Can a runaway English bride find love with a haunted Irish rebel?
Paris Burke, Dublin’s most charismatic barrister, has enough on his mind without the worries of looking after his two youngest sisters. The aftermath of a failed rebellion weighs on his conscience, so when the young English gentlewoman with an unwavering gaze arrives, he asks far too few questions before hiring her on as governess. But her quick wit and mysterious past prove an unexpected temptation.
Rosamund Gorse knows she should not have let Mr. Burke think her the candidate from the employment bureau. But after her midnight escape from a brother bent on marrying her off to a scoundrel, honesty is a luxury she can no longer afford. With his clever mind and persuasive skill, Paris could soon have her spilling her secrets freely just to lift the sorrow from his face. And if words won’t work, perhaps kisses would be better?
Hiding under her brother’s nose, Rosamund knows she shouldn’t take risks. If Paris learns the truth, she might lose her freedom for good. But if she can learn to trust him with her heart, she might discover just the champion she desires…
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Teaser Chapter
About the Author
The Lady’s Deception
A Rogues & Rebels Novel
Susanna Craig
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2019 by Susan Kroeg
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First Electronic Edition: November 2019
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0404-8
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0404-8
First Print Edition: November 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0405-5
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0405-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To the teachers
who inspire us, challenge us, and sacrifice for us.
And to my students,
who push me to be the best teacher I can be.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to those who make my life, and this book in particular, better, especially Jill Marsal, Esi Sogah, the Kensington team, the lovely ladies of The Drawing Room group, librarian extraordinaire Trenia Napier, Anne, Amy, my mom, my amazing husband, my wildly creative daughter, and of course, my readers.
Chapter 1
The ghost was the last straw.
Lord Dashfort’s two children, still grieving the loss of their mother, had been most unwelcoming. An orphan herself, Rosamund had tried to be understanding. She’d ignored the items that had disappeared from her trunk. Shrugged away a grimace when salt had been substituted for sugar in her tea. Swallowed her shriek of surprise when she’d found the half-dozen muddy toads in her bed—accompanied by an equally muddy set of child-sized footprints leading to and from her bedchamber.
But the spectral figure of a child drifting across the south lawn of Kilready Castle went well beyond the realm of an ordinary prank.
Within hours of her arrival at Kilready, Rosamund had begun to hear bits and pieces of the tragic story, whispered through the castle corridors in a brogue almost unintelligible to her English ear: servants’ tales of the tragic loss of Lord Dashfort’s first son, brought into the world too soon. As soon as she’d been able to travel, Lady Dashfort had left for London, declaring she meant never to return to her husband’s Irish estate. The grief-stricken earl had followed her. The servants swore he’d been driven away by the ghostly sounds of babbling in an empty nursery. In the years that had followed, the legend had grown with the lost child. Unexplained footsteps in an abandoned schoolroom, books knocked askew by an unknown hand. And now the shadowy form of a boy who walked the castle grounds on moonlit nights.
Rosamund had been accused of imagining things so often, she was inclined to doubt the proof of her own eyes. But she felt certain she was not imagining this. Not that she believed in ghosts. No, her first reaction to the sight was more disappointment than fear. She liked children. She might have bonded with Alexander and Eugenia over their shared experience of loss. Instead, the two of them had plotted and planned to give her a fright.
In the evenings, after she’d readied for bed, Rosamund often sat by the large window in her chamber, studying the choppy water of the Irish Sea. Now and again, she fancied she caught a glimpse of the neighboring island and wondered how things got on at home. The children had obviously discovered her habit.
As if expecting to find her at the window, a boy who could only be Alexander paused in his progress and looked up, his pointed face unearthly pale. An effect of the moonlight, which bathed everything it touched in pearly luminescence. Still, she shivered and clutched her shawl closer—afraid not of a specter, but of the steep cliff that lay just beyond the scrub into which the boy was now disappearing. How easily he might lose his footing and tumble into the sea. With a soft yelp of alarm, she leaped to her feet and hurried out of her room.
The stairwell, aglow with that same strange light, sent another chill through her. She refused to allow her eyes to dart into corners or to examine the oddly-shaped shadows that stretched up the walls. Her hurried footsteps whispered across the flagstones, and in a few moments she was standing on the threshold of the nursery.
Two child-sized lumps filled two child-sized beds, and in the corner their nurse nodded over some sewing. Sparing nothing more than a frown for the woman’s inattention, Rosamund stepped to the bed on the left-hand side of the room.
