Rogues Rush In

by Tessa Dare

  They shared a wistful smile. For whatever had come to pass, their souls would always march in the same time. “You always sought to please and protect… everyone.” His biceps strained. “I do not speak that as an insult, but as a matter of fact,” she hurried to assure him. She wasn’t so petty and vindictive that she’d let her own hurts surpass all the good he’d done and tried to do. “You didn’t want to displease your father.” Which had been the inevitable outcome when he’d wed Elizabeth instead of the flawless Lady Dorinda. And what must it have done to him that he’d made an enemy of an ally of his family? That a decision he had made had visited pain upon his father? Elizabeth covered his hand with her own. “And you didn’t want to marry me.” He made a sound of protest, but Elizabeth pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing him. “You sought to protect me. It is who you are. It is what you do.” She drew in a breath, for the first time taking full ownership of that day. “I knew that and married you anyway.” It was why she’d go back with him even now, as he requested, and enter a world to which she’d never belong.

  He dropped to a knee so he could better meet her stare. “I married you because I wanted to.”

  “You married me to avoid an unwanted match with Lady Dorinda,” she gently reminded him.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. He might—they might—have played around with that memory in each of their minds over the years, but no matter how they tweaked or twisted the facts, their past could not be changed.

  “I heard it all, Crispin.” His mother had delighted in escorting her belowstairs. All the while, she’d known precisely what Elizabeth would hear when they arrived outside that door.

  “My mother?” he asked, his tones hollowed out.

  “They were your words,” she pointed out, and his ravaged gaze moved past her shoulder. Elizabeth drew in an uneven breath, but he was deserving of the whole truth. “She wanted me gone. She had the hope that your father could find a way to dissolve our marriage.” Given the concessions Crispin had made to his father, she knew that would have been a resolution he would have gladly accepted. “But if I was underfoot…” She glanced down at her bare toes. After all, it had been simple enough to explain away Elizabeth remaining a handful of days following the deaths of her parents. Their fathers had been great friends.

  A long, dark, vitriolic curse exploded from his lips and heated her ears.

  Just another change. He’d never been one given to curses.

  “What did she say?”

  Of course he was too clever. He knew there was more there.

  She met that query with silence, battling with herself, weighing the good to be had in him knowing everything.

  “Elizabeth,” he urged.

  She’d brought enough turmoil, and yet, he was entitled to the truth.

  “Your father threatened to end your fellowship at Oxford if I didn’t agree to an annulment.”

  The quiet statement doused the room in a heavy silence.

  “What?” he asked, his tone as blank as his stare.

  Termed an indulgence, no different than a young lord’s appreciation of horseflesh and carousing, the late Duke of Huntington had failed to see that, for Crispin, the thirst for learning had driven him. It had never been a mere diversion or pursuit where his interest would one day fade. “They needed me gone as quickly as possible, so they could begin the proceedings for an annulment.” She briefly closed her eyes. “Except, there was no guardian.” Elizabeth and Crispin had both known as much. That freedom was what had allowed them to marry without requiring approval for her then-seven-and-ten-year-old self.

  “They knew where you were,” he said, each syllable stretched out by horror, fury, and shock. “At Mrs. Belden’s?”

  “Dissolving a marriage, it turns out, is a challenge for even an all-powerful duke. When that became apparent…” She still hadn’t returned, recalling that unexpected visit.

  The ducal carriage. The golden crest upon it.

  And the too brief hope about who would step out of that conveyance, only to be swamped by a crippling disappointment.

  His face twisted in a ravaged mask that squeezed her own heart. “That is why you left,” he said, his voice stark, his cheeks draining of the last of their color. “To protect me.”

  Elizabeth forced a tight nod, maintaining a thin grasp on all control of her emotions.

  “It was the least I could have done for the sacrifice you made. You gave me your name, your hand, your protection. I’d not take your happiness, too.”

  Crispin pressed his palms briefly to his face “It wasn’t their life to interfere with.”

  What must it do to Crispin for him to learn his life had been manipulated by those who’d given him life?

  Her parents had only ever supported her. They’d indulged their aberrant bluestocking daughter. There’d never been conditions attached to their acceptance and love of her. But then, they’d not been born with the blood of nobles flowing in their veins. Who could say what they might have done or become had their circumstances been different?

  Emotion blazed to life in Crispin’s eyes. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”

  That charge took her aback. “I did it for—”

  “For me,” he gritted out, surging to his feet. “You made a decision for the both of us, without any discussion. I was your husband.” Elizabeth leaned back, unsteadied by the volatile emotion pouring from his frame. “And more than that, you were my friend, and never once did you ask me what I wanted.”

  “I heard what you wanted.” She squared her shoulders, bringing them back. “Rather, I heard what you didn’t want.” Me.

  That hung between them, throbbing with a life force of emotion.

  Crispin’s cheeks leached of color. “That was never true,” he whispered.

