by Eva Devon
Rogue
Be
a
Lady
A Must Love Rogues
Book 6
Eva Devon
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Rogue Be a Lady
Copyright © 2018 by Máire Creegan
All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
For my darling boys. You are the light in the world.
Special thanks to:
Tracy, Scott, Patricia, and Judy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Other Books by Eva Devon
Chapter 1
Miss Emmaline Trent was that thing which all well-born, unmarried ladies strove to avoid at all possible costs. Now, to her credit, she had done all the required things of a good young lady. She had drunk watered ratafia, was never alone with a gentleman with the door closed and, certainly, she had never done anything which would get herself cast out of the good graces of the ton. Yes, Emmaline had followed every rule and expectation set out for her. With a fortune larger than any daughter of a duke, her future had surely been set.
But through actions completely beyond Emmaline’s knowledge or power, she had become. . . Notorious. And Emmaline, unlike most ladies cast into the fiery pits of disgrace, absolutely loved it. There was little question that the immense wealth she had inherited, wealth which might run certain small countries, certainly did not hinder her regard for her ill-gotten status. So many ruined young ladies were forced into pokey cottages or became imprisoned by upper class pimps. Not, Emmaline. For she was a woman of independent thought and means. Two facts which made it quite possible to laugh up her sleeve at the cream of society that had so eagerly thrown her out like a bit of rubbish when scandal’s brush had touched her.
Quite wrongly, as it happened. But even though she had been most horribly slandered, there had been no going back. It mattered not that the Duke of Huntsdown, her formerly intended’s eldest brother, published a full retraction of the nefarious accusations. She’d remained diminished by the event.
So, with a little timely encouragement from far more experienced friends, she had decided since she was in for a penny she might as well go entirely in for a pound. And had she ever.
Emmaline’s name had become legend in the salons of Paris where they had reveled in the tarnished English Rose who refused to wilt as most flowers would.
She’d quickly learned she had a flair for masking and theatrics, something which she never would have known had she remained a good young miss on England’s rainy shore.
Private performances of Shakespeare and Molière had thrilled her and her audiences to bits.
So, it was after achieving a strange sort of goddess-like status, she had decided to return to the shores of her birth and show how little the disdain of the ton meant to her.
Now, she turned slowly on the spot at the center of an elaborate theater just off Covent Garden. Her heart fairly hummed as she took in the gold-painted balconies and the red velvet orchestra seats. It was a decadent building, like a courtesan who knew her worth and wasn’t afraid to add a little color to her cheeks.
A massive chandelier dangled overhead, its crystals winking in the candlelight. It descended from the center of a colorful painting of the seasons and astrological symbols.
Gold scrawled over the silk-embroidered walls, and the great, red velvet curtain had been pulled back to reveal the backstage and its bones.
It was marvelous. She wanted it. And she was going to buy it. Here, she would do magnificent things. Things that gave her joy. Far more joy than drinking weak ratafia whilst speaking to geriatric inbreds at Almack’s.
There was just one thing that gave her pause in all this decadent glory. It was next to a club as notorious as she. A club owned by a man she loathed from the top of her curled coiffure to the tips of her embroidered slippers. A man who had jilted her right in front of the priest with a few choice words she could barely force herself to recall without shivering.
Lord Edward Hart was a bastard in action if not by birth, and it was tempting to avoid him entirely. But that was the sort of thing the old Emmaline would have done. The new Emmaline had very different ideas about how to proceed and none of them included behaving as a lady should.
She took a step towards the actress, Mrs. Barton, a magnificently beautiful woman who had befriended her in arguably the darkest time of her young life. “Shall we do Shakespeare first?”
Mrs. Barton’s rouged lips curved. “Oh, yes. You shall take it?”
Emmaline swept her gaze around the sumptuous building that seemed to whisper with promises of future stories. “Oh, yes.”
“And your neighbor?” Mrs. Barton queried, cocking her head to the side which caused her dark curls to dance. “You won’t be able to avoid him. Not entirely.”
“Never fear.” Emmaline waggled her brows, drawing herself up, anticipating a forthcoming battle. “I shall make good work of him if he darkens my door. No doubt, I shall enjoy it very much.”
Mrs. Barton tsked, waving a ruby, leather-gloved hand. “He’s not the boy you remember.”
“Thank goodness.” Emmaline shrugged, wishing she could appear as if Edward Hart gave her little pause. But despite her wish, her deuced heart still ached over the loss of the love she’d thought was hers. “It would be very sad if he’d been entirely unaltered by his actions.”
“Oh, he is altered,” Mrs. Barton drawled.
