The Scoundrel Who Loved Me

by Laura Landon

  Am I being foolish? Is it merely the shadow of my brother’s threat to take Zehra away that’s making me feel eyes everywhere? It was possible, but he’d never been prey to such concerns before that left him in such a state.

  The maid returned at last and handed him a tray of food. The aromas that came off the plates were enticing, and he rushed back up to their room. He chanced a glance back over his shoulder at the base of the stairs, and a hint of movement made him hesitate. Had someone followed him to the foot of the stairs? He continued to stare, but no one appeared. Only then did Lawrence feel safe enough to go back into their room. He set the tray down, then locked the door behind him, just in case.

  “Are you all right?” Zehra’s voice made him glance toward the bed.

  “Er… Yes. Sorry, come and get some food.” He uncovered the plates. They had provided hot soup, mutton, fresh bread, and cheese. The simple fare would taste like a king’s feast after lovemaking.

  Zehra slipped out of bed, her shapely legs a tempting vision as she joined him in the chair by the small table, using a blanket as a shawl.

  “I am famished,” she admitted shyly.

  Lawrence handed her a plate. As they began to eat, he gave in to his curiosity.

  “Tell me, what was your home like? I must admit I have never seen any place outside of England.”

  “We lived in a village outside of Shiraz. My mother was visiting the country with her parents when she met my father. He was a prince, a shah in the Fars province. They were negotiating trade deals with a number of countries, including England. My mother was taken with the beauty of the land and its people.”

  Zehra’s eyes met his as she continued. “There is a mystery that shines in the eyes of Persians, an ancient calling to come close, to learn of the past. My mother said that called to her. She came to love Persia almost as much she loved my father.”

  “Is it truly a desert, where you lived?” Lawrence couldn’t picture this beautiful woman living in a hard, hot land of sand.

  “Some of it is, but not my home. Shiraz is a green land at the foot of the Zagros Mountains, an oasis from the harsh but beautiful desert.”

  Lawrence leaned closer, bewitched by her. She spoke of home. “Green? You had gardens?”

  Zehra nodded. “We have some of the most beautiful gardens in the world. And the roses… I miss the roses.”

  “Roses? England is quite famous for its roses. Did you know that we have a breed called tea roses because they smell like tea?” he pointed out with a grin.

  She chuckled. “Yes, but you’ve never seen Persian roses. We have pink roses with crimson edges and ones as yellow as midday sunlight, even orange roses that have coral at the tips of their petals.” As she spoke, her eyes were distant, and she gave a wistful smile.

  “My mother would cut them from the gardens and fill vases with hundreds of them. Over the next two weeks they would slowly unfurl their petals, the colors deepening, before they finally faded. The petals would fall onto the tables, and I would collect them for my mother to make rosewater. My people believe rosewater can cure anything.”

  “Ah, rosewater, yes. We love that perfume here. Some ladies even bathe in it.” Many of his past mistresses had insisted on rosewater for their baths.

  Zehra took a sip of her wine and looked to him with bright eyes. “I wish you could have seen the festivals we had for rosewater.”

  “Festivals?”

  She nodded. “The women would dress in their brightest clothes and go out to the gardens before sunrise to pluck the petals from the roses. The men would have copper tubs with hot water prepared. My mother took me every year to watch. I can still remember seeing the petals fall like colored raindrops into the vast tubs and the singing of the women as they welcomed the dawn.”

  Lawrence took in the image her words created. He could picture Zehra as a beautiful dark-haired child, wearing a colorful gown, holding her mother’s hand and watching the petals fall around her. The morning light would have come over the horizon, illuminating her bright-blue eyes. Yes, he would have given anything to see that. Anything.

  “Persians and roses have a long history. We are besotted with them.” She smiled impishly. “My mother said my father seduced her with roses.”

  “Oh?” Lawrence listened eagerly. As she spoke of her home, her face transformed, becoming even more beautiful, to the point where the sight filled his heart to bursting. She licked the tips of her fingers as she finished her dinner.