  And yet, it had been spoken.

  Elizabeth pressed her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. They could run around in circles debating each decision, word, action, or inaction, and nothing would change. The past would remain unchanged by regrets. Letting her arms fall, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Crispin,” she said gently. “You never made me promises of anything more than a marriage of convenience. Freedom for the both of us from uncertain futures.” Hers, which would have always been precarious. His fate and future, however, had been set. She hugged her arms to herself. “It would have been wrong of me to expect anything more.” And so… she hadn’t. Instead, she’d left.

  His gaze blank, Crispin started on unsteady legs for the front of the room. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle.

  She stared after him, wanting him to stay, wanting to return to the easy friendship they’d once shared. But one could not turn back time to undo regrets and heartache.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “I did not mean to hurt you. I would lop off my own arm before I would ever bring you suffering.”

  She swallowed hard. “I know.” Her voice emerged whisper-soft to her own ears.

  His heated gaze seared her, and for the span of a moment, she thought he’d say more… about her… about them, together.

  But then, without another word, he left.

  Chapter 11

  The following morning, Crispin sat at a corner table in the increasingly crowded taproom. He rolled his shoulders. His entire body ached from several days of uninterrupted riding. And of course there had been a sleepless night spent on the hard floor after he’d returned to his and Elizabeth’s shared rooms.

  Though, in fairness, there’d been little indication that she had found rest last evening either.

  And how could they have?

  With a cup of coffee cradled between his fingers, Crispin stared across the establishment to the fire blazing in the hearth.

  Around him, laughter echoed off the cracked plaster ceilings while patrons raised their voices over one another, competing to be heard in the noisy din. The cheerful ease of this place stood in contradiction to the tumult Elizabeth had unleashed last evening.
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  All time had ceased to matter, blurring under the weight of realization.

  She’d heard the words he’d uttered long ago to the thunderous Duke of Huntington.

  The carefully crafted words—meant to assuage a displeased father so Crispin could maintain his fellowship and set himself and Elizabeth on a smoother path as husband and wife—had been heard… by her.

  He tossed back a long swallow, his throat muscles working quickly, the warm, bitter brew stinging his throat, a welcome discomfort.

  They’d been words uttered in cowardice when he should have told his parents to go to hell if they weren’t content with his decision. But he’d always sought to minimize conflict and maintain peace. And that one instance shattered the special bond he and Elizabeth had shared and sent her into flight.

  All these years, he’d been filled with resentment and questions. Always questions and more questions. All unanswered, with everything going back to Elizabeth’s senseless betrayal.

  Crispin swirled the remaining contents of his cup in a slow circle, studying the cyclonic twist.

  Now, everything made sense. Too much. A once murky situation was now vividly bright in its clarity, and Crispin was the one truly guilty of treachery.

  Frustration roiling in his chest, he set his drink down hard.

  Surely she’d known he’d not truly regretted taking her as his bride. They’d been each other’s perfect counterpart, balancing each other and bringing out their best, while knowing laughter and happiness.

  He’d not properly appreciated that joy until she’d gone, and taken every reason to smile along with her.

  How would they go on now? Together… or each of them alone?

  She wants nothing to do with you, in any way. Her disdain was so strong that she preferred living at Mrs. Belden’s, imparting lessons on topics she’d always despised.

  And why should she? She’d married a damned coward.

  Shame pitted low in his gut.

  It didn’t matter that he’d only just turned one and twenty when they married. He hadn’t been a boy, but rather, a man who could have fought his parents on the union they sought between him and Lady Dorinda. Ultimately, however, that mutually beneficial agreement he’d presented to a then-seven-and-ten-year-old Elizabeth had come from an actual yearning to have her as his wife.

  He’d wanted to spend forever with her, because there’d never been anyone whose company he’d craved more.

  Elizabeth, however, hadn’t expressed any romantic feelings for him, so he’d appealed to her logic.

  And last evening, when she’d revealed the truth of his parents’ machinations, he’d wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to tell her that she’d always owned his heart, but to give her those words now would have rung hollow and false. Nay, she had no reason to believe a single statement uttered from his lips.

  A shadow fell over his table, and he looked up.

  Brambly bowed his head. “The trunks are loaded in the carriage, Your Grace.”

  Crispin glanced over at the stairwell. “Thank you, Brambly.” The servant nodded and hurried off.

  Soon, they’d depart and make the rest of the journey to the beginning of the end of their relationship.

  That realization left him empty inside. Nay, you’ve been empty since she left.

  Crispin made to return his attention to his drink when a lone figure in the corner of the tavern caught his notice.

  Head bent over a book, the lad could not be more than two-and-ten years of age. With his crimson curls unevenly cropped at the nape of his neck and a pair of too large round spectacles perched on his nose, he drew forth images of a child who could have been. A boy or girl several years younger, but no less devoted to his or her books and studies.

  A child who would not be.