Emmaline eyed her older friend. Mrs. Barton had always been merry and mischievous. But now there was a certain glint in her eyes which did the most alarming thing to Emmaline’s insides. It intrigued her. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“Like him?” Mrs. Barton echoed before she let out a rich laugh. “No, dear. No. I wouldn’t say that.”
Emmaline nodded. “He’s an absolute ponce. I shan’t argue it.”
Mrs. Barton merely smiled. “If you say so.”
“He betrayed me,” Emmaline pointed out, mystified by Mrs. Barton’s behavior.
“So he did,” Mrs. Barton agreed adamantly, yet she didn’t look suitably upset as she sashayed down the center of the theater, running her gloved hand along the gilded seats. Rather, she appeared a trifle amused as she all but bounced as she went along.
“In the end,” Mrs. Barton said over her shoulder with a wicked smile, “aren’t you glad? If he had not, you would be Lady Emmaline Hart, wife of the brother of the Duke of Huntsdown.”
Emmaline sighed. “I have already considered that. How boring my life should have been.”
“Would you have been happier?” Mrs. Barton inquired with what app
eared to be genuine curiosity.
Shrugging, Emmaline began to slowly back up the center aisle towards the corridors, eager to seek out the man responsible for the sale of the establishment. “It is impossible to know. They do say ignorance is bliss.”
“You seem rather blissful now and there isn’t an ignorant bone in your body,” Mrs. Barton pointed out.
No. There wasn’t. Of that, she had made certain. That day in the church when Edward had condemned her so vilely had been the worst day of her life. She’d died that day, the old Emmaline had slipped away like a consumptive, and then, miraculously, she’d been reborn.
Mrs. Barton turned, then took several pointed steps back up the aisle. “Will you seek him out?”
Emmaline’s lips quirked, unable to contain her sudden rather strange sense of anticipation. “Oh, yes. I shall not let our encounter be at random. Though it doesn’t paint me in the best of light, I cannot wait to witness his face when he sees me as I am now.”
Mrs. Barton eyed her up and down, taking in the stylish cut of Emmaline’s clothes which no country-born lady could even dream of. “No doubt, he shall be rendered speechless.”
“Edward?” Emmaline scoffed. “I doubt that. Whilst I look forward to showing him I am unconquered, I’m sure he will be delighted to be vindicated in his slander of me. He called me a whore once when it wasn’t true. I imagine it shall make him feel much relieved that he can besmirch my character now so accurately.”
“But your fall was his fault,” Mrs. Barton replied.
Emmaline nibbled her lower lip, having contemplated this many times. “I don’t know. For once I fell, I embraced it. I would not be driven off to a rotting, drafty cottage in the wilds of nowhere to live out my life alone and derided. No, I chose to revel in my circumstance and so I thrived. Perhaps, I was always destined to fall.”
“It is what I most admire about you, your sense of adventure,” Mrs. Barton enthused. “It is hard to believe you used to be such a lamb.”
“My cousin, Harriet, would have said a sheep,” Emmaline corrected, feeling a spasm of longing for the cousin she had not seen in so long. She cleared her throat, determined not to let such a thing sadden her now. Oh, no. She would not allow melancholy or regret to ferret into her heart. Such was the way of taking to one’s bed.
“And she was right,” Emmaline added forcefully. “I do look forward to seeing her again. Even her husband, Edward’s brother, who seems to have come up to snuff despite his bloodline.” Once, she’d been so angelic, so perfect. Now, she thrilled at her own lack of perfection and all that the world had to offer. It was a far more interesting place than the pale drawing rooms she’d been required to inhabit before.
Now, she was a fallen woman in every way and, in the great strange manner of society, she was now. . . Dare she say, a celebrity? For though she was not allowed in the hallowed halls of Almack’s, she was allowed in more halls of power than most women. For she was not a lady. And she never would be again.
Chapter 2
“The rumors are true?”
Edward Hart stood at the tall windows overlooking the street, which was dirty, bustling, and loud in the late afternoon. It was a street he adored with every fiber of his being. The very sight fortified him as he braced himself to answer the Duke of Huntsdown, his eldest brother. For Edward was in total hell now. Hell had arrived less than a week ago and taken up residence across the street. It had then leached over to him and consumed him. Before, he’d just been in purgatory. Now, he was in Hades proper.
Slowly, Edward faced his elder brother, who was the picture of manly perfection in almost every way. “Yes,” Edward replied. “The rumors are indisputably true.”
“But—” James’ brow furrowed and his usually confident voice deepened with dismay. “She did not tell me she was returning from Paris.”
A dry laugh rolled out of Edward. “Did you think she would?”
“Well, I. . .” James scowled. “I made several overtures. I apologized publicly. I—”
Edward blew out a derisive sound before he gave his brother a withering stare. “We ruined her life.”
