Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

  Annabella slumped. “Perfect. That’s…” She sighed. “Just perfect.”

  ~~~~

  Frozen in the doorway, Annabella squinted into the dim church. Diffuse daylight seeped through the stained glass windows and fell in muted colors over the seats in the pew boxes.

  Even the light is melancholy.

  She lifted her foot to step forward, but it wouldn’t go over the threshold. Her muscles cramped as she tried to force herself to move.

  “What is it now?” asked Seabrook in her ear. “Is the church not to your liking?”

  I can’t move. I can’t let this happen. I-I’m afraid. The words flashed through her mind but seemed to get lost on the way to her tongue. She shook her head and reached out with a trembling hand to clutch the doorframe.

  Seabrook sighed and placed his hand at the small of her back, applying gentle but inexorable pressure. “Come now. We’ll get this over with, and you can plot the many ways you plan to torment me for the rest of our lives.”

  The rest of our lives. The rest. Of. Our. Lives. Her breath caught, but she found herself moving forward one small agonizing step at a time. She might well have been walking to the gallows. She barely felt her feet striking the plank floor as she followed Gertrude and Vicar Hamilton up the aisle.

  For all his wide girth — and there was a lot of it — the vicar seemed to float on air, so graceful was his gait. And next to him, whispering and tittering, marched the ridiculous Miss Mayfair, wearing a bulky tweed traveling gown and a silly straw hat that had been adorned by grouse feathers. Many, many grouse feathers. The woman looked like she’d plucked half the wild birds in Haselmere and affixed their plumage to her hat.

  Annabella glanced up at the altar where the Right Reverend Seymour Hamilton waited to shackle her to the man who had ruined her.

  It was the robe that did it. The round little toad standing at the front of the sanctuary wore a brown vestment that reached the floor and was tied in what she supposed was roughly the middle with a pale braided cord.

  A giggle freed itself, and she clapped her palm across her lips. Seabrook tightened his hold on her waist. Was he afraid she would bolt? Where on the good green earth would she bolt to? She’d managed to trap herself well and good.

  They came to a stop in front of Reverend Hamilton, who smiled a knowing and indulgent smile even as his gaze slid briefly toward her middle. Annabella blinked back tears.

  “Please face one another and hold hands,” instructed the bishop.

  Well, Mother, it really is a pity you are not here to see your only child wed. Not to the man of her dreams, but perhaps to one you might find suitable.

  Annabella glanced down. Her gray dress, now mostly in tatters and still damp had at least been made respectable by the addition of Seabrook’s wet coat. And in such wedding finery, too.

  Annabella heard Reverend Hamilton’s voice croaking out the ceremony but paid no mind to what he said. If she kept her gaze on the floor, perhaps it would all go away. When the reverend stopped speaking, she glanced up to find three pairs of eyes on her, obviously expecting her to say something. Seabrook squeezed her hands lightly as if to prod her on.

  “Yes,” she forced out, praying she’d given the correct response.

  “You two are now wed,” intoned Reverend Hamilton, beaming at them. “What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  Annabella glanced up at Seabrook. His face had gone pale, his arrogant smile had been replaced by a grim line. Was he regretting their marriage so soon?

  Well, you’ve given him no reason to think ‘twill be pleasurable. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, perhaps they could call it off. Annabella drew a breath.

  His mouth tilted upward into a lopsided smile. “What, no kiss to seal the marriage?”

  The air left Annabella’s lungs in a whoosh of surprise. Fury rose up to replace her disquiet. She leaned forward as though to honor his request, stopping within an arm’s reach. “I’d sooner kiss Judas!” she hissed.

  Gertrude gasped. Neither Hamilton showed any indication of having heard her. Annabella yanked on her hands, but Seabrook held tight. Before she knew what he was up to, he dipped and pressed his lips to hers. It was over nearly before it started, the touch so brief she might have imagined it except for the lingering heat he left behind when he straightened and dropped her hands.

  Seabrook turned to Vicar Hamilton. “I wonder if I might trouble you to borrow your carriage. I’ll have a man deliver it back to you later today.”

  “Oh, er…” Hamilton hesitated. But after sharing a long look with his father, he sighed and nodded. “Of course, Lord Seabrook.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Seabrook drove the Tilbury back to Wyndham Green at a more sedate pace than the vicar had used to carry them to the church. They might have been out for a Sunday afternoon carriage ride. Except it wasn’t Sunday. It was… Annabella frowned. It was… Heaven’s breath, she didn’t even know what day it was. Nor exactly how long she’d been hiding in the cottage. For all the good hiding had done, since she’d ended up in exactly the position her mother had wanted her in all along.

  Married. Shackled to a man she scarcely knew.

  As they drove through the countryside, she hardly saw anything they passed. It all seemed to go by in a blur of green and brown. The rush of emotions slamming into Annabella had her reeling. Married. She was married. No matter how many times she pushed the thought aside, it surfaced. Mocked her. Would Seabrook take her away from Wyndham Green? Surely he must have his own home.

  “Devil’s fire,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I’m sorry? Did you say something, Jezebella?” Seabrook shifted, and his arm brushed against hers creating instant awareness.

  As if she wasn’t already aware enough of the man, with his woodsy scent twining about her and his body’s warmth staving the chill from hers. She gritted her teeth. “Annabella.” Her toes started twitching, desperate to kick him in the shin if she could but reach it in the cramped space of the vicar’s Tilbury. “My name is Annabella, as you very well know.”

  “Are you certain? I’m quite sure Annabella is having a splendid time being the toast of London. Lovely young lady. Spent an evening in her company at Wyndham’s townhouse whe—”

  Her already fuming rage turned to a burning inferno at the reminder that Juliet was apparently having a wonderful time, whilst she had lived in misery and been forced to act the maid for the obstinate man who was now her husband. Husband! “That’s quite enough,” she ground out, stomping her foot.

  The horse tossed his head but kept a steady pace. Seabrook merely lifted one dark eyebrow.

  “You know good and well who I am, thanks to that lackwit Hamilton.”

  Seabrook made a noise that might have been a cough… or a laugh. “Why, my dear, the good Vicar Hamilton has done you a great service. He has secured you a marriage to the most eligible bachelor in all of England.”

  “The most eligible—” Annabella twisted fully around to meet his challenging gaze. And that grin, that gruesome, horrid, wretched grin. Her fingers wanted to roll into fists to punch him, but she forced herself to relax. This was not a man to be bested by physical strength. “You know, Seabrook, I do believe you should consider moving to a much warmer climate, one with less rain and a milder winter…”

  His grin slipped a bit as confusion clouded his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

  She tapped her index finger to her cheek as she considered the lout who was now her husband. “Yes, that’s the only way to make it easier on you.”

  “Forgive me, but make what easier on me?”

  “Why, for when you take your place sitting beside the devil, of course.”

  He let out a hoot of laughter that rattled her ears.

  Insufferable Seaside.

  “So do you want to tell me why someone is at your brother’s townhouse masquerading as you?”

  No. “Markwythe is not my brother. He’s a reprobate, just like you, an
d I—”

  “You continue to wound me, madam. After I’ve made an honest woman of you to save your reputation, your opinion of me is still one of such low regard.” He shook his head and let out a long sigh. “Mayhap I should have let you marry the good vicar instead.”

  “Why, you insufferable—”

  “And Grey would be devastated to learn his beloved sister for whom he’s cared all these years finds him so objectionable that she cannot bring herself to call him by his given name, nor even afford him the respect of his station.”

  “Cared for me! He hates me. I’m not his sister. I’m nothing more than an interloper, a child brought into his precious home.” Temper near to boiling, she crossed her arms over her bosom and blew out a puff of exasperation, aiming a glare in Seabrook’s direction for good measure. “Cares for me? You must be jesting.”

  “Nay, madam. I’m quite serious.” He locked eyes with her. “Why else would he have sent me to inquire as to your safety?”

  Her hands dropped into her lap of their own accord. “H-he did?” Thinking became impossible over the roar of blood in her ears.

  Seabrook shrugged and turned his gaze forward again. When he spoke again, his voice held a slight chill. “Yes, he did. Even though he suspected you were duping him in some way, because he was quite certain the lady in his home was not, in fact, his sister.”

  He reined in the horse as they approached the lane that would bypass the stables and carry them directly to Rose Cottage. “And after meeting a certain member of the staff at Wyndham Green, I’m convinced the beautiful miss in London is the daughter of a maid.” He raised an eyebrow. “Someone you know, perhaps?”

  Panic gripped Annabella’s chest like a vise. Juliet had been found out. Heart’s fire. She struggled to draw her next breath. “He… he knows?”

  Seabrook didn’t answer until they had completed the turn onto the lane. “That she is not you? Yes.” He shook his head. “Exactly who is taking your place? No.” Then he angled his head and subjected her to a long stare with his glittering black eyes. “Nor why you would take such measures.”

  She was helpless beneath that penetrating gaze. “What — what has he done to her?”

  “Done to her?” Again he shook his head, and a chuckle shook his body. “You believe Wyndham to be such a monster?”

  With exceptional effort, Annabella turned her head, freeing herself from his pinning regard. Of course she considered Markwythe a monster. “After the way he’s treated my mother by showing her the cut? What else am I supposed to believe?”

  “Is that why you sent the imposter?” Seabrook’s voice was oddly gentle. “You feel he’s mistreated you and your mother?”

  “Why did he send you here to find me? Why did he not come himself? After all, if he was so concerned about me…” She lifted one shoulder.

  Seabrook’s expression became guarded. “Sending me was the… advantageous choice at the time. And completely my suggestion.”

  Annabella gave an unladylike snort that would have made her mother cringe. “And look how well that worked out for us all.”

  Rose Cottage loomed on the right. Annabella barely waited for the carriage to come to a halt before she scrambled over the edge. Seabrook called out in surprise but she ignored him, fleeing to the sanctuary inside.

  As she burst through the front door, the remains of the broken chair greeted her. Balanced on the three unbroken legs, the seat rose from the floor at a steep angle. The shattered leg lay in three pieces side by side, split like so much kindling.

  Dim memories surfaced. She’d been on the floor. The ruddy leg of the chair had cracked, and she’d ended up on her back. Seabrook’s face hovering above hers, Seabrook reaching out with his hand, touching her on the arm, lifting her… his touch tender, his voice soft. One chill chased another along her spine.

  Annabella’s heart stammered in her chest, and her breathing hitched. Her sanctuary was no more. She lowered her gaze, noting Juliet’s dress, little more than a tattered rag after the past couple of days. She had to get to London, had to rescue Juliet from whatever loathsome punishment Markwythe would mete out.

  The banknotes. She’d carry them to her stepbrother and secure his promise not to harm Juliet before she’d turn them over to him. With a plan of her own solidified in her mind, Annabella slipped into the kitchen and out the rear of the cottage. She could only hope one more trip through the thick woods wouldn’t reduce her dress to mere threads. And then she’d clean herself up.

  ~~~~

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Once again, Jon waited. From his vantage point near the window, he had a perfect view of the case clock on the mantle.

  Where in blazes had Annabella rushed off to? He hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him with open arms when he came in after securing the horses, but he hadn’t expected her to race out the back door, either. When he’d entered through the front and found her absent, the logical assumption had been that she’d run off to the kitchen to hide as had been her habit. But the room had been empty. He’d searched upstairs, even though he’d known she wouldn’t be there. Wasn’t, in fact, in the cottage at all.

  So where was his wild and willful wife? He turned to the window and thrust the curtain aside. The overcast sky had grown heavier. The air had thickened and stilled. Nothing moved — not so much as a leaf stirred. Dropping the curtain, he sighed. Then he sank onto the unbroken damask chair. Annabella, Annabella…

  Why had he done it? Why had he gone through with the wedding? He’d meant only to torment Annabella with doubt and teasing for jumping too quickly to an erroneous conclusion. And he would have corrected her notion at the brook had that idiot, lovesick vicar not shown up and been devil-bent on marrying her. Something about the man… the way he’d stared at Annabella, openly, as though he had the right…

  The way I look at her…

  No, he’d not take that path. Jon allowed his gaze to roam about the room. Opulence had never impressed him, and the tiny cottage was far from that. After the thorough cleaning, though, he could happily make his home in Rose Cottage with the woman he’d married. Annabella… He shook his head. She struck him as someone who appreciated fine things.

  Like those at Blackmoor Hall…

  An Oriental fan in dark blue and white silk rested atop the drum table, and he picked it up. As he weighed it in his palm, Jon struggled to recall if he’d seen her with it. Small and fragile in his hand, the fan was old and delicately crafted, but someone had taken care with it. He folded it closed and tapped it against his thigh in time with the clock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The seconds mocked him. Restless and frustrated, he stood and paced to the mantle to stop the endless ticking. The blasted clock wasn’t keeping time anyway. No wonder it had been relegated to the dank old cottage.

  He almost didn’t hear the soft footfalls behind him. But the scents of rosemary and lilac reached out to him and he knew it was her. Slowly, he turned, unsure what he would see.

  Hands clasped in front of her, she lingered near the kitchen door, as if ensuring an avenue of escape. Her hair had been washed and arranged on top of her head — in one of those elaborate styles that he would find amusing to disturb. She’d scrubbed her face and while she still bore a bit of pallor, it wasn’t nearly as alarming as it had been at the church.

  Gone was the worn gray dress, replaced by a gown fit for… a lady. Lush black velvet embroidered with bright gold embraced her shoulders and accentuated her marble-fair skin. Soft folds of pale champagne sarcenet gathered below her bosom and hugged her rounded figure without shame, but the overlying veil of fine black lace subtly masked her curves. Her tentative half-step forward stirred the fabric about her feet and revealed black and gold slippers, the likely reason her steps had been so quiet.

  “You’re breathtaking.” He kept himself rooted where he stood. If he m
oved any closer, he’d not be responsible for his actions. Married or not, he desired a bride who was willing.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, dropping her arms to her sides. It seemed she didn’t know quite what to do with them. Her answering smile was demure, though she dipped her head so he couldn’t see what was in her eyes. When she looked up again, her expression was unreadable. “I… need to ask… what are your intentions as regards our marriage?”

  His intentions? To hold you and never let you go. To care for you. To worship you in every… He tamped down his baser urges.

  Pink flooded her cheeks as though she were aware of his thoughts. “That is… I understand the ways of marriage, but since ours was in such — haste… my family, my mother is unaware…”

  “You wish to send word to your mother?” Jon frowned. Was the duchess as spirited and temperamental as her daughter? Would she receive the news of her only child’s nuptials well?

  Annabella tensed and shook her head. “Please, no. Not — not just yet.” Her restless fingers plucked at the ribbon dangling from the front of her dress.

  She had something on her mind. Should he wait her out or—

  “My maid…” She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “The one you sent to your brother in your stead?”

  “Stepbrother,” she corrected softly. “And yes. I want to know — that is, I need to ascertain Ju— her welfare.”

  “I understand.” He let out a loud sigh.

  She nodded slowly. “And… I’ve been thinking… If — perhaps you believe our union has been a mistake… perhaps Mar— my stepbrother will assist us—”

  Do not finish that sentence! He sliced the air between them with the fan. Annabella fell into silence, but her eyes settled on the object in his hand and remained there. She appeared to be holding her breath. Irritated that she apparently was more fascinated with an old fan than she was interested in talking to him, Jon tossed the silly thing back onto the drum table and considered her through narrowed eyes.