“Eugenia.” A whisper, but only just, and harsh with fear. “Eugenia.” A shake this time, and at last the lump stirred. “What can you and your brother have been thinking? Where is he now?”
“Xander?” Eugenia mumbled in a fair imitation of drowsiness. Tousled brown
curls made an appearance from beneath the bedclothes, followed by a pair of eyes puffy with sleep. Still, Rosamund was not convinced of either the girl’s ignorance of her brother’s whereabouts or her innocence in this scheme. Though she was only just seven, she was unquestionably the leader of the pair, considerably more hardened than her soft hair and lisping voice suggested. Alexander—diffident, quiet, and hardly taller than his sister—was far too squeamish to catch toads. She could only guess what coercions had been required to convince him to take a midnight stroll across the lawn.
“What is it, Miss Gorse? Is Xenia ill?”
The sound of Alexander’s muffled voice, coming from the neighboring bed, nearly sent Rosamund to the floor.
After a few ineffectual swats, the boy managed to paw the blankets away from his face and sat up, his blond hair sticking out at all angles and his rumpled nightshirt clinging to his slight frame. Unless he had developed the powers of flight, he could not have made it to the nursery ahead of her, changed into his nightclothes, and climbed into bed. Yet there he sat.
Rosamund could not keep herself from reaching out to reassure herself he was not a specter, excusing the action by brushing the hair from his pale, pinched brow.
If Alexander was in the nursery, who—or what—had she seen on the lawn?
Had she perhaps dreamed the whole thing, dozed for a moment and fallen into a nightmare fueled by the ghoulish gossip of the castle’s servants? Her brother was always chiding her flights of fancy.
Or had the boy been a villager, bent on poaching or stealing? There seemed to be any number of desperate people in the vicinity of Kilready, and midnight was an hour for mischief. Perhaps she ought to tell someone what she’d seen. But who would believe her? And if by chance someone did, well… Justice would not be served by sending a poor child either to the noose or to New South Wales.
“Why, Miss Gorse.”
Lord Dashfort’s voice made her jerk as if struck. She turned to find him standing in the doorway of the nursery, her shawl gathered in his hands. Reflexively, she felt for it around her shoulders. When had it slipped away?
“How kind of you to come up to wish the children good night,” he said, his eyes traveling over her lightly-clad form.
“What’s this? What’s this?” The nurse bustled toward them, shaking off sleep more quickly than the children. “Who’s feelin’ poorly?”
“No one,” Rosamund said. “No one. I came because—” With a little shake, she broke off. How could she possibly explain why she’d come? What she’d seen? Or thought she had…
“Why are you here, Father?” Alexander demanded.
Lord Dashfort’s chuckle did not disguise his annoyance. “You must be half asleep, my boy. Don’t I always come and wish you and your sister good night?”
The surprised faces of both the nurse and the children persuaded Rosamund that the answer was no.
Nevertheless, Lord Dashfort approached. In a strikingly awkward economy of affection, the earl patted his son on the head with his free hand, at the same time leaning toward his daughter for a kiss. Eugenia squirmed away, her eyes still fixed on Rosamund. “Are you quite well, Miss Gorse?” she said. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
“I daresay she’s simply cold.” Lord Dashfort straightened and turned, unfolding Rosamund’s shawl as he spoke. Under pretense of assisting her with it, his arm came around her shoulders and did not leave. “Come, Miss Gorse. Let me escort you back to your chamber. It’s easy enough to lose one’s way in this old pile, especially after dark.” He paid little heed to his children’s murmured “good nights” or the nurse’s curtsy as he steered Rosamund from the room.
Several times as they walked along, she shrugged, trying and failing to dislodge his arm. “Why, you’re shivering, my dear Miss Gorse. I hope you haven’t taken a chill.”
“I’m fine,” Rosamund insisted. Or rather, tried to insist. Even to her own ears, her voice lacked all conviction.
“And Eugenia was right. You are pale. Though,” he added wryly, “one wishes she had chosen some other simile.”
“Yes.” Rosamund hesitated. “Although, in truth, I did see something—”
“Have my children been repeating the servants’ ridiculous stories to you?” His accompanying sigh was deep, and his shoulders must have sunk with it. His arm grew heavier still. “Clearly, they need a steadying hand, the influence of a sensible woman.” He paused and gazed down at her. “Poor motherless things…”
They had reached the corridor in which her chamber was located. “I wish you good luck in finding such a woman, my lord. I do believe this place could turn the soberest mind.” Her words appeared to take him aback, giving her another opportunity to make a bid for freedom. “I will say good night.”
His grip on her shoulders tightened. “So soon?”