James had the good grace to look duly chastised. His usually swarthy countenance, made so by hours out of doors, paled. “So, we did.”
“No matter how many letters or apologies, there’s no escaping that,” Edward bit out, driving a hand through his already wild hair. “She wouldn’t even see me when I chased her to Paris.”
James sighed. “Now, she owns the theater next door.”
Edward laughed. A slow, dry sound. “It’s worse.”
Cocking his head to the side, James did not appear convinced. “Oh?”
A pained smile pulled at Edward’s lips. “She has converted a temporary apartment in it whilst her house near Green Park is completed. She lives there.”
James gaped then tugged on his black, silk waistcoat. “My God.”
Edward folded his arms across his chest. “I think God has very little to do with this.”
James took a step further into Edward’s office. “How are you coping?”
Edward swung his gaze to the wooden target board at the end of the room. Several knives were embedded in it. The room itself was masculine elegance. Dark, leather chairs were positioned before a tall fireplace, decorated with an elaborate marble mantel. His desk was mahogany and large enough to seem a small island in the room bathed with light from the windows. Rapiers hung on the wall. All of them had been used in battle, two of which had been his on the Continent. The daggers he’d finally pulled down well after midnight, unable to bear to watch the candlelight in one of the high windows across the street any longer for he had seen her shadow dance against it, again and again. It had been sheer torture.
James contemplated the elegant blades embedded into the polished wood wall. “Ah.”
Edward shrugged as if he had not been living in torment since her return. “One has to do something and I’m not going to risk fisticuffs, at least not out of the ring.”
“Good,” James replied firmly.
Edward had been a soldier. . . But in recent years he’d taken his martial abilities in a different direction. He could box with the best of them and his bastard half-brother, John, had taught him to fight as they did on the streets. . . Without honor or mercy.
It had been the only way he’d been able to climb out of the black hell he’d found himself in after so thoroughly wronging the young lady he’d been so certain he was in love with.
But his half-brother, John, ultimately had been correct, as he usually was. Edward had not been in love with Emmaline. He’d been in love with the idea of Emmaline. How could he love a woman he barely knew?
Somehow it made the whole situation worse.
He’d been a total fool, worshiping a beautiful girl but not really knowing her at all. He’d demanded perfection and found out that perfection did not exist, and he was the one who was the most flawed of them all.
He’d been so ready to betray her.
She would never forgive him for that. Nor should she.
Hell, he’d never forgiven himself for that. He never would. His life had taken a very different turn from the one he had imagined. There was no small estate with dogs and horses, a lovely, young wife to keep his house and raise children with him.
No, he’d thrown his lot in with the dark side of London and he had not looked back. He wasn’t worthy of the light.
James cleared his throat. “Are you going to call upon her?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Edward dropped his arms back to his sides and crossed to his desk. “I’m not a masochist.”
James crooked a wry smile. The first he’d shown in their meeting. “I rather thought you were.”
Edward arched a brow at his brother. “I have no intention of darkening her door. I’m certain she has no wish to see me.”
James strode across the room and flung himself into a chair before Edward’s desk. The sturdy wood creaked under James’ massive f
rame. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Of course I’m curious, damn it,” Edward growled. “I’ve heard the stories. I’ve read the news sheets.”
James leaned forward. “Then perhaps—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“You haven’t even let me—”
Edward slammed his hands down onto his desk and bit out, “It is your ideas that got us here in the first place.”
James was silent for a long moment before he said calmly. “Only because John lied.”
Edward gave his brother a merciless stare.
James frowned then sighed. “Fine. John merely exposed the sort of fellows we were. But we’ve changed.”
“Have we?” Edward countered, not convinced.
James leaned back into the chair and said quite arrogantly, “I have.”
Edward slid his hands along his desk, standing straight. “Bravo you, then.”
“Edward, you need to stop punishing yourself,” James said kindly. “Come to the opening of her play.”
“I’d rather be dead,” Edward retorted, loathing the idea of being in her company. Not because he wouldn’t like it. But that he might like it too much. “I’d rather go to the darkest heart of the darkest jungle. Or the hottest desert in the—”
“Are you going to say Antipodes next?” Garret asked lightly as he strolled in.
“Bloody hell,” Edward groaned, pressing a hand to his eyes as if he could make them both simply vanish. He returned to the window, wishing he could just jump out to escape the filial affections inflicting him at present. “You’re not invited. Neither of you are invited. Why are you here?”
“We’re brothers,” Garret said far too happily as he unbuttoned the silver buttons of his coat. “An invitation is not necessary.”
Edward began fiddling with the latch to the window.
“Whatever are you doing?” James asked.
“I’m going to throw you both out,” Edward retorted. “If I can make the latch work.”