  But he or she could…

  That enticing thought whispered around his mind, and he clung to it, entertaining the possibility.

  Why couldn’t they begin again? With the past now laid bare between them and the secrets explained, they could renew the friendship they’d once cherished and start anew as husband and wife.

  Elizabeth had left to save him. She’d spoken of their friendship. She’d not ever indicated there was anything more between them. Not even last evening. But her kiss had hinted at more.

  “You empty-headed arse.” The shout cut through the din of the tavern and his own musings. Crispin sharpened his gaze and found the innkeeper hovering over the bookish boy. “Enough with those books.” He brought a hand up and thumped the boy on the back of his head.

  Fury pumped through him, bringing Crispin to his feet. “You there,” he barked.

  The room fell silent as several serving girls stepped aside, allowing Crispin a wide berth.

  His brow wrinkled with confusion, the innkeeper glanced around. The rail-thin lad behind him dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “What is this about?” Crispin demanded, stopping in front of the pair.

  The balding proprietor shoved the boy between the shoulder blades. His cheeks blanched of color, but then, he quickly found his footing. “Nothing to worry after here, your lordship,” he assured, before directing his annoyance again at the child. “Off with you,” he mumbled, swiping up the forgotten leather book. Its pages yellow, its bindings fraying, the book had been well-read and showed its age. “I don’t tolerate idle ones about.” He slapped the small tome against the back of the child’s head.

  Crimson rage descended over Crispin’s vision.

  Shoulders hunched, the child made to step around him.

  “That will be all,” Crispin commanded on a frosty whisper.

  The innkeeper’s enormous Adam’s apple moved.

  Settling a gentle hand on the boy’s small, narrow shoulder, Crispin guided him to a stop. “Is this the manner in which you treat your children?” he demanded of the proprietor.

  “He i-isn’t my boy, your l-lordship,” he stammered. Doffing his hat, he dusted it along his damp brow. “He’s my wife’s nephew. We took him in. He’s a mouth to feed, and he’ll do his part. Everyone who wants a bed and place to rest does. He’ll not have a—”

  Crispin raised a silencing hand, effectively cutting off the other man’s ramblings.

  He trained all his attention on the young boy. Except now, up close, he recognized his earlier assessment had been off. There was the hint of fuzz on the boy’s upper lip, hinting that he was on the cusp of manhood.

  “Look at his lordship,” the proprietor barked.

  Crispin shot him a hard look, and the other man instantly fell back. Shoulders slumped, the child lifted his eyes.

  Tired. Downtrodden. Fearful.

  They were Crispin’s eyes… but long ago.

  “A duke’s son, are you? If you’re so powerful, then this shouldn’t hurt.”

  Crispin’s gut clenched in remembered pain from the fists that had pummeled the breath from his lungs. He’d cried in a corner when everyone at Eton had slept on. Longing for home. For family. For Elizabeth. “What is your name?” he asked quietly.

  “Neville Barlow, Your Grace.”

  The innkeeper’s brows shot to his receding hairline. “A duke?” Spreading his arms wide, he dropped a deferential bow suited for the king.

  Ignoring him, Crispin focused on Neville’s latter words. “How did you ascertain I am a duke?” Unlike his mother, who insisted on displaying her status in her travels, Crispin had always preferred the anonymity afforded a simple “lord,” to the fawning and pomp and circumstance that met a duke’s every movement.

  Neville lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug. “Your driver, Your Grace, referred to you as such earlier.”

  The lad was clever and perceptive… and his spirit and soul would be as crushed as Crispin’s had been at Eton if he remained here with his uncle.

  “Give Mr. Barlow his book.” He issued the directive without so much as a glance for the innkeeper. When it was passed back to the boy’s hands, Crispin motioned to it. “May I?�
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  Neville hesitated and then gave it over.

  Crispin examined the gilded title.

  “The Present Practice of Justices of the Peace and a Complete Parish Library,” the boy murmured, his voice cracking.

  “His Grace can read it for himself,” the proprietor snapped.

  “That will be all,” Crispin clipped out.

  Neville turned to go.

  “I was speaking to your uncle.”

  Splotches of red suffused the innkeeper’s cheeks. Then, with a bow, he shuffled off.

  The other man forgotten, Crispin lifted the book. “You are interested in law?”

  “My father was a barrister,” he explained, his voice threadbare.

  Crispin perched his hip on the edge of the table and examined the brown leather copy. “The book belonged to him, then.”

  Neville shuffled back and forth on his feet. “He insisted I read it.”

  “Is that why you’re doing so now?” He waved the book lightly. “Because you were expected to do what your father did? Or is it because you enjoy the topic?” Such had served as the basis of Crispin’s own existence. It had been broken up into his eventual ascension to the Huntington title… and everything else. Elizabeth had fallen into that hated latter category, when she’d deserved so much more… including a husband who would have cherished her and fought for her, if need be, in ways that Crispin had not.