How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3

by Katharine Ashe

  “Miss Lucas, it is not advisable for a lady to travel by night on a public coach, with or without escort.” His stance was so purposeful now, entirely unlike the unobtrusive man on the coach. She felt his command of the situation very oddly inside her, as she had felt his studying gaze.

  “By which you mean Mr. Sausage Fingers may pose a threat to me.”

  “By which I mean that if you are wise you will not board another coach until the morning and instead enjoy a comfortable night’s sleep here at this respectable inn.”

  She seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing delicately. Once more her gaze flickered up and down him, as a man might inspect a horse for purchase, and her berry lips twisted in that partial purse which was not unbecoming—rather the opposite, enhancing the bow and puffing out her lower lip.

  “You cannot convince me that you would be unable to best him in a fight.” She glanced at his shoulders, then his hands.

  “The question is not whether I would be able to, Miss Lucas, but whether I would wish to place myself in the position of being required to.”

  “I see.” Her gaze seemed fixed on his right hand, and a slight flush rose in her cheeks. “What have you done with your gloves, Mr. Yale?”

  “I was obliged to discard them earlier today.” A hedonist at the party had stubbed a burning cheroot into the palm of one of the gloves. Wyn particularly disliked that stain. “Will you sit?” He gestured to her dinner.

  “I suppose I am tired and would appreciate a rest.” Her brow unpleated and she turned her blue eyes upon him. “Will we hire rooms, then? I have never done so myself.”

  “It will be my greatest honor.” He bowed.

  She smiled, the dimples dipping her cheeks anew. Then her eyes widened. “Oh! My luggage!”

  “I have taken the liberty of having it moved to a private chamber for you already.”

  “When you went out?” She blinked. “I may forgive you for not asking my permission to do so. Eventually. But I think you must have some experience traveling.”

  “Some.” On several continents.

  “So I will trust you about the folly of taking the coach at night.” Her look grew sober. “But I do wish to get on with my quest as swiftly as possible.” She sat, waited for him to do the same, and took up her fork again. “I haven’t much time. I was only expected to be at Brennon Manor for four weeks, and two are already used up.”

  “Quest? Then, no scorned suitor to be avoided?”

  She screwed up her brows, a look that suggested his question had lowered her opinion of his intelligence. “I already told you I am not running away from anybody. Rather, toward.”

  “Toward whom?”

  “My mother.” She peered at him closely. “Do you know about my mother?”

  “Only that she does not reside in your stepfather’s home and is no longer in society.” And that she’d had something shadowy to do with a treasonous lord’s hasty exile to the Continent years earlier. But that had been Leam’s business, and at the time Wyn had his own demons to battle and little time to pursue his friends’ interests.

  Miss Lucas swallowed a mouthful of roast, her throat working above the unexceptionably modest neckline of her gown. It was a movement so mundane yet so enticingly feminine that he removed his attention from the sight to the bottle by his hand. The jittering thirst in his blood had relaxed with the first glass and disappeared entirely with the second. He poured a third. He never resorted to carrying a flask, but the last hour of the coach’s swaying and rocking had driven his edginess unendurably high.

  “She left four years ago, mere days before my fifteenth birthday.” She took a sip of tea. “It had something to do with my elder sisters and my brother, Tracy, but I don’t know precisely what, and everybody was glad to have her gone. She was not a nice person, if you will take my word for it.”

  “I shall, if you wish it.”

  She met his gaze for a moment, the lapis shining. “In any case, my stepfather never speaks of her now, nor does anyone else. It is as though she simply vanished into air.”

  “Remarkable,” he murmured.

  “Isn’t it?”

  It would be, perhaps, if his own history did not bear out the believability of such a thing. In over fourteen years, since the sudden death of his mother, Wyn had not seen or corresponded with his father and brothers.

