To Wed A Rebel
Page 1
It was done, they were bound, all was finished…
A fighter, a drinker and a notorious seducer, Isaac Roscoe was the last man that innocent Ruth Osbourne would ever consider as a husband – but that was before Roscoe ruined her prospects and reputation!
Now destitute and disinherited Ruth is faced with an impossible choice: a life on the streets or exchanging vows with the man who put her there. Yet, knowing that marriage was Roscoe’s last wish, Ruth knew her revenge would be best served by saddling him with a reluctant wife.
Determined to punish Isaac for his actions Ruth will stop at nothing to destroy him, body and spirit. Until it becomes clear that nothing she can do will hurt her disloyal husband more than he can hurt himself…
To Wed a Rebel
Sophie Dash
www.CarinaUK.com
SOPHIE DASH is usually found chained to a laptop in her David Bowie pyjamas, with a spaniel dribbling on her feet, a pen in her hair and biscuit crumbs across her keyboard. She has a cardboard cut-out of Spock in her basement, knows all the words to Disney’s The Little Mermaid and has seen Pride and Prejudice more times than you. Follow her on Twitter @TheSophieDash
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Author Bio
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
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
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Four
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Excerpt
Endpages
Copyright
Prologue
Soup-thick smoke pressed against the tavern walls, beer-soaked straw lay matted upon the flagstones, and all the furniture was as chipped, stained and weathered as the drunks who nursed their tankards around it. The Navigation was packed with rowdy customers after the evening’s boxing match beside the docks: celebrations, commiserations and coins were exchanged in abundance. Amongst all the filth was one individual who did not belong. The merchant’s birdlike features were scrunched up in distaste and his fine coat was crumpled with travel, dotted with Bristol Harbour’s rain, and smudged with the coal-smoke scents that dirtied the night. A man in his middling years, he shuffled cautiously past unkind faces and vulgar scenes, with a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, as though it would protect him from catching the ill repute that hung about the place as stubbornly as its grime.
“Roscoe,” he muttered to a barkeep. “Where?”
A rag was waved towards a corner occupied by three shapes. False female laughter could be heard, accompanied by a lower, amused tone. Lounging in between two women was a bruised and bloodied man. There was a cut above his eye and marks along his knuckles. Dark hair flopped across his forehead, mussed and damp, while yesterday’s five o’clock shadow had stolen away any sign that he was ever once a gentleman.
“Ladies, I’ve already told you,” said Isaac Roscoe, with an easy manner and a cocky smile, “I cannot afford your company tonight.”
“Don’t be cruel,” replied one, stocky and comely, her skin goose-pimpled from the chill and how little she wore. “You threw that fight. Got paid well for it an’ all. That’s what they’re all saying at the docks.”
“Then you better tell me who’s spreading those little lies, Mags,” he said into her ear, a deep purr that had the desired effect: lust and not a little fear. “That’d be bad for my business and for yours as well…” Isaac trailed off, his brown eyes snapping up when he found his conversation was no longer private. The merchant was hovering awkwardly nearby and stole away his easy mood. “We’ll finish this later, loves.”
Mags pressed her mouth to the cut on his lip, pulling a wince from him. “Be sure you do.”
The women were dismissed with a lingering smile that faded the instant they had gone.
The two men were left alone.
Isaac leaned across the table. “Do you have the money, Griswell?”
“You shall get it when I have what I want,” said the merchant, unwilling to sit down, lean on or touch any surface. “I want the happy couple broken up. I want that Osbourne girl put in her place.”
“She will be,” promised Roscoe, with a flash of teeth. “You know my reputation; I’ve never failed before.”
Money will buy you anything: flesh, sin and ruin. Isaac Roscoe knew his talents and others knew them, bought them – to use against others. He’d seduced his victims across the British Isles. He’d made a name for himself, yet not enough to limit his activities. It had made him a pretty penny and it would make him even more in the coming months.
“I have expenses,” Isaac continued. “I can hardly tempt a respectable woman while looking like a vagabond, can I?”
The logic was begrudgingly sound and Griswell threw a few slips of paper towards the younger man. “You’ll get the rest when my daughter is wed to that rich fool and not before.”
Isaac held a feral grin that bordered on dangerous. “That’s not what we agreed.”
“It isn’t, and yet you’ll still do as I command because you’re desperate,” sniffed the merchant. “If you won’t do it, Roscoe, I’ll find another who will.”
Pride almost won out. It compelled Isaac to refuse, to use his practised fists, to beat down the upper-class crow who gave him orders as though he were little better than the women whose warmth still remained in the cushions beside him.
“I want the girl ruined, I want the engagement called off, and I want my family tied with the Pembrokes. Those damn Osbournes don’t deserve to be connected to a family like the Pembrokes.” A hand was thrust towards Isaac, speckled and veined. “Do you understand me?”