“It’s very late.”
His other arm came around her, caging her between his body and the wall. Her shawl was no barrier to the chill of the stones against her back. Instinctively, her hand rose to his chest and she tried to push him away.
“Come now, Miss Gorse. Surely you will not deny your future husband a good night kiss?”
He had stopped beneath an unlit sconce, casting his expression in shadow. But he must be teasing her. Future husband? Much as she might long for a family, marriage to Lord Dashfort was the furthest thing from her mind. Why, the earl was her brother’s old school chum, more than twice her age. Worse yet, he—
In the near darkness, his hot, moist mouth grazed her cheek, bringing with it the stench of brandy and mushroom ragout and making her stomach churn. Twisting sharply, she winced as the rough stone snagged her shawl and dug into her skin. “Lord Dashfort, unhand me this instant!”
He relented, but not because of her words. Farther down the corridor, a discreet, masculine cough had broken the stillness.
“Charles,” she gasped, slipping away from a stunned Lord Dashfort and hurrying toward her brother.
Her brother regarded her coolly, arms crossed over his chest. “You should be in bed, Rosie.”
Arrested in her flight, she rocked back on her heels, thinking of Alexander and Eugenia’s pet names for one another. She was only ever Rosie when Charles was unhappy with her. Which was most of the time.
“Yes, Charles.” With a backward glance at Lord Dashfort, she slipped into her room.
Hardly had the door closed behind her when Charles spoke.
“I am appalled, Dashfort.”
For just a moment, foolish hope sparked within her. Of course her brother would defend her honor. Only…only instead of reprimanding Lord Dashfort’s shocking conduct, Charles sounded…bored?
“Setterby.” Lord Dashfort’s voice was little more than a growl. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought that the earl and her brother were enemies, rather than friends. “It was your suggestion that I begin to accustom her to the idea of our marriage.”
“Yes,” said Charles, and the tiny flicker of hope in her breast sputtered. The earl had not been teasing her, after all. No wonder he’d been so inordinately attentive to her during their visit. No wonder the children had been on their worst behavior. They resented their father’s plan to remarry. They were doing all they could to prevent their mother’s place from being usurped.
How naïve she’d been.
“But I have no intention of allowing you to anticipate the wedding night,” continued her brother, chiding.
It was not difficult to imagine herself trapped in the unwelcome embrace of an old—well, almost old—man with foul breath and clammy hands and one wife already in the grave. Her shudder rattled the door against which she leaned.
Undisturbed by the sound, her brother continued speaking. “At least, not until I have the money in hand…”
The chill in his voice snuffed the last embers of hope. Money? Had she gone bac
k in time when she’d crossed beneath the portcullis of Kilready Castle? Returned to some feudal age? It seemed Charles had done more than arrange what he imagined to be an advantageous match on behalf of his sister. It sounded for all the world as if her brother were trying to sell her!
Of course, he was forever bemoaning the state of the family finances. But how on earth had he persuaded anyone to pay for the privilege of wedding her?
And what might the earl expect of her in exchange?
She quelled another shudder. Her brother did not like to be gainsaid, as she well knew. But this time she was going to have to put her foot down.
“We agreed on Lady Day,” Lord Dashfort was quick to remind him, forgetting to whisper. “I’ve spoken to Quin, my agent. The new rents will be more than enough to meet your price.”
“If your tenants come up to scratch,” Charles sneered.
“They haven’t much choice, have they?” Lord Dashfort’s voice was an odd mixture of anger, desperation, and…guilt?
“From what I’ve seen, they haven’t much of anything. Except, that is, for the wily Mr. Quin.”
“He’s none of your concern,” snapped the earl. “You’ll have your money on Monday, Setterby. And on Tuesday—”
“On Tuesday, Rosamund will be yours to deal with.” A low laugh. “However you see fit.”
Despite herself, she hissed in a sharp breath at his dismissive words. Everyone knew that the first Lady Dashfort had died under suspicious circumstances. She might be Charles’s mere half-sister, but didn’t he care at all for what became of her? Since their father’s will had named him her guardian, she had come to expect Charles’s indifference. But this?
Slowly she backed away from the door. The door with no lock to protect her. And if she didn’t act quickly, she might find herself a prisoner at Kilready Castle, with or without a lock.
Before the echo of Lord Dashfort’s footsteps had entirely faded away, she turned and walked to the armoire. With one finger, she riffled through the dresses hanging there: elegant silks, soft woolens. Time and again Charles had told her he only wanted what was best for her. Like this visit to an old friend in Ireland.
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