  “But I know she has not.” Miss Lucas cut into her roast with greater force now. “When she first left, I asked after her. Papa—my stepfather—said she went off to live with relatives in the North.” Her thick lashes darted up. “She has not. Or at least if she did then, she is no longer there. You see, several months ago I broke into my father’s writing desk.”

  “How intrepid of you.”

  “Truly. I have done all sorts of wicked things in my life, things that made my governesses weep and pull out their hair, although not literally of course, except that once but really that was an accident. In any case, I have been troublesome, but I have never stolen anything. But she is my mother, and Papa will say nothing and frankly I am entitled to know something of her, don’t you agree?”

  “You must wish it quite sincerely.”

  “That was not an answer to my question, of course. I am not a hair-for-brains, Mr. Yale.”

  “I would never say so.”

  “And I didn’t actually steal the letters. I only read them.” Her slender brows cocked and a mischievous gleam flickered in the blue. “So I haven’t sinned. Really.”

  The abrupt image of her actually sinning compelled him to reach for his glass again. “Where then is your mother?”

  She set down her fork and a sweet smile slipped across her lips. “You are so refreshing to speak with, Mr. Yale. Papa never seems to know what I’m talking about and Mr. H allows me to go on and on without responding. But you are different. You seem to know.”

  Yes. He knew it would be to his advantage to put this girl on a northbound coach and wipe his hands of her as soon as possible. The innkeeper appeared by their table, saving Wyn from being obliged to willfully remove his attention once again from her pretty neck.

  “My best two chambers are ready upstairs for you and your sister, sir, when you wish. Will you be taking supper, then?”

  “Bring him the roast. He will be in heaven.” She closed her berry lips around another forkful.

  Wyn dragged his gaze away and stood. “My sister would like to retire directly. She is fatigued after the day’s travel.”

  “But you really must eat some—”

  “I will take supper in my room.” He gestured her toward the stairs.

  Upon the landing the innkeeper proffered him two keys. “This is for the lady’s, sir, and this one is for yours there. I’ll have the maid pop in to assist the lady now, and I’ll send your supper up right straight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do thank your wife for her delicious roast and pudding, please, sir.” Her smile sparkled.

  The innkeeper beamed. “I’ll do that, miss.”

  She watched after him down the hall. “I suppose it was a good idea for you to tell him I am your sister. But anyone can see we look nothing like one another.” She met his gaze, her blue eyes clean and clear and without guile.

  It was true. They were nothing alike, but far beyond the accidents of hair and features. She claimed to be wicked, but her face radiated honesty and goodwill. Her behavior mirrored it—taking the crying infant upon her lap for the afternoon’s journey, and offering liberal praise for a simple meal. How a mother could leave such a daughter upon the threshold of womanhood, he hadn’t an idea.

  “Where is your mother, Miss Lucas?”

  “Calais.”

  Intrepid, indeed. “You intend to cross the Channel after her?”

  “Yes. She seems to be living with a dozen or so young women. She would have my father believe they are Catholic nuns and that she needs money to help them do handicrafts to sell at the market, which is why she wrote to him. But I am not so
naïve as all that. I think she is running a school.”

  He measured his response. “A school?”

  Her lips twisted. “No. I said that to see how you would react, and I am really quite impressed. Of course I shouldn’t know about such things, but Teresa Finch-Freeworth is very helpful.” She smiled, gently now. “But you would never reveal your shock over my impropriety. You are a true gentleman, Mr. Yale.”

  “Why hasn’t your stepfather gone after her?”

  “Because he does not care for her.” Her gaze skittered away.

  It was inconvenient. She was inconvenient, a pretty bundle of good intentions and old hurt, the latter which he could see quite plainly in her wide eyes no matter what she claimed. And now she had this indignity to bear of her mother’s new profession, if it could be believed.

  “Miss Lucas, I cannot allow you to continue on this journey.”

  Her gaze shot to him. “What?”

  “I cannot—”

  “No, no, I heard what you said. I am merely flabbergasted.”

  “I know not whether to be flattered or insulted by your surprise, ma’am.”