Reluctantly, Isaac nodded, feeling Griswell’s cold rings bite into his palm. “Consider it done.”
The deal was made, a small sum was exchanged, and a woman was doomed to fall.
Part One
Chapter One
Ruth
Dresses made from Indian shawls, bright textiles, exotic dishes and flickering torches had turned Vauxhall Gardens into a far-off paradise. Summer had arrived and the evening was blissfully mild as it drew its night-time veil across London. The social season was coming to a close, with the wealthier classes hosting a few final balls and bashes, before vanishing to their country manors for cleaner air and better sport.
Against the vibrant backdrop, Ruth Osbourne was ill-placed. She was fresh from Miss Lamont’s Academy for Young Ladies and looked it: overwhelmed, unworldly and wide-eyed against the perfect, practised flirtations that the other women around her were well-versed in. Even Lottie, her dearest friend and fellow former pupil, managed to acclimatise herself far better at the grand party, which had been thrown by a rich earl with too much money, too little sense, and a thirst for fame.
“You miss the little ones, don’t you?” It was more an accusation than a question from Lottie. Ever since they’d gained their freedom, the bolder woman had been all too keen to forget she’d
ever been sheltered from such an exciting social life. Ruth, on the other hand, kept looking back.
“There will be no one to look after them,” said Ruth quietly. “Miss Lamont isn’t kind.”
“That is an understatement.” Lottie snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her fingers. Well-bred ladies did not snort and she was determined that people would view her as one, even if her father had earned his money through trade. “They will have to look after themselves from now on.”
“Like you did?”
Lottie quietened then, expression softening. Back when they were younger, in the first days in the academy’s halls, Ruth had found Lottie hiding in a wardrobe, in pieces after a stern lecture from Miss Lamont. They were familiar to one another through their family acquaintances, but were far too different in temperament to strike up a natural friendship. At the academy, that had changed, for there was no one else. Lottie’s hands had held red, angry lines from the wooden rod their captor and instructor always carried with her. Young Ruth had not spoken and had simply scrunched herself up, in the empty corner opposite Lottie, their knees touching under their plain dresses, because she believed no one should be sad alone. They had been friends ever since.
“I never imagined it would be so wild,” said Lottie, as odd, trilling music met their ears.
It was like drowning. Ruth missed the academy’s halls, the little girls, the structure and routine. She missed knowing everything, being the one others turned to, an authority figure. Here, in London, she was a nobody and she knew nothing. The book smarts and collected air she held were no longer assets. Cleverness, she had been repeatedly told, was wasted in a woman. And worse still, she had never even spoken to a man – at least not one her age. Uncle Osbourne and their stuffy few friends and relatives did not count. But it was not as though any man would give her a second glance in her attire.
The cream summer dress Ruth wore was ill-fitting, layered with faded lace, and the gloves along her arms would not stay put. The lacklustre colour washed out her complexion and made her look like an old bag, not a young woman. Lottie had picked it out and it wasn’t ever worth the grief to argue, especially not when she relied on Lottie for so much. The dress would look stunning on the redhead, for she was taller, angular and sharper. On Ruth, her curves, attractive figure and her prettiness were concealed. Back at Miss Lamont’s, Lottie hadn’t given a fig what Ruth wore, though her expression had always darkened if Ruth was complimented for her attractive vulpine features and her long, chestnut hair.
“I feel ridiculous,” said Ruth quietly. “Everyone else is wearing all those bright clothes and I look like a ghoul in comparison. I thought you said they would all be dressed for a garden party, not a real ball.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” Lottie clung to her elbow, eyes dancing, red tresses piled high and coiled in a turquoise turban that matched her dress. She looked exceptional, more so because her companion did not. “In no time, you will be married and running your own house in Russell Square.”
“I can hardly believe it,” confessed Ruth, truthfully. “I haven’t seen Albert since we were children and now I am to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Do not make me jealous.”
“What if we are not suited to one another?”
“It doesn’t matter – he’s rich.” And they both knew that Ruth was not. “He’s clearly besotted. He wrote to you, did he not?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Once.”
It had been a short, bashful note about their combined futures in a clumsy script. The other girls at the academy had squealed and clucked upon finding the letter and told Ruth how wonderful it would be, how lucky she was, and what a fine lady she would make.
I miss them, she thought. And, selfishly, she missed who she was to them: a leader, an anchor. She had always taken charge, always known what to do, always been the one to save the day.
But now I need saving…
Soon she’d have Albert – and soon, she reminded herself, life would be better. She’d find her feet again, she’d be happy again, she wouldn’t feel so lost, for he’d always find her. Isn’t that what love was about? And, more importantly, it was what Uncle Osbourne wanted.
“Father,” said Lottie, turning to the beady-eyed figure trailing behind them. “Can we go and see the animals? Gosh, can you hear them? How do the people in those far-off places tolerate them? Scales and claws – ghastly. I would have them all killed on sight. I bet they’re beastly to touch. Oh, and look! There are little canal boats. Now that is sweet. We must ride them, we must.”