  “Roses are considered to be beautiful and perfect. They are the object of longing and adoration of the nightingale, who represents a lover and sings his devotion to the rose in much of our poetry. The poet Omar Khayyám was a favorite of my father’s. I remember a bit of his work.” She paused as though thinking before she began again:

  I sometimes think that never blows so red

  The roses as where some buried Caesar bled;

  That every hyacinth the garden wears

  Dropt in its lap from some once lovely head.

  For a second neither of them moved, the weight of the words caught between them in an invisible web, and then Zehra continued to speak.

  “My father crept into my mother’s chamber one night and had his servants fill her bath with rose petals, and there he spoke to her of love and roses.”

  “Your father sounds like an intelligent and romantic man,” Lawrence said.

  “He was,” she agreed. Fresh sorrow now painted her face with a haunting loveliness. He hadn’t wanted to remind her of her loss, so he scrambled to ask her something else.

  “Did you have a beau, back in Persia?”

  She looked puzzled. “Bow?” She gestured as if tying her hair with one.

  “No, beau. You know, a man who comes to court you? Someone who wanted to marry you?”

  “Oh, I see. There were many men who wished to court me, but I was not interested. My mother had shown me the freedoms of a Western woman, and I had no desire to marry a traditional suitor. It was my mother’s hope that I would travel to England in a year for studies.” She sipped her wine, and with a coy grin she continued. “I was looking forward to coming here and possibly finding my own wild English lord.”

  Lawrence laughed. “And here I am, ready to fill your every desire.”

  She raised one elegant dark brow. “Every desire?”

  “Yes, every one.”

  She set her wine glass down on the table and stood, holding her hand out to him.

  “Then take me to bed. I wish to see the stars again.”

  He would not deny her. They would not think of what the future held. For tonight there was only the beauty that blossomed between them as they came together in each other’s arms once more.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zehra slept for much of the coach ride back the following morning. Lawrence was to blame. He had spent all night making love to her. She had collapsed near dawn from sheer exhaustion. It was true, one could have too much of a good thing. She nuzzled his shoulder as the coach rolled to a stop.

  “Are you awake?” His tender voice made her want to sigh and burrow deeper into his arms.

  “If I say no, can you have the coachman take us back to Richmond?” she asked drowsily.

  Lawrence’s laugh warmed her to her toes. “Don’t tempt me, darling. I’d like that more than you, I’d wager. Why don’t I take you straight to bed and let you rest?” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she smiled.

  “That sounds nice, as long as you join me. No more separate rooms.”

  “No more separate rooms,” he agreed. For a moment they simply stared into one another’s eyes, their faces close enough for a kiss. In that moment Zehra felt that she could have wanted nothing else in life, except to be with him.

  But their driver was waiting for them to leave, so Lawrence helped Zehra out. It was mid morning as they climbed up the steps to his residence on Jermyn Street. As the door opened, Mr. MacTavish stared at them, eyes wide.

&n
bsp; “My lord, I’m sorry, you have guests. I told them you weren’t here, but—”

  Lawrence went rigid. “Who is it, MacTavish? Is it Avery?” The panic in his tone sent a wave of dread through Zehra. Avery was the brother who would come to collect her, the one who planned to send her home.

  “Er, not that one—it’s His Lordship.”

  Lawrence frowned. “Lucien?”

  “Yes, but Lord Essex, Lord Lonsdale, Lord Lennox, and Mr. St. Laurent are also here… As are their wives.” The butler shuddered at the word, and Lawrence suddenly laughed as he turned to Zehra.

  “My brother’s wife and her friends are…spirited. They are known to get into a bit of trouble.”

  MacTavish nodded. “Aye, spirited isn’t a strong enough word for the ladies. When they get together, they’re like the witches of Macbeth, they are,” the butler grumbled.

  “Trouble?” Zehra had read Macbeth and highly doubted the ladies were witches of any kind, not by the way Lawrence was fighting off a smile.