  “Oh. Of course. I beg your pardon, sir.” She seemed to recall herself, and rather swiftly at that. She studied him for a moment, then released a little sigh. But she had no air of crestfallen disappointment about her, a look Wyn had seen on the faces of females often enough in his work over the past ten years. This was no doubt a game to her more than anything else. Perhaps she’d wished only to have a brief adventure and even now secretly welcomed his intervention.

  “I suppose you have learned which coach will return me to my friend’s house?” she asked quietly.

  “It departs tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “There will be time for breakfast then. I do so dislike traveling on an empty stomach.” Her voice had quieted.

  “It is for the best, Miss Lucas.”

  She seemed thoughtful for a moment. “The public coach is uncomfortable. I might not have been able to bear it all the way to Bristol, anyway.” She offered him a small sigh that lifted her breasts. “Well, then, good night, sir. Thank you for your assistance.” She held out her hand, he placed the key in it, and she went inside.

  Wyn returned to the taproom and the remainder of the bottle of brandy.

  Diantha leaned up against the inside of her door, a peculiarly empty sensation in her stomach. Her gaze scanned the little bedchamber without interest. She had traveled so rarely, she should be charmed to bits over this turn of events: a night in a real posting house after the most scrumptious dinner possible, in the company of a true gentleman.

  And now she knew where she had gone wrong again. Not her plan this time, but her notions of what a man could be.

  A true gentleman could not be a hero. A true gentleman would, before all else, care for propriety and society’s standards and—most importantly, devastatingly—a lady’s welfare.

  She was not a ninnyhammer, and only a ninnyhammer would fail to see that this journey was not in her welfare. She would be on the road for weeks without a proper chaperone and now not even a maid, and she would complete her travels at a French brothel. As a real gentleman, Mr. Yale had one recourse only: to escort her back to where she belonged. He could not be her hero. Not this time. On this occasion, gentleman and hero were incompatible.

  She should descend to the taproom now and look about for another hero. There must be at least one among the crowd of farmers and villagers. Or she could take the next leg of her journey alone and hope to come across a hero along the road ahead.

  The coach schedule affixed to the wall beside the front door had been easy enough to memorize while she was eating and explaining her quest to Mr. Yale. The Shrewsbury Coach would come through at quarter past five o’clock in the morning. She would be on it. She would find her mother and, finally, speak with her.

  Diantha removed her outer garments and when the maid appeared she sent her away with a penny. Then she lay down on the soft little cot topped with the nicest quilt she’d seen and stared at the ceiling. The white paint was riddled with cracks, like her thinking on the matter of heroes.

  The trouble was, it seemed to her that if any man could be a true hero, it would certainly be Mr. Yale. But perhaps there were no such paragons of epic honor and nobility in the present era. There was no such thing, after all, as the sort of love all those old stories described, the sort between a man and a woman who fell into the most sublime devotion and lived happily ever after. Both of her mother’s marriages proved that to be a myth, not to mention Lady Finch-Freeworth and Sir Terrence’s tepid alliance. It was true that her sister and stepsisters seemed content with their husbands, but there were a lot of money and carriages and houses involved. For pity’s sake, Serena was now a countess, so of course she was happy.

  But their brother, Tracy, avoided marriage, and Diantha couldn’t doubt why. True love was a fiction of legends. And so too heroes must be.

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the handsome man she would be leaving behind who was—however wonderful—only a man, after all.

  Chapter 4

  By eleven o’clock Wyn could nearly see the bottom of the bottle. This was not due to his excellent vision.

  The taproom was still crowded, the inn the favorite local haunt of townsfolk and farm laborers celebrating the end of the harvest. Too much festivity for his tastes at present. Pushing the last of the brandy away, he pressed to his feet and wove his way through tables of boisterous men to the door to the mews. The horses must be checked. Bedding must be dry. The stall must be mucked—even by him, if need be. He’d done it plenty of times before he’d even had a horse of his own.