“Not by yourselves,” replied Mr Griswell, bored and uninterested in all he surveyed. If he was not growing his finances and merchant business, he was not happy. The only time he ever seemed to show real emotion was when money was involved. At least Uncle Osbourne was not like that. Yes, he was reserved, strict and practical to a fault, but he was not as waspish or as spiteful as Lottie’s father seemed to be. Uncle Osbourne had reluctantly taken Ruth in, a skinny child, at five. He had never wanted children; he had never wanted a family. He only enjoyed his work. He thought people were too complicated and a child was an added difficulty he had never anticipated. But a poor relation – especially a young girl – in the workhouse would reflect poorly on his own status. Besides, he’d promised his brother to protect the child and it was, without a doubt, bad form to argue with a dying man. When Ruth arrived, her uncle put in place numerous rules about being quiet, about fitting in around his life, about being as unassuming as possible. Ruth was good at it, for she’d remembered all her mother had said to her in the last few days of her life: “Never be a burden, my darling.” And she never had.
What little money her father and mother had passed down to her went on her education, and it was a good education. She had made friends in the classroom and she had excelled. Beyond the academy, no one cared about how well she wrote in Latin or her knowledge about geography. No, to be a woman, one had to know the right way to wave a fan, to wear the latest dress, to flirt. Ruth’s face went red at the thought. Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting: it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself. Even if, at times, the prospect seemed…exciting.
She kept her gaze focused on the assembled guests, lest anyone approach her and expect her to be a real woman, to be like Lottie. “You should stop being so shy,” Lottie had always chided her, “You should be more like me.” But it wasn’t shyness, it was a constant fear, a knowledge that if she spoke up, if she tried, she’d do something wrong. And there was so, so much that could go wrong, especially at a large party such as this.
“I wish we were back at the academy,” she whispered to her friend.
Lottie only rolled her eyes. “You would.”
Mr Griswell ushered the two young women towards a small group who were stood a safe distance away from the performers. Flame conjurers gave the air a smoky smell, their bare feet skimming along the grass as they danced, shining with sweat, nerves like steel.
“There’s too many damned people here,” said the merchant, inclining his head towards Ruth’s uncle, Mr Osbourne, and a stout young man with them. The latter had lemon-coloured hair and an expression equally as sour.
“It isn’t decent. It’s no place for a woman, but I do not intend to stay long,” agreed Osbourne. “I have two gentlemen to pay respects to, then we go.” Business, as usual, was the order of the day.
“That’s him, that’s Albert Pembroke,” whispered Ruth, needlessly pointing to the younger man. “Do you think he will recognise me?”
Four steps away was her future husband. His belly pressed against his waistcoat and his blond whiskers stuck out from his round, ruddy cheeks. He wasn’t what one would call conventionally attractive – or attractive at all.
“He’s…he’s taller than when last I met him,” said Ruth tactfully.
“How old were you?”
“I was twelve; he was six
teen.”
Osbourne summoned his niece over with a wave as stiff as his appearance. “I had feared you would be late,” he said, guiding Ruth to stand before Albert, who gave a bashful bow. “It will not be long now, then we’ll be at the church, the deed done and everything as it should be.” The lines around Osbourne’s eyes grew deeper. “Ruth, is that a new gown?”
“It’s mine,” interrupted Lottie with a toothy smile. “Doesn’t it look lovely? I picked it out.”
Ruth’s uncle was a banker and firmly disapproved of lavish expenditure. His clients were fond of his frugal nature, as it made their own finances feel safe – as though someone who spent so wisely and dressed so poorly would never ill-treat their savings. Make do and mend was his work ethic and Ruth, as his ward, had adopted it too. Even at Miss Lamont’s Academy she had been the one to darn and mend garments for all the other girls – and allow herself to be taken advantage of.
Albert shuffled his feet and became exceedingly pink with Ruth’s approach. He went to speak, failed, and left Ruth to begin their stilted conversation. She didn’t, until Lottie nudged her sharply in the back, prompting her to gabble, “Are – are you well, sir?”
The young man puffed out his cheeks before nodding heavily, blowing air between thick lips. “I’d – yes – well, I am,” he stammered, before adding as an afterthought, “And you are well, I take it?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Quite.”
She rustled up a wan smile, as her uncle and Mr Griswell talked politics and Lottie was swept up by another high society friend to discuss an upcoming garden tour and ball the next day, leaving the couple to themselves.
“How are you enjoying the season, Mr Pembroke?”
“I could do without all this nonsense; makes me feel ill.” He flapped towards one tall figure who drew frightened gasps from the crowd as he cradled a large, hairy spider in his hands. “If I wanted to experience another country, I would go there.”
“I rather like it,” admitted Ruth. “It’s all so pretty, like a dream or something I have only ever read about.”