“Your uncle knows you were in Dublin, however. What if it’s also discovered you were aiding and abetting the United Irishmen? Oh, Gabriel.” Her whole body sagged. “Why did you do it? The trip, the code, the book…”
“Why did you send me away?” he countered.
“Because I was afraid,” she said, her voice raw in its honesty. “Because I could not bear to have you take more risks and make more sacrifices.” Briefly, her hand stopped its motion. “Because I love you.”
His breath caught in his chest. “Ah. Then you understand.” Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he echoed her movement, fingering a seam in the leather of the chair’s rolled arm. “And because I love you, I could not bear it if your story were never told.”
“Róisín’s story,” she corrected swiftly. “Ireland’s story.”
“Your story.” He pushed himself forward in his chair, drawing her eyes with the movement. “The words of your heart and your mind and your pen.”
“Those words may yet add to your troubles,” she pointed out.
He shook his head. “If you will persist in claiming that they have anything to do with me, say only that they’ve added to my legend.” Surely that was a flicker of amusement that crossed her expression? “I had to do something,” he continued, letting some of the old mockery creep back into his voice. “All this talk about my good deeds was quite ruining my reputation. As it is, I suspect no one will ever look at Lord Ash the same way again.”
Quickly, she rose—to hide a smile, he thought. Unhappy at being disturbed, Elf gave a little groan of displeasure and turned to Gabriel. But he too had got to his feet. Resigned, the dog flopped onto the carpet and went back to chewing on Remy’s shoe.
“Mr. Dawkins’s new scheme of printing books in parts seems promising,” Camellia said, drawing one fingertip along the spines lining the bookshelf. “But what does he mean to do about the ending? The manuscript you gave him was unfinished.”
“I’m not sure.” Gabriel felt hopeful but hesitant, a gambler with a promising hand, waiting for the deal of the final card to decide his fate. “Have you changed your mind about the outcome of the story?”
She paused, evidently puzzling over the title of some thick volume. The ink stains on her hand had faded. Not surprising if the circumstances of recent weeks had curtailed her writing, he supposed, but those marks of her literary labors were as much a part of her as her emerald eyes and her quick tongue, and he missed them now as he had been missing all the rest of her for weeks.
“I confess it’s been troubling me for some time,” she said at last. “I had hoped to show my readers that Ireland was more than capable of being independent.”
He dared to take a step closer. “And you have.”
“But Papa says the outcome of the rebellion will almost certainly mean more English control, not less.”
His heart sank a little as he imagined how she and her brothers must feel about such a result. “I fear he’s probably right. Not exactly a happy ending for Róisín, to be under the thumb of a man who’s proven himself unworthy of her.”
Turning, she fixed him with that familiar defiant spark in her eye. “Róisín, under a man’s thumb?” Her nose wrinkled slightly and her head wagged in disbelief. “She has far too much spirit for that.”
“True,” he agreed, and hope dared to swell once more. “But what then?”
She steepled her fingertips before her and looked thoughtful. “I had in mind a match made on more even ground, in which each complemented what the other lacked. A true union, in which the whole is stronger than the parts.”
“In other words,” he said, coming forward to cover her hands with his, “you imagine a resolution in which the arrogant, dissolute Englishman is reformed by the love of an independent-minded Irishwoman?”
Her eyes remained focused on their joined hands for a moment before rising to his face. “I do.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips across hers. “An inspired revision, my love.”
“Well,” she said, freeing her hands to step more fully into his embrace, “I’ve recently been reminded that happy endings need not be limited to the pages of fiction.” Her cheek rested against his chest and her arms came around his waist. “You’ve made Felicity and Mr. Fox very happy.”
“They make one another happy,” he said, laying his cheek against the top of her head. “I had only to get out of their way.”
“‘Get out of their way’?” When her head tipped back, he looked down into her incredulous eyes. “Is that what you call it? Enabling them to marry by presenting Mr. Fox with a very lucrative living on a certain estate in Shropshire?”
That piece of raillery earned her another kiss, more thorough than the last. “Your readers may be disappointed, you know,” he said, when he was at leisure to speak. “I believe the current fashion is for villains to suffer a grisly end.”
The wicked gleam in her eyes was matched by the sly upturn of her lips. “Fear not. Granville’s uncle will get his just deserts for trying to tarnish the reputation of our hero.”
His bark of laughter made Elf pause in her noisy labors. “Well, it seems you’ve tied up all the loose ends,” he said when the sound of chewing filled the room again. “You have only to put your name to the tale and you shall be the toast of the town.”
“Ah,” she said, reaching up to trace his jaw with her fingertip. “But a lady must be ever mindful of the impropriety of setting herself before the public. So which name shall I use?”
A little flutter of panic rose in his chest, born on the wings of his long-standing conviction that what he had to offer, no sensible woman should want. Holding her in his arms left very little room for fear, however. “How would you feel about signing your work ‘Lady Ashborough’?”
She tipped her head, considering. “Society would be scandalized. Poor Mr. Dawkins would have to print more copies to keep up with demand.”
“Camellia…” Another time, she might tease him to distraction. But just now, he could not bear it.
With a trembling smile, she relented. “Yes, my dear.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Bending, he lifted her into his arms—oh, she really was too thin—and carried her to his favorite chair. He’d always thought it comfortable, but the addition of her slight curves made it perfectly snug. As he pressed his lips to her forehead, he wished it were possible for them to stay ensconced in that spot forever.
Which, of course, it was not.
Some part of his thoughts must have been visible on his face. Worry flitted across her eyes, the shadow of a cloud on a grassy knoll. “Gabriel?”
“I was recalling a long-ago conversation with Fox,” he said. “I will miss this place, but bachelor rooms are not suitable for a bride.”
Camellia lifted her head to look around the sun-dappled, book-filled space. “I like it. It’s cozy. And I am used to small houses, as you know. Though it must be a trial for poor Elf.”
At the sound of her name, the dog scrambled once more to her feet and came to join them, wedging her head into the already overstuffed chair. Camellia shifted slightly to make room for her but did not recoil.
“When did you cease to be afraid of dogs?” he asked.
“Who says I’m not?”
“Elf.” As if to lend support to his case, the dog, who would have sensed fear if there had been any, instead gave a blissful sigh.
Camellia reached out tentatively to touch one velvety ear. “I’m not over my fear, exactly. But when I told you the story of the dog in the park, I realized what I feared most was a memory. Not even my memory. One that had been created for me, built up over years and years, until I mistook it for my own.”
Gabriel weighed her words. Hadn’t he done the same? He had been hiding from his birthright, from his future, from love because he’d heard the st
ory of his villainy so often, he’d come to believe it was true.
“I wonder what you would think of living at Stoke after we are married?” he asked after some time had passed.
Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. “I know now what that place is to you. Are you certain you want to do that?”
He met her steady, searching gaze, the eyes of the woman he loved. With Camellia at his side, he could take back his name, his life, his home. He recognized at last his father’s determination to protect his son’s inheritance. He understood at last the value of that gift.
But this decision was not only about him.
“It would be closer to your family,” he pointed out. “And if one is willing to side with Henry VIII, it’s where the Marquess—and Marchioness—of Ashborough belong. But most important, I can give you something there that I cannot give you here: a room of your own in which to write.”
She drew back in surprise, though he didn’t let her go far. “You want me to go on—?”
“Writing? Yes. If it makes you happy, yes.”
“But the household responsibilities… And—and—”
“Children? A distinct possibility,” he admitted, snugging their bodies closer together. When her lips pursed in a scolding frown, he kissed them. “I know you left Ireland in search of a quiet place to do your work,” he said, more seriously. “I also know something about the seclusion you believe you want. I’ve been alone—and lonely—all my life.”
A little knot of uncertainty formed between her brows, not quite hidden by her spectacles. Perhaps it was mirroring a similar expression on his own. Lifting her hand from his cheek, she smoothed her fingertips over his brow, just as she had done with Elf. He understood, suddenly, why the dog had groaned when she stopped.
“What you called independence, I thought of as isolation,” he explained. “But why must it be one or the other? Stoke Abbey’s an enormous place, my love. Surely we can create an island of peace for you amid the loving chaos of family.”
She gave him a rather skeptical look. But there was something else in her eyes, something he’d glimpsed there once before.
She was intrigued.
“We’ll create a private sanctuary, a writer’s retreat,” he promised. “Shall I write to Mr. Hawthorne and tell him he must give up my father’s study? It’s quite the nicest room in the house.”
Shifting slightly, she took his face between her hands and kissed him back. “Thank you,” she whispered. And went right on kissing him.
“Well,” Gabriel murmured teasingly against her lips, “you did seem to find the space…inspirational.”
A few moments later, with a rumbling canine sigh of resignation, Elf returned to the floor to finish off Remy’s shoe.
Author’s Note
The 1798 Rebellion in Ireland has been called “probably the most concentrated episode of violence in Irish history” (R.F. Foster, Modern Ireland: 1600–1972). Though most of the fighting was over in a matter of months, as many as 50,000 people are estimated to have died. At war with France, Britain was determined to prevent another uprising and brought Ireland more firmly under its control. The 1800 Act of Union abolished the Irish Parliament and created a new political entity: the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.
In cartoons and elsewhere in the popular press, contemporaries caricatured the union as a “marriage.” Like most marriages of the time, it was an unequal match in terms of economics, rights, and power. Nevertheless, some writers saw potential in the metaphor, most notably Sydney Owenson (1781?–1859), the daughter of an Irish actor and an Englishwoman. Owenson saw herself as a cultural go-between, a hybrid of English and Irish identities; she even claimed to have been born while her mother was crossing the Irish Sea.
Owenson (after 1812, Lady Morgan) was a prolific writer and an outspoken advocate of many causes, but if she is known today, it is likely for The Wild Irish Girl: A National Tale, published in 1806. Owenson’s tale was so popular that in certain circles she was known by the name of its heroine, Glorvina. The book initiated an openly political subgenre of the novel of manners (a foremother of the modern romance novel). Typically in a “national tale,” an English hero travels through Ireland and learns to love the country and its people, as personified by the Irish heroine. It is to that little-known literary tradition that I pay homage with my creation of Camellia Burke and her novel, The Wild Irish Rose.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
The Duke’s Suspicion
The next in the
Rogues & Rebels series
Coming soon from
Susanna Craig
and
Lyrical Press
Chapter 1
As dark clouds rolled over the Cumbrian sky and thunder rumbled in the distance, Erica Burke realized she had made a serious error in judgment. Several errors, in fact.
The most serious error, obviously, had been leaving her journal at the inn where they had stopped for dinner. She was often forgetful. Careless, other people called it. But in truth she cared a great deal. Losing her journal would have meant losing months of work, losing the record of every botanical observation she had made since coming to England.
It would have meant losing a piece of herself.
To be fair, though, she would never have left her journal at a posting inn if she hadn’t been traveling. So hadn’t the real error in judgment been agreeing to accompany her sister on her wedding trip to begin with? Ladies often took a female companion on such a trip, a custom grounded in the assumption that the activities and interests of ladies and gentlemen, even newly married ones, were entirely separate. But Cami’s insistence on Erica’s joining her had had very little to do with convention. And as far as Erica could see, her brother-in-law, Lord Ashborough, had only one interest: his new bride. The only activities in which he wanted to indulge were… Well.
With a wary eye toward the sky, Erica hopped from the coach and hurried back across the filthy inn yard, blaming the sudden wave of heat that washed over her on the exertion. She had been promised the chance to explore the plants and flowers of the Lake District, and she was determined not be put off by the occasional moment of embarrassment, or by the knowledge that her presence was entirely extraneous. Her only concession had been to ride in the baggage coach on occasion, with Mr. Remington, Lord Ashborough’s manservant, and Adele. Try as she might, Erica could not bring herself to think of the French girl as “Lady Ashborough’s maid.” It would have required her to concede that Cami was now a lady, and not simply her overbearing elder sister.
On the threshold of the inn’s dining parlor, she was forced to reevaluate her assessment once more. A group of rowdy young men now filled the table at which she and her party had been seated only a few moments ago. Avoiding as best she could the men’s eyes, hands, and voices, Erica pressed forward to retrieve what was hers. Perhaps the most serious error had been leaving Lord Ashborough’s mastiff, Elf, in Shropshire with the new vicar and his wife. Elf was neither fierce nor especially brave, but even half-grown, she was enormous, and Erica had no doubt that her mere presence would have sufficed to forge a path through the room.
On the bench closest to the window sat a man with greasy dark hair. If the sight of him thumbing idly through the pages of her journal had not blanketed her vision in a red haze of anger, she might have noticed his red coat. His militia uniform.
“Kindly unhand my journal.” Though she spoke quietly, she thrust out her hand, palm upward, so forcefully that the muscles of her arm quivered.
He did not rise, and a lazy smile revealed rather mossy teeth. “What have we here? An Irish rebel—?”
The words sharpened her senses, brought the moment into vivid relief. The coat of his uniform was grimy from travel and frayed around the collar and cuffs. On one shoulder a darker stripe of fabric curved downward into a frown. Something had once been sewn the
re and had either fallen off or been removed. Perhaps he had recently been stripped of his rank.
As if observing her own actions from a great distance, she watched her hand sweep the journal from his grasp and then swing back. The sturdy leather binding—no delicate lady’s commonplace book, this—struck along his jaw, effectively wiping the grin from his face. One of his fellow soldiers guffawed, and suddenly the noises and odors of the room rushed back to full force, threatening to overwhelm her. Her narrow pinpoint of focus expanded into a swath of chaos. Clutching her journal in one hand and her skirts in the other, she ran from the room.
Hitting him had been yet another mistake. She could not even say what had prompted her to do it. Her distrust of soldiers? His disdain for Ireland? Perhaps a bit of both. Oh, why could she never seem to control her temper, her impulses? Was he following?
Outside once more, she paused only to scan the inn yard for Lord Ashborough’s coaches. But the yard was empty. Perhaps around the corner? No? Well, surely that was his carriage, standing by the church….
Oh, no. Now she understood her most serious error. When she’d discovered her journal missing, she’d hopped from the baggage coach without telling Mr. Remington to wait. He must have assumed she was riding the rest of the way with her sister. Erica’s absence would likely not be noticed for hours.
She was stranded.
She could almost hear Cami’s voice telling her to wait right where she was. But Erica’s hasty reaction to the soldier’s sneer had rendered this village’s only lodging less than hospitable.
Regrettably, she had a great deal of experience with crises. Most, like this, of her own making. And sitting still had never been her preferred method of coping with any of them.
She furrowed her brow, trying to recall the map in the guidebook. People came from all over Britain to visit the Lake District. There would be signposts to Windermere. Surely even she, with her notoriously poor sense of direction, could find it. With another glance at the threatening sky, she began to walk.
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