  The night without was black, a single lamp illuminating the entrance to the stable. He crossed the pebbly drive, boots splashing, and slid open the door. He stepped inside and closed the panel, shutting out the muffled sounds of merriment in the inn and the light from the drive.

  Not a yard away, a breath hitched in the darkness. A light sound, and high.

  And then she cast herself at him.

  She was perfectly curved where his hands met and clasped her waist, and quivering. Her breaths came fast against his chin.

  Then he did what he would not have done if he had not consumed an inch shy of the contents of a bottle of brandy in the course of three hours, or if he had employed all his senses at that moment, not only his starved sense of touch—for instance, his sense of smell, which would have told him that he did not hold a barmaid in his hands: He pulled her against him. What else did a wench intend of a man deep in his cups when she threw herself at him in the dark so close upon midnight?

  She gasped and stiffened. Then she pressed her cheek to his jaw and breathed, “Help me.”

  If not for the lurching crash that sounded down the row of stalls, and the rough curse from that direction, Wyn would have behaved quite differently at this moment as well, even deep in his cups.

  He did not release Miss Lucas, though every corner of his muddled mind shouted at him to do so. Instead he turned to shield her with his body, pressed her back against the wall, and whispered into her ear, “Put your arms about me and be still.”

  She obeyed. It took no effort to hold her and ready his stance at once. She was soft, and now that he had engaged all his senses—God she smelled good—and he was more accustomed to being at a ready stance than not. He drew up the hood of her cloak and his hand brushed curls silky as butter.

  Heavy footsteps advanced.

  “Where are you, my pretty poppy?” a thick voice slurred. “Come out like a good girl, or I’ll be none too happy when I find you.”

  Miss Lucas’s body gave a little shudder. Wyn bent his head, hiding her more fully in case the man’s vision should be accustomed to the dark. He could confront him, but the tread suggested a large fellow, and Wyn was admittedly not at his best with a quart of brandy beneath his belt and no food for days.

  The footsteps shuffled on the straw and came to a h
alt.

  “What’s this?” A pause. “Oh, beg pardon, old chap. Just looking for my own bit of skirt, don’t you know.”

  “Sod off, ‘old chap.’ ” Wyn had no trouble roughening his voice. The caress of her tender earlobe across his lips had rendered his throat a desert.

  The man muttered and clomped to the door, slid it open, then threw it shut behind him.

  She ejected a relieved sigh and her fingers loosened their grip on his back. But Wyn did not release his captive. The brandy in his veins would not allow it. Her soft breasts pressed into his chest and her scent tangled in his murky head. With the danger passed, now he felt the woman in his arms, her warm, slight body that yielded so easily to his, so naturally. He shifted his hands, slipping them down her back, the long, graceful sweep of her spine beneath his fingertips like the rounded rocks upon the floor of a brook, and he felt woman. Woman, young and soft and beautiful and alive, her pulse thrumming through her trembling body.

  She sucked in breath again and shifted in his hold to push him away. But he was not finished. He held her firmly, the blood rushing in his ears like wind as he curved his palm over the arc of a perfect, feminine buttock.

  “Mr. Yale,” she whispered upon a gasp. “You must stop.”

  Because even a bottle of brandy could not topple what years of training had built, he put her off and stepped back. It was no less dim in the stable, but his eyes had accommodated the dark, and he saw her. He smelled her and heard her, her light, quick breaths amidst the shiftings and snorts of the animals.

  It had become something of a challenge to stand; he leaned against a stall door.

  “What, pray tell, Miss Lucas”—he formed the words carefully—“are you doing in this stable?”

  “Hiding from him. But he found me. Just—Just as you did.” Her voice was thinner than earlier, and rushed.

  “Forgive my ill manners, ma’am. At present I am somewhat—”

  “Foxed.”

  “—indisposed.”

  “Teresa said men in their cups can be amorous even when they do not intend it.”