  “Yes, when the ladies were last here, they spent two hours practicing lock picking on all of the cabinets in the silver room.”

  MacTavish puffed his chest out. “Those cabinets are impenetrable, no matter what Her Grace says.”

  Zehra wasn’t quite following all of this, but as they stepped inside the entryway, Lawrence leaned in to whisper in her ear.

  “The Duchess of Essex, Emily St. Laurent, did pick the lock, and MacTavish is too proud to admit it. All of that Highland pride makes him convinced he keeps the household silver in an impenetrable fortress.”

  “A duchess was…picking locks?” Zehra asked, still puzzled. That didn’t sound like something a highborn lady should be doing. “Why?”

  “Well, you see, my brother Lucien and his friends are known in London as the League of Rogues.”

  “Rogues?” Zehra couldn’t help but wonder if these men were like Lawrence or if she should be worried.

  “It is just a nickname certain newspapers have come to favor when talking about their exploits. And one would have thought that as they married they would have settled down, yet they keep marrying creatures who are full of just as much mischief as they are. The wives now call themselves the Society of Rebellious Ladies, and they strive to live up to that name.”

  Zehra giggled. “The Society of Rebellious Ladies?” It sounded much more like the ladies her mother had been friends with when she was young. Her mother hadn’t talked much of her days in England, but what little her mother had shared sounded like she’d had wonderful friends who got into trouble like this.

  “I asked for my brother’s wife, Horatia, to assist me in something the day before last, and I have a feeling that favor is why they are all here. I should have expected they would come. I must apologize in advance for my brother and his friends.” Lawrence paused as they reached the drawing room.

  “Oh?” Would they disapprove of her? “Should I go upstairs then? If you feel that I—”

  Lawrence raised her hands to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.

  “I am not ashamed of you, nor do I wish to hide you from them for that or any reason. It’s my brother. He’s a devil and will most likely tease you.”

  “Something you have in common then.”

  Lawrence smiled. “I just wish for you to be prepared. They will likely badger you with questions. I am assuming Lucien found out from my mother that something is afoot and is here to question me. You do not have to tell them anything you do not wish to. I can make excuses for you if you would rather retire for the rest of the evening.”

  “No, please, I would like to meet your brother and his friends.” Who wouldn’t want to meet an entire League of Rogues?

  Lawrence chuckled. “Very well. Prepare yourself, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He opened the drawing room door, and they came face-to-face with a crowd of people. Five gentlemen stood close to the tall window facing Lawrence’s gardens, and three ladies were seated on the couches by the hearth. The animated discussions in the room ceased immediately. A redheaded man, so close in resemblance to Lawrence that it shocked Zehra, separated from the other men. This had to be Lucien.

  “Lawrence, you devil, who is this beauty?”

  “Lucien,” Lawrence said with laugh. “What are you doing here? What is the bloody League doing in my house? I asked Horatia for a favor and a couple of friends, not the rest of you lot.”

  Lucien grinned. “I heard you and Avery had a bit of a row. Mama was worried and asked me to stop by for a visit, as you would expect. Everyone else thought it would be fun to come along. So, is everything all right between you and Avery?”

  The light in Lawrence’s eyes dimmed a little. “No, but you need not worry.”

  “Whatever Avery is up to, tell him you’re too busy for all that spy nonsense,” Lucien counseled. “I would like to have at least one of my brothers uninvolved in danger.”

  “I’ll try that next time,” Lawrence promised with a sigh.

  “But that’s not the only reason I’m here. My wife says she’s helping you arrange a dance for a young lady?” Lucien’s eyes slid to Zehra, though not in a sensual manner, merely curious. “Am I to assume you are that lady?”

  Zehra glanced at Lawrence. He’d spoken to Lucien’s wife about a dance? Was it because she’d wished to go to the ball the other night and could not?

  “Oh, please,” she interjected. “You mustn’t go to any trouble on my account.”

  Lucien laughed. “Ah, Lawrence hasn’t told you, then? Trouble is our forte, is it not?” He called this last part over his shoulder at his companions and waved them over. The other men still lingering by the windows joined Lawrence and Zehra, and the ladies rose from their couches to come and meet her.

  “I suppose I’ll have to make introductions,” Lawrence muttered half to himself. “Everyone, I’d like to present Miss Zehra Darzi. This is clearly my brother, Lucien, the Marquess of Rochester, and his wife, Horatia.” He then gestured to a dark-haired man with green eyes and an auburn-haired woman holding his arm. “This is Godric, the Duke of Essex, and his wife, Emily. Then there is of course Miss Audrey Sheridan.” He waved to a petite brunette with lovely brown eyes. Lawrence seemed to be looking around the room. “I count only five among the men. Where, might I ask, is Lord Sheridan?”

  “Cedric’s in the country with Anne. Ah, to be newly married,” Lucien added with a chuckle.

  Horatia poked Lucien in the ribs. “We are newly wedded,” she reminded him. Lucien grinned at her in a manner which made her blush.

  “I see,” Lawrence continued. “Well, Horatia and Audrey here are sisters. And then there’s Ashton, Baron Lennox.” Zehra followed Lawrence’s nod to a tall blond-haired man with intense blue eyes who inclined his head. “And this fellow here is Jonathan St. Laurent, Godric’s half-brother.” Zehra saw that the handsome sandy-haired man shared the same green eyes as his brother.

  “Saving the best for last, I see?” a golden-haired man with silvery-gray eyes said with a roguish wink at Zehra.

  “Saving the most disreputable, certainly,” Lawrence retorted with a smile. “That is Charles, the Earl of Lonsdale.”

  Zehra’s head was spinning from all the introductions. The ladies gently extricated her from Lawrence’s arm and pulled her away from the intimidating group of men.

  “Come now,” said Emily. “The women would have their time with you.”

  “Zehra, what a lovely name,” Horatia said. Her brown eyes were warm and soft.

  “Thank you,” Zehra stammered.

  “Is it Persian?” Emily asked.

  “Yes, how did you know?” Zehra was stunned to find someone here who recognized the origins of her name.

  Emily giggled. “We are all voracious readers. I was quite intrigued by the history of Persia a few months ago. Where are you from, exactly, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Just south of Shiraz.”

  “Ah, of course.” Emily nodded. “Lovely gard
ens, I understand.”

  “Yes, I was telling Lawrence only yesterday about the gardens and how we make rosewater.”

  “You make absolutely the finest rosewater perfume,” Audrey added. Her cherubic face seemed full of innocence, but Zehra didn’t miss the intelligence that flashed behind her eyes.

  “We do,” she agreed. She looked over her shoulder at the men, who were now talking amongst themselves and no longer paying attention to the ladies.

  “Zehra… Do you mind if I call you Zehra?” Emily asked.

  “Not at all, Your Grace. Is that the correct way to address you?”

  “It is, but please, it’s Emily among friends,” she insisted. “We ladies are quite good at discovering things, and it came to Horatia’s attention that there must be something important about you, considering Lawrence made his request to host a private dance for your benefit.”

  Zehra didn’t speak. She wasn’t quite sure what Emily was hoping she would say.

  “What she means,” Horatia cut in, “is that you clearly are not some…mistress of Lawrence’s. He would never ask that of me unless…unless there was something special about you.”

  “Special?” Zehra shook her head. “I’m afraid I am not special. Far from it. I…” She wasn’t quite sure what brought on the flood of tears, but she was now frantically wiping her eyes. Perhaps it had been too long since she’d been around women her age in a casual and free setting and not on a slave ship.

  Emily put an arm around her shoulders, and the lady ushered her to sit down on a couch. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry if I have offended.”

  “What can we do?” Audrey asked.

  “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t be crying. Truly, you have done nothing to offend.” Zehra soon found herself telling the ladies everything that had happened, from the moment of terror the night the palace was attacked, to the audacious way in which Lawrence had rescued her and brought her here.