Dedication
With much love to my parents, Dorinda and Dave.
Thank you for being my biggest fans, both in life and in writing.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Waiting for a Rogue
About the Author
By Marie Tremayne
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Lawton Park
Kent, England
Summer 1841
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The ancient grandfather clock in the corner kept a steady cadence as Eliza stood in the open window of the drawing room. She watched in silence as the guests arrived in gleaming carriages to proceed up the front steps of her home. Not that it would be her home for much longer. Or her drawing room either, for that matter.
A light breeze flowed through the casement, toying with the golden curls that hung softly alongside her face, and she enjoyed this rare moment of peace before the evening’s party when the chaos would begin. The chaos had long since started inside her head. At just sixteen years old, she was engaged to be married. It was to be officially announced tonight, and as could be expected, her thoughts were a whirling jumble of emotion. The fact that women were often married at such a young age did little to ease her anxiety, and she wondered how she could reasonably be expected to manage a change of such magnitude, even if her soon-to-be husband was a good sort of man.
The heady fragrance of honeysuckle perfumed the air, and she closed her eyes and breathed in, trying not to think about the difficult adjustments that lie ahead. The move that would take her halfway across the country and away from her family. Her new responsibilities as the mistress of a large estate. The changes she would face in becoming a man’s wife.
Her father had assured her that she would grow to love Hampshire, and her fiancé had spoken kindly of the residents of the closest neighboring estate. There was even a girl who was about her age, the daughter of a duke. Eliza took an unsteady breath and placed a shaky hand over her abdomen. She hoped the girl was nice.
Eliza didn’t quite feel ready—not that any young lady ever did—but her father was convinced she would find no better man. Reginald Cartwick was wealthy and smart. A landed gentleman who was accomplished and had proven himself to be valuable in matters of business. And she was fortunate. Compared to other marriageable candidates, he was relatively young.
She held no burning passion for him, but he had the makings of an excellent marriage partner. Despite the brevity of their courtship, she had already come to think of him as a friend, and perhaps that friendship could transform into love…although she knew this wasn’t necessarily reasonable to expect.
Eliza’s chest ached at the thought. She longed for love.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
A glimpse of a black-haired man below quickened her pulse. It was Thomas, Viscount Evanston, a good friend of her brother’s and an unabashed rake. He was notorious in the London clubs, and notorious with the ladies too. Looking at him now, moving deftly around the small group of people who had gathered and waving ahead to someone else, she knew why. He was tall and muscular, broad-shouldered, and handsome like the devil.
Sinful like the devil too.
Eliza moved to the side of the window so she could continue to watch him undetected. At twenty-five years of age, he was a full nine years older than her, a disparity that seemed like a vast chasm of life experience that she did not possess. With his father’s death and the acquisition of his title, Thomas had chosen to live his life by indulging in a few select vices: women, brandy, cards . . . in that order.
Of course, she’d heard stories from friends—cautionary tales, spoken in hushed and giggling voices—of his prowess among the ton. Had seen evidence of it herself at the start of this year’s season. And even after it had become abundantly clear that Reginald Cartwick was her father’s favored suitor, she still couldn’t help but feel a curious tug of envy each time she’d watched Evanston flirting with a woman, or casting a meaningful glance at a beautiful widow as he took his leave for the night.
In a timely and accurate illustration of her thoughts, Lord Evanston greeted a female guest on the drive below. She couldn’t quite make out the identity of the woman due to her elevated vantage point and the lady’s oversized hat, but the fluttering hand that came to rest upon her heart indicated the lady’s pleasure at his approach. Eliza supposed she was lucky that he’d never shown her the barest amount of interest, for she was half-afraid she might spontaneously catch fire if he did.
She recalled one time her father had caught her gazing a little too long in the viscount’s direction, and that evening, he had been very clear regarding his feelings on the matter, feelings that were loudly echoed by her brother William. Evanston was to be seen as a family friend. Period. Anything more than that was not even a consideration. Tonight, her engagement to Mr. Cartwick would be officially announced and this was absolutely for the best. He was a good man. A responsible, well-respected man. And she was happy.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
There was the clock again, counting down her final minutes as the heretofore unengaged Lady Eliza Halstead. She would miss many things from this place when she left but would be glad to rid herself of that tick-tocking reminder of the impermanence of life. Was there a grandfather clock at Greystone Hall? If so, there wouldn’t be for long.
A sharp knock at the door shook her out of her reverie, and she blinked in surprise. Her moment of privacy was at an end, and someone had come to collect her from her refuge in the drawing room. Eliza inhaled deeply and crossed to the door, then twisted the knob and opened it.
Lord Evanston stood before her.
She choked in surprise. “Thomas, I—er . . . wasn’t expecting you.”
His lips curved into a knowing smile. “But surely you knew I was invited.”
“I—well, yes. I suppose I did know that,” she stammered, her eyes darting past him into the hallway. Stepping backwards, she gestured for him to come inside, knowing it was the last thing she should be doing. At this point, she only hoped he wasn’t seen. “I just didn’t expect you to find me here.”
His eyes crinkled in amused skepticism as he turned to close the door behind him. “I find that hard to believe since you were staring at me so intently from the window.”
Every inch of her body flooded with mortification, and Thomas uttered a low laugh.
“Rest easy, Eliza,” he said, smiling fondly. “I’m only teasing you.”
She frowned. “Well, I wish you would stop.”
It took whatever remained of her significantly deflated dignity to march across the room in a huff, but she managed to do it, the viscount watching in quiet contemplation. Why he was here with her now was still a mystery, but when she spun back around to face him, his expression was inquisitive.
“When did you grow into such a fearless woman?” he wondered aloud.
Now it was her turn to laugh. She’d never felt more frightened in all her life than she did right now on the bri
nk of her engagement. “Does deciding to marry a man make me fearless . . . or somehow more of a woman?”
One dark brow raised in evaluation. “You tell me,” he said.
She stared at him, mentally debating how wise it was for her to pursue this line of conversation with this particular man. “I believe you are entertaining yourself at my expense,” she said instead.
With an irreverent grin, he crossed over to the sideboard and retrieved a glass. “Do you?” He shook his head. “I think I’m just now seeing a woman, where before there was only a girl. And I’m a little surprised.” Removing the stopper from the crystal decanter, he raised it over his glass, then paused. Sliding out a second glass, he poured two brandies, then turned to offer one to her.
“So, you do think marriage is the measure of a woman, then,” she said, unthinkingly accepting the drink. “How very old-fashioned of you. I didn’t think you placed much stock in the institution.”
Leaning back against the polished wood of the sideboard, he folded his arms across his chest and smiled, surveying the amber liquid in his hand. “On the contrary, I have a great appreciation for marriage. It provides me with a good many bereaved widows who end up in dire need of a living man.”
She tried to swallow but her throat had suddenly gone dry. “I see,” she said weakly, not sure if she should be offended or not. Taking a sip of the brandy resulted in watery eyes and a not unpleasant burn that stung all the way down her throat.
“I don’t mean anything nefarious by that,” he clarified offhandedly, raising his own glass for a drink. “I realize how it sounded.”
Eliza scoffed. “Of course not, my lord. That would imply some kind of interest.”
To her surprise, he paused, his bright eyes gazing at her from over the sparkling edge of the glass. She felt a sudden quake of apprehension, but before she was able to think on it further, he tipped back the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a bang. Similarly, she attempted to finish her brandy but ended up choking halfway through. His deep chuckle earned him a scowl and he took the glass from her hand before she could try again, placing it firmly on the sideboard.
“You should stop,” he said seriously. “They might be used to it with me, but I think your father and brothers would take exception to you smelling of alcohol.”
“Oh, no . . .” Eliza said, her eyes widening in horror. “Thomas—why did you have to give it to me in the first place?”
Evanston took a step closer. Too close. “I wanted to share a drink with you to celebrate your newfound womanhood,” he teased, “before sending you off to the party.”
She bristled. “For the last time—”
Thomas lowered his head and it shocked her into silence. He appeared to be sniffing the air between them. “Oh, you most definitely smell like brandy,” he said quietly, a trace of a smile lurking on his roguish face. “What will people think?”
There was a shiver of alarm as she saw the way his gaze darted down to her mouth. His smile vanished and she heard a low noise in the back of his throat, as if he were wrestling with some internal conflict. Perhaps it was the fact that he was about to do something that he very much knew he shouldn’t, and similarly, she found herself helpless to intervene. Although she should. She knew she should.
They stood like that, locked in a stalemate . . . the hot caress of his breath flirting with her lips, Eliza motionless in panic . . . until she broke the spell with an awkward laugh.
“No matter, I’ll just stop by the kitchen and ask Mrs. Humboldt for a sprig of peppermint—”
With a decisive slide of his hands around her head, Thomas leaned down at last to press his lips against hers.
Eliza stood there, immobile, unable to even protest. The warm glide of his mouth set butterflies loose throughout her body, and although instinct begged her to pull him closer, she knew enough to keep her arms firmly planted at her sides, hands clenched into tight fists. Evanston took advantage of the moment to deepen the kiss, and she thrilled at the intimacy of his exploration even as she was filled with loathing at herself for enjoying it.
A raucous laugh could be heard through the heavy door, a necessary reminder that the oak portal was all that separated this ill-advised kiss from her family and the man she was supposed to marry. In a daze, she pushed away from him and hurried to stand near the cursed clock and far away from the viscount.
“Forgive me, Eliza,” he said, smoothing a hand absently down over his cravat. “I just had to know for myself.”
Her body was trembling though she struggled to conceal it. She would not give Thomas the satisfaction of seeing how he affected her. She tipped her chin up.
“Know what?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
“Whether you tasted like brandy, as well.”
She stared at him in stunned outrage. Eliza would have been foolish to think that this had been motivated by anything other than his desire to toy with her. How many women had fallen prey to his charms in similar fashion?
“I see,” she said with a withering stare. “And you think that makes your behavior acceptable?”
Thomas shrugged. “If you’re asking whether I’m sorry I kissed you, I’m not,” he replied. “You were very . . . sweet.”
She had the distinct impression that to a man like him, sweet was probably an insult. Her cheeks grew hot. “If you’ve got no regrets, then you won’t mind if I tell William about this, will you?”
He walked slowly across the room to approach her once more, his eyes twinkling sharply. “Feel free. But then you’ll also need to tell him how you did not utter one word of protest when I did.”
She scoffed. “I—”
And then she realized that it was true. She’d been too shocked to even speak until it had been too late.
Brushing past, Eliza gripped the handle and threw the door open in one swift motion.
“Get out,” she snapped. “And stay away from me tonight.”
Thomas strolled forwards, but his face had lost its mocking gleam. She turned her head away as he approached, unwilling to be swayed by any acts of false contrition.
“Come now, Eliza. You and I are friends, are we not?”
She felt her hesitation to provide him with an honest answer. Finally, she gave him a tiny nod. Yes, they had been friends for years. He was almost like family, despite his questionable habits. Eliza couldn’t imagine that changing even if he’d overstepped with her today . . . which he absolutely had.
“Then please accept my wishes for a happy marriage.” Thomas placed a hand over his heart. “And forgive my insatiable curiosity. I do thrill at the challenge of making you blush. The women of my usual acquaintance have lost the ability, you see.”
“Let me eliminate any doubt then, Thomas,” she seethed. “I am not one of those women.”
“Duly noted, my lady,” he said with a tip of his head, staring at her a moment too long before striding past her to rejoin the gathering.
Eliza slammed the door behind him. Then she stood there, awestruck. He’d merely wished to taste her for himself before she was signed away to her husband . . . probably out of boredom. He’d done it without a thought for how it might make her feel on such a momentous night, and she hadn’t even had the foresight to see it coming. Her eyes stung with tears and she willed them away.
What does it matter? She was set to be wed soon—to a man who would never be Evanston—and no one needed to learn of this kiss. It would almost be as if it had never happened, for she was sure that Evanston knew that his neck was at risk if word got out.
Eliza heard the inexorable swing of the pendulum, the monotonous ticking and tocking as if none of this truly mattered. It didn’t matter who stole a kiss, and it didn’t matter who she married. Not really. Even though her world would change . . . had already changed . . . time would continue to slide on without a thought for anyone or anything. And all would be well.
Throwing one last final glare at the grandfather clock in the corner, she took a s
huddering breath and gathered her skirts in tense fistfuls to go join the party.
After all, there was an engagement to announce tonight.
Chapter One
Lawton Park
Spring 1846
Five years later
Thomas stretched his legs within the cramped confines of the carriage as it tilted and shuddered, heaving its way up the drive to approach Lawton Park. His friend from childhood, William, the Earl of Ashworth, stood on the front steps like some formidable sentry, appearing strangely serious as a gust of wind swept in to tease his dark blond hair.
There was the possibility that his friend’s expression might be entirely benign, and he supposed it was easier to imagine yourself in trouble when you were often up to no good. Still, the look on William’s face did give him the slightest amount of pause as the vehicle creaked to a taut recoil before him. Thomas elected to ignore his concern as the door flew open, and he stepped off the carriage with his hand extended.
“Ashworth, you’re a welcome sight,” he announced, gratified at the returning squeeze of William’s hand.
“It’s about time you paid a visit, Evanston,” answered his friend, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “I’m damned sick of your letters.”
“You’re lucky you even got those, my friend. As you well know, I’ve been busy preparing for my yearly sojourn to London.”
“Yes, and as you well know, there are business matters that must be tended to, regardless of the season and its demands.” William eyed him in annoyance. “There has been much activity with the establishment of our northern cotton mill as of late, and it’s not the type of matter that I wish to discuss over scraps of parchment.”
So this was the source of his irritation. Thomas grinned in irreverence at the earl’s displeasure. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Ashworth,” he answered lightly, “or so I’ve heard.” Patting William good-naturedly on the arm, he proceeded towards the front doors. “Shall we get the dull minutiae out of the way so we are able to enjoy ourselves tonight?”
The Viscount Can Wait Page 1