliment the marchioness had bestowed upon her by asking her to play. “Of course I will oblige and hope that my meager talent is satisfactory,” Mrs. Quimby said, her voice overly loud.

  Glad to be free of Mrs. Quimby, Angeline decided to join Colin. He was leaning against the sideboard, looking every inch the bored aristocrat, with snowy white cravat and brandy in hand. His tight trousers were molded to his thighs and other manly attributes no lady should ever notice—or admit to noticing.

  Angeline noticed. Heaven above.

  She had better direct her eyes elsewhere. “Why are you looking so glum?” she said.

  “You will find far more congenial company than me this evening.”

  He meant to warn her off, but she wanted to know what had transpired when he’d spoken to his father.

  Colin poured another brandy and gulped it down.

  Angeline wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t brandy meant to be savored?”

  “So is a victory, but alas, I am defeated.”

  She stepped closer. “Your father refused?”

  “How very perceptive of you.” He set the glass aside.

  “He still insists you marry.”

  “Yes. However, I met with Margaret. She agreed to speak to my father, but I am far from encouraged.”

  “You mustn’t give up,” she said. “He will capitulate after Margaret tells him to be sensible.”

  “Perhaps you’re correct. I am not, however, holding my breath.”

  “Did your father disapprove of my involvement?”

  “No, he thought it generous of you, but he dismissed my offer to check out the interior of the house. Unless Margaret can persuade him, I’m doomed to lose Sommerall.”

  “I think Margaret will turn the tide,” Angeline said. “For what it is worth, I am anxious as well to get started. I need a real occupation for a change.”

  He smiled a little. “As opposed to your feigned ones?”

  “I have never been content to bask in quiet contemplation while busying myself with a needle. To be honest, I am going mad after only a few days.”

  “You prefer to walk and be active,” he said.

  She preferred to use the brain in her head. “It is the one time I am unconstrained by society’s expectations of females.”

  “When have yo
u ever followed rules, Angeline?”

  Her face burned. “Excuse me.”

  He caught her arm. “It was meant as a compliment. You are unconventional, and a rarity among women because of it.”

  “You cannot be unaware of what that cost me.”

  He closed the distance between them. “I have every confidence you can rise above it,” he said under his breath.

  A complimentary sentiment, but it would change nothing.

  When he searched her face, she was drawn to his golden brown eyes and felt the pull of his will. She wet her dry lips and only succeeded in drawing his gaze to her mouth. The music and the voices in the drawing room receded. She felt as if he were mesmerizing her. When his thick black lashes lowered to her breasts, she felt as if he’d managed to touch her with his gaze. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she felt breathless.

  This was madness. She was caught up in a rake’s seductive game in a drawing room where both of their families and the local vicar all sat in plain view. She had to break this spell he’d cast over her. God help her, she could not afford this madness, and yet, when he took her arm, she acquiesced because something inside of her yearned to be closer to him, to let the masculine scents of sandalwood and something unique to him envelope her. In that moment, she had more than an inkling of what she would be giving up if she chose independence. But she knew it would be highly unlikely she would have a choice. She would revel in this stolen moment and allow herself the pleasure of Colin’s escort.

  He led her to the window seat and lowered his head. “Unless something changes in the next few days, I’ll likely depart.”

  “Why?” she said.

  He shook his head. “I can’t bear to stay and watch my father sell Sommerall. It’s better if I go before matters erupt. I have my faults, Angeline, but I won’t make a scene or disrupt the house party. I never should have come in the first place.” He blew out his breath. “I knew it would come to this, but I held out hope anyway.”

  “No,” she said under her breath. “You mustn’